It was Bettijean who squeezed into the office and broke the brittle silence. "Andy, for heaven's sake, what is it?" Then she moved around the desk to stand behind him as he faced the officers. "Have you got something?" the brigadier asked. "Some girl outside was babbling about writers and doctors, and dentists and college students, and little secretaries and big secretaries. Have you established a trend?" Andy glanced at the lab report and his smile was as relieved as it was weary. "Our problem," he said, "was in figuring out what a writer does that a doctor doesn't--why girls from small offices were sick--and why senators and postal workers weren't--why college students caught the bug and people in a Tennessee community didn't. "The lab report isn't complete. They haven't had time to isolate the poison and prescribe medication. But"--he held up a four-cent stamp--"here's the villain, gentlemen." The big brass stood stunned and shocked. Mouths flapped open and eyes bugged at Andy, at the stamp. Bettijean said, "Sure. College kids and engaged girls and new parents and especially writers and artists and poets--they'd all lick lots of stamps. Professional men have secretaries. Big offices have postage-meter machines. And government offices have free franking. And"--she threw her arms around the sergeant's neck--"Andy, you're wonderful." "The old American ingenuity," the colonel said, reaching for Andy's phone. "I knew we could lick it. Now all we have to do--" "At ease, colonel," the brigadier said sharply. He waited until the colonel had retreated, then addressed Andy. "It's your show. What do you suggest?" "Get somebody--maybe even the President--on all radio and TV networks. Explain frankly about the four-centers and warn against licking any stamps. Then--" He broke off as his phone rang. Answering, he listened for a moment, then hung up and said, "But before the big announcement, get somebody checking on the security clearances at whatever plant it is where they print stamps. This's a big deal. Somebody may've been planted years ago for this operation. It shouldn't be too hard. "But there's no evidence it was a plot yet. Could be pure accident--some chemical in the stickum spoiled. Do they keep the stickum in barrels? Find out who had access. And ... oh, the phone call. That was the lab. The antidote's simple and the cure should be quick. They can phone or broadcast the medical information to doctors. The man on the phone said they could start emptying hospitals in six hours. And maybe we should release some propaganda. "United States whips mystery virus," or something like that. And we could send the Kremlin a stamp collection and.... Aw, you take it, sir. I'm pooped." * * * * * The general wheeled to fire a salvo of commands. Officers poured into the corridor. Only the brigadier remained, a puzzled frown crinkling his granite brow. "But you said that postal workers weren't getting sick."