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“Survivors?” said Dr. Everett.

“None,” said Breed. “That’s eleven crashes this month—so far.”

“All right! All right! All right!” said Millikan, rising to his feet. “Government action number one—ground all airplanes! No more air travel at all!”

“Good!” said Dr. Everett. “We should also put bars on all windows above the first floor, remove all bodies of water from centers of population, outlaw the sales of firearms, rope, poisons, razors, knives, automobiles and boats—”

Millikan subsided into his chair, hope gone. He took a photograph of his family from his billfold, studied it listlessly. In the background of the photograph was his hundred-thousand-dollar waterfront home, and, beyond that, his forty-eight-foot cabin cruiser lying at anchor.

“Tell me,” Breed said to young Dr. Everett, “are you married?”

“No,” said Dr. Everett. “The Government has a rule now against letting married men work on epizootic research.”

“Oh?” said Breed.

“They found out that married men working on the epizootic generally died of it before they could even submit a report,” said Dr. Everett. He shook his head. “I just don’t understand, just don’t understand. Or sometimes I do—and then I don’t again.”

“Does the deceased have to be married in order for you to credit his death to the epizootic?” said Breed.

“A wife and children,” said Dr. Everett. “That’s the classic pattern. A wife alone doesn’t mean much. Curiously, a wife and just one child doesn’t mean much, either.” He shrugged. “Oh, I suppose a few cases where a man has been unusually devoted to his mother or some other relative, or maybe even to his college, should be classified technically as the epizootic—but cases like that aren’t statistically important. To the epidemiologist who deals only in staggering figures, the epizootic is overwhelmingly a disease of successful, ambitious married men with more than one child.”

Millikan took no interest in their conversation. With monumental irrelevance, he now placed the photograph of his family in front of the two bachelors. It showed a quite ordinary mother with three quite ordinary children, one an infant. “Look those wonderful people in the eye!” he said hoarsely.

Breed and Dr. Everett glanced at each other strickenly, then did as Millikan told them. They looked at the photograph bleakly, having just confirmed for each other the fact that Millikan was mortally ill with the epizootic.

“Look those wonderful people in the eye,” said Millikan, as tragically resonant as the Ancient Mariner now. “That’s something I’ve always been able to do—until now,” he said.

Breed and Dr. Everett continued to look into the uninteresting eyes, preferring the sight of them to the sight of a man who was going to die very soon.

“Look at Robert!” Millikan commanded, speaking of his eldest son. “Imagine having to tell that fine boy that he can’t go to Andover anymore, that he’s got to go to public school from now on! Look at Nancy!” he commanded, speaking of his only daughter. “No more horse, no more sailboat, no more country club for her. And look at little Marvin in his dear mother’s arms,” he said. “Imagine bringing a baby into this world and then realizing that you won’t be able to give it any advantages at all!” His voice became jagged with self-torment and shame. “That poor little kid is going to have to fight every inch of the way!” he said. “They all are. When American Reliable and Equitable goes smash, there isn’t a thing their father will be able to do for them! Tooth and nail all the way for them!” he cried.

Now Millikan’s voice became soft with horror. He invited the two bachelors to look at his wife—a bland, lazy, plump dumpling, incidentally. “Imagine having a wonderful woman like that, a real pal who’s stuck with you through thick and thin, who’s borne your children and made a decent home for them,” he said. “Imagine,” he said after a long silence, “imagine being a hero to her, imagine giving her all the things she’s longed for all her life. And then imagine telling