Poor Mike Bohrman had gone off his rocker and stripped off his sterility-suit in the snow. All we wear underneath is a pair of shorts. That's the way Mike had run around, almost naked in a northern Indiana February. It was hours before he'd been missed. He went to the hospital with severe frostbite, but he died two days later of pneumonia complicated by streptococcal septicemia. "Stick around down there, Johnny," the Chief said. "I'm coming down to join you." * * * * * I heard him turning the monitor microphone over to one of the technicians out in the contaminated labs. Oh hell, I thought. Here comes a chewing-out that would leave me raw up to the duodenum. The worst thing about being told off when you've done something dumb is the futility of being told about it. Nobody knew better than I that it was stupid to stay outside the Big Tank for eight solid hours. Hydraulic pressure aside, a chastity-suit isn't designed to hold a man more than about four. It took Dr. McQueen a quarter hour to get suited up and scrubbed. Then he came down the ladder to join me in the pale green soup, his air-hose snaking along behind him like strayed umbilical cord. He sat on the bench beside me. Before he cut in his suit radio, he leaned close and touched his helmet to mine. "Damn it, Johnny! If you don't stop chasing after that dame in Valpo, I'll toss mothballs in the gas-tank of your silly little car." Then he toggled his radio. "Testing," he said, for the benefit of the monitoring technician listening out in the contaminated labs. "This is McQueen. Someone suited up?" "Safety man is suited and scrubbing, Chief," the monitor said. "I read you loud and clear. Now, let's hear from you, Brother Bogardus." "This is John Bogardus, the Voice of Purity," I said, "broadcasting from the bottom of Central University's lovely BICUSPID pool. You want I should dedicate my next record to the gang at the brewery?" "Happy to hear you testify, canned-goods," the technician said. "The I.U. game is on the radio now. You want me to pipe it to the phones so you can hear our team smear 'em?" "I'll take your word for it that they'll do that," I said. "My sport is balk-line billiards." Eighty years ago, Central University's gate receipts from football had made possible the first BICUSPID program in gnotobiotics, using mice and roaches and hamsters. Despite this historical tie between me and football, I felt no special affinity for the game. "Trouble with you, canned-goods, is you've got no school spirit," the monitor complained. "If you or the Chief feel your feet getting wet, just whistle. I'll be here." "Will do." For all the thousands of times I'd been through this antiseptic drill, I was happy to know that a lifeguard was suited up above our poisonous bathtub, ready to fish either of us out should our suits spring a leak. If formaldehyde-methanol started seeping into my chastity-suit, I knew I'd have an overwhelming desire to undress.