THE STUFF By HENRY SLESAR Illustrated by Ritter [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine August 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Would it work? Yes. How would it work? Exactly like this. "No more lies," Paula said. "For God's sake, Doctor, no more lies. I've been living with lies for the past year and I'm tired of them." Bernstein closed the white door before answering, mercifully obscuring the sheeted, motionless mound on the hospital bed. He took the young woman's elbow and walked with her down the tiled corridor. "He's dying, of course," he said conversationally. "We've never lied to you about that, Mrs. Hills; you know what we've told you all along. I hoped that by now you'd feel more resigned." "I was," she said bitterly. They had stopped in front of Bernstein's small office and she drew her arm away. "But then you called me. About this drug of yours--" "We had to call you. Senopoline can't be administered without permission of the patient, and since your husband has been in coma for the last four days--" He opened the door and nodded her inside. She hesitated, then walked in. He took his place behind the cluttered desk, his grave face distracted, and waited until she sat down in the facing chair. He picked up his telephone receiver, replaced it, shuffled papers, and then locked his hands on the desk blotter. "Senopoline is a curious drug," he said. "I've had little experience with it myself. You may have heard about the controversy surrounding it." "No," she whispered. "I don't know about it. I haven't cared about anything since Andy's illness." "At any rate, you're the only person in the world that can decide whether your husband receives it. It's strange stuff, as I said, but in the light of your husband's present condition, I can tell you this--it can do him absolutely no harm." "But it will do him good?" "There," Bernstein sighed, "is the crux of the controversy, Mrs. Hills." * * * * * Row, row, row your boat, he sang in his mind, feeling the lapping tongues of the cool lake water against his fingers, drifting, drifting, under obeisant willows. Paula's hands were resting gently on his eyes and he lifted them away. Then he kissed the soft palms and pressed them on his cheek. When he opened his eyes, he was surprised to find that the boat was a bed, the water only pelting rain against the window, and the willow trees long shadows on the walls. Only Paula's hands were real, solid and real and comforting against his face. He grinned at her. "Funniest damn thing," he said. "For a minute there, I thought we were back at Finger Lake. Remember that night we sprang a leak? I'll never forget the way you looked when you saw the hem of your dress."