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The third person present was Dr. Everett, a young epidemiologist from the United States Department of Health and Welfare. It was Dr. Everett who gave the plague a name that stuck. He called it “the epizootic.” “When you say forty-seven years—” he said to Millikan, “is that an exact figure?”

“We happen to be somewhat short of exact figures just now,” said Millikan wryly. “Our chief actuary killed himself two days ago—threw himself out his office window.”

“Family man?” said Dr. Everett.

“Naturally,” said the chairman of the board. “And his family is very nicely taken care of now, thanks to life insurance. His debts can all be paid off, his wife is assured an adequate income for life, and his children can go to college without having to work their ways through.” The old man said all this with sad, plonking irony. “Insurance is a wonderful thing,” he said, “especially after it’s been in effect for more than two years.” He meant by that that most life insurance contracts paid off on suicide after they had been in effect for more than two years. “No family man,” he said, “should be without it.”

“Did he leave a note?” said Dr. Everett.

“He left two,” said the chairman. “One was to us, suggesting that we replace him with a Gypsy fortune-teller. The other was to his wife and children, and it said simply, “I love you more than anything. I have done this so you can have all the things you deserve.” He winked ruefully at Dr. Everett, the country’s outstanding authority on the epizootic. “I daresay such sentiments are quite familiar to you by now.”

Dr. Everett nodded. “As familiar as chicken pox to a pediatrician,” he said tiredly.

Millikan brought his fist down on the table hard. “What I want to know is what is the Government going to do about this?” he said. “At the current death rate, this company will be out of business in eight months! I presume the same is true of every life insurance company. What is the Government going to do?”

“What do you suggest the Government do?” said Dr. Everett. “We’re quite open to suggestion—almost pathetically so.”

“All right!” said Millikan. “Government action number one!”

“Number one!” echoed Dr. Everett, preparing to write.

“Get this disease out in the open, where we can fight it! No more secrecy!” said Millikan.

“Marvellous!” said Dr. Everett. “Call the reporters at once. We’ll hold a press conference right here, give out all the facts and figures—and within minutes the whole world will know.” He turned to the old chairman of the board. “Modern communications are wonderful, aren’t they?” he said. “Almost as wonderful as life insurance.” He reached for the telephone on the long table, took it from its cradle. “What’s the name of the afternoon paper?” he said.

Millikan took the telephone away from him, hung up.

Everett smiled at him in mock surprise. “I thought that was step number one. I was just going to take it, so we could get right on to step two.”

Millikan closed his eyes, massaged the bridge of his nose. The young president of American Reliable and Equitable had plenty to contemplate within the violet privacy of his eyelids. After step one, which would inevitably publicize the bad condition of the insurance companies, there would be the worst financial collapse in the country’s history. As for curing the epizootic: publicity could only make the disease kill more quickly, would make it cram into a few weeks of panic deaths that would ordinarily be spread over a few queasy years. As for the grander issues, as for America’s becoming weak and contemptible, as for money’s being valued more highly than life itself, Millikan hardly cared. What mattered to him most was immediate and personal. All other implications of the epizootic paled beside the garish, blaring fact that the company was about to go under, taking Millikan’s brilliant career with it.

The telephone on the table rang. Breed answered, received information without comment, hung up. “Two more planes just crashed,