The door opened and Memphis McGuire, Marc's secretary, bounded into the room. She was a large, healthy girl with an equally large and healthy contempt for formal office procedures. She hadn't had a decent girdle since the war. "Hi, boss man," she said airily. "You look awful. What's the big beef?" "I feel awful," Marc said. "Whatever possessed you to let that little creep in here? Or is this Ground Hog Day?" "He talked so loud and so fast and so crazy," Memphis said, "I thought he might be a genius. Besides, he kept pointing at my wrinkles in front of the rest of the girls, and a lady can take just so much of that sort of thing. I had to get rid of him somehow. Get on your nerves?" Marc nodded. "Got on 'em and stayed on 'em. My head is splitting." "That's bad," Memphis said. "Old man Wheeler just called about his soft drink account. He's on his way over. If you're in bad shape now you'll be in ruins when he gets through with you. We'll have to get you in condition for the attack. Here, come over and stretch out on the lounge and close your eyes." Marc did as he was told. No use arguing when Memphis was in a Nightingale mood. The secretary made retreating and returning noises and then, without warning, shocked Marc's brow with a damp cloth. She pressed a glass of water into one of his hands and two pills into the other. "Swallow those down," she commanded. "I'll take the glass when you've finished." Marc obeyed. "Thanks," he said. "Glad you had some aspirin handy," Memphis said, starting to move away. "I was plum out." "Yeah," Marc murmured. Then he sat up. "What!" It struck him, all of a sudden, that he hadn't any aspirin either. A chill went through him. He opened his eyes and glanced at the desk, and his heart accepted an invitation to the rhumba. The little green bottle had moved to the edge of the desk and it was open! "Memphis!" Memphis was standing in the doorway. "Shut up," she said. "Lie down, take it easy. I'll stall Wheeler in the waiting room and feed him raw meat to dull his appetite." She closed the door behind her. Marc made the length of the room without once noticeably touching the floor. He grabbed the bottle and stared at its label. "_Take one_," it instructed, "_every six months_." Panic crept across the silent room, but Marc forced it back. "Oh, well," he murmured, "there's probably nothing to it. Couldn't be." Then it hit him. The nausea came in waves, each one growing deeper and more relentless than the last. Everything was suddenly edged in black and gold, and slowly the room began to sway. Marc felt his knees go weak and he started back toward the lounge, stumbling; if he was going to die, he might as well do it in style. He might have cried out only his throat was suddenly dry and stiff. * * * * *