I remembered the agony of my finger and tried to lie. "A little," I told
her. "But I'm told that it was because I'd waited too long for my first
treatment." I hoped that I was correct; maybe it was wishful thinking,
but I claim that right. I didn't want to go through the same agony every
time we crossed a joint.

I reached over to the bedside table and found my cigarettes. I slipped
two up and offered one of them to her. She put a tentative hand forward,
slowly, a scared-to-touch reluctance in her motion. This changed as her
hand came forward. It was the same sort of reluctance that you feel when
you start out to visit the dentist for a roaring tooth. The closer you
get to the dentist's office the less inclined you are to finish the job.
Then at some indeterminate point you cross the place of no return and
from that moment you go forward with increased determination.

She finally made the cigarette package but she was very careful not to
touch my hand as she took out the weed. Then, as if she'd reached that
point of no return, her hand slipped around the package and caught me by
the wrist.

We were statue-still for three heartbeats. Then I lifted my other hand,
took out the cigarette she'd missed, and held it forward for her. She
took it. I dropped the pack and let my hand slip back until we were
holding hands, practically. She shuddered.

I flipped my lighter and let her inhale a big puff before I put the next
question: "Why are you here and what goes on?"

In a flat, dry voice she said, "I'm--supposed--to--" and let it trail
away without finishing it.

"Guinea pig?" I blurted bluntly.

She collapsed like a deflated balloon. Next, she had her face buried in
my shoulder, bawling like a hurt baby. I stroked her shoulder gently,
but she shuddered away from my hand as though it were poison.

I shoved her upright and shook her a bit. "Don't blubber like an idiot.
Sit there and talk like a human being!"

It took her a minute of visible effort before she said, "You're supposed
to be a--carrier. I'm supposed to find out--whether you are--a carrier."

Well, I'd suspected something of that sort.

Shakily she asked me, "How do I get it, Mr. Cornell?"

I eyed her sympathetically.

Then I held up my left hand and looked at the infection. This was the
finger that had been gummed to bits by the Mekstrom infant back in
Homestead. With a shrug of uncertainty, I lifted her hand to my mouth. I
felt with my tongue and dug