"Oh, God," Max said.
They buried Armitage this afternoon. From my cabin, I watched them dig
the grave.
Cheaters never prosper.
* * * * *
_March 2_
Max talked with Senator Farragut this morning. He said Armitage had died
a hero's death. Farragut sounds worried. The Pan-Asians have withdrawn
their embassy from Imperial Africa. Tension is mounting on the home
front. Immigration _must_ start this week. Max was very reassuring.
"Just a few final tests, Senator. We want to make sure."
We puttered in our laboratories all afternoon. Bishop seemed bored.
After dinner he suggested three-handed bridge and Max said he knew a
better game, a friendly game his grandmother had taught him--hearts.
* * * * *
_March 5_
It's a plot!
All day long Bishop and Max have managed to give me the queen of spades.
It's deliberate, of course. Three times I've tried for the moon and
Bishop has held out one damned little heart at the end. Once Max was
slightly ahead on points and Bishop demanded to see the score. I thought
for a moment they would come to blows, but Bishop apologized.
"It's just that I hate to lose," he said.
"Quite," Max said.
When we finally turned in, Bishop was ahead on points.
Too far ahead.
* * * * *
_March 6_
I suppose it's Bishop's laugh. It has a peculiar horselike stridency
that makes me want to tear out his throat. Twice today I've broken down
and cried when he made a jackpot.
I'm not going to cry any more.
Supper was the usual, beef-yeast and vita-ale. I remember setting
Bishop's plate in front of him, and the way his pale eyes gleamed
between mouthfuls. "Three thousand points ahead," he gloated. "You'll
never catch me now. Never, never!"
That was when he gripped his throat and began writhing on the floor.
Max felt his pulse. He stared at me.
"Very nice," he said. "Quick. Did you use a derivative of that green
fungus?"
I said nothing. Max's nostrils were white and pinched. "Must I make an
autopsy?"
"Why bother?" I said. "It's obviously heart failure."
"Yes, why bother?" he said. He looked tired. "Stay in your cabin,
Greta. I'll bring your meals."
"I don't trust you."
His laughter had a touch of madness.
* * * * *
_March 10_
Max unlocked my cabin door this morning. He looked drawn. "Listen," he
said. "I've checked my respiration, pulse, saliva, temperature. All
normal."
"So?"
"Come here," he said. I followed him into the lab. He indicated a
microscope. His eyes were bright.
"Well?"
"A drop of my blood," he said. "Look."
I squinted into the microscope. I saw purple discs. Oddly, they did not
attack the red blood cells. There was no fission, no mitosis. The
leucocytes, strangely enough, let them alone.
My hands were shaking as I took a sterile slide and pricked my finger. I
put the slide under the microscope. I adjusted the lens and stared.
Purple discs, swimming in my bloodstream. Thriving. Minding their own
business.
"Me, too," I said.
"They're inert," Max said hoarsely. "They don't affect metabolism, cause
fever, or interfere with the body chemistry in any way. Do they remind
you of anything?"
I thought about it. Then I went to the slide file that was marked
_flora--negative_.
"Right," Max said. "The purple thistle. Spores! The atmosphere is
clogged with them. Greta, my sweet, we're infected."
"I feel fine," I said.
All day long we ran tests. Negative tests. We seem to be disgustingly
healthy. "Symbiosis," Max said finally. "Live and let live. Apparently
we're hosts."
Only one thing disturbs me.
Most symbiotes _do_ something for their host. Something to enhance the
host's survival potential.
We played chess this evening. I won. Max is furious. He's such a poor
sport.
* * * * *
_March 11_
Max talked with Senator Farragut this morning. He gave Epsilon a clean
bill of health and the Senator thanked God. "The first starship will
leave tonight," the Senator said. "Right on schedule, with ten thousand
colonists aboard. You're world heroes!"
Max and I played chess the rest of the day. Max won consistently. He
utilizes a fianchetto that is utterly impregnable. If he wins tomorrow,
I shall have to kill him.
* * * * *