He didn't like the way she said that. "Why?" "You don't _want_ to control them," Julie said simply. "If you really control them, you'll cause some to be recessive. You'll breed some strains out of existence. You'll _kill_ some of them. And you don't want to kill any living thing." She was wrong. He wanted to kill her. But he couldn't. She was right about the bacteria. He should have realized it before. He had planned for almost a year, and worked for two weeks; and this girl had walked in and destroyed everything in five minutes. But she was right; he spun towards the door. "Where are you going?" she demanded. "I'm leaving. See what somebody else can do with the idea." "But where are you going?" Julie repeated. "Nowhere." And he was absolutely right. Danniels walked aimlessly through the littered streets for the rest of the day and night. He couldn't remember walking at night, but neither could he remember staying anywhere when he discovered dawn in the sky. It was that time of dawn that looks strangely like an old two-color process movies that they show on TV occasionally--all orange and green, with no yellow to it at all, when even the truest black seems only an off-brown or a sinister purple. He shivered in the chill of morning and decided what to do. He would have to walk around for a few hours even yet. * * * * * The drink his friend, Paul, placed before him was not entirely distinct. Neither were the bills he had in his hand. It was money the mayor's hireling had given him to use for laboratory supplies. Danniels peeled off a bill of uncertain denomination and gave it to his friend. Paul seemed pleased. He put it into the pocket of his white shirt, the pocket eight inches below and slightly to the left of the black bow tie, and polished the bar briskly. Danniels picked up the glass and sipped silently until it was empty. "Do you want to talk about anything, Abe?" Paul asked solicitously. "No," Danniels said cheerfully. "Just give me another drink." "Sure thing." Danniels studied his green hair in the glass. Here, the mark of the Jonah wasn't important. Not yet. But he would be unwelcome even here after the time of Disaster ran out. He would have to move on sooner or later. Eventually--why not now? That slogan went better than the one in pink light over the mirror--The Beer That Made Milwaukee Famous. There hadn't been any Milwaukee beer here for thirteen years. Most of the stuff came out of bathtubs. Why not now? He smoothed another bill on the damp polished wood and negotiated his way through the hazy room. Outside, he turned a corner and the city dropped away from him. He seemed to be in a giant amusement park with acres of empty ground patterned off in squares by unwinking dots of light. He grinned to himself, changed direction with great care, and started down the one-way street to the lake front. He heard the footsteps behind him.