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his death because they were afraid. Everyone was frightened, everyone was willing to sacrifice the individual because of the group fear.
    He was being killed because they could not wait to be sure of his guilt. There was not enough time.
    He looked at Nelson. Nelson had been his friend for years. They had gone to school together. He had been best man at his wedding. Now Nelson was going to kill him. But Nelson was not wicked; it was not his fault. It was the times. Perhaps it had been the same way during the plagues. When men had shown a spot they probably had been killed, too, without a moment’s hesitation, without proof, on suspicion alone. In times of danger there was no other way.
    He did not blame them. But he had to live. His life was too precious to be sacrificed. Olham thought quickly. What could he do? Was there anything? He looked around.
    “Here goes,” Nelson said.
    “You’re right,” Olham said. The sound of his own voice surprised him. It was the strength of desperation. “I have no need of air. Open the door.”
    They paused, looking at him in curious alarm.
    “Go ahead. Open it. It makes no difference.” Olham’s hand disappeared inside his jacket. “I wonder how far you can run.”
    “Run?”
    “You have fifteen seconds to live.” Inside his jacket his fingers twisted, his arm suddenly rigid. He relaxed, smiling a little. “You were wrong about the trigger phrase. In that respect you were mistaken. Fourteen seconds, now.”
    Two shocked faces stared at him from the pressure suits. Then they were struggling, running, tearing the door open. The air shrieked out, spilling into the void. Peters and Nelson bolted out of the ship. Olham came after them. He grasped the door and dragged it shut. The automatic pressure system chugged furiously, restoring the air. Olham let his breath out with a shudder.
    One more second—
    Beyond the window the two men had joined the group. The group scattered, running in all directions. One by one they threw themselves down, prone on the ground. Olham seated himself at the control board. He moved the dials into place. As the ship rose up into the air the men below scrambled to their feet and stared up, their mouths open.
    “Sorry,” Olham murmured, “but I’ve got to get back to Earth.”
    He headed the ship back the way it had come.
    It was night. All around the ship crickets chirped, disturbing the chill darkness. Olham bent over the vidscreen. Gradually the image formed; the call had gone through without trouble. He breathed a sigh of relief.
    “Mary,” he said. The woman stared at him. She gasped.
    “Spence! Where are you? What’s happened?”
    “I can’t tell you. Listen. I have to talk fast. They may break this call off any minute. Go to the Project grounds and get Dr. Chamberlain. If he isn’t there, get any doctor. Bring him to the house and have him stay there. Have him bring equipment, X-ray, fluoroscope, everything.”
    “But—”
    “Do as I say. Hurry. Have him get it ready in an hour.” Olham leaned towards the screen. “Is everything all right? Are you alone?”
    “Alone?”
    “Is anyone with you? Has… has Nelson or anyone contacted you?”
    “No, Spence, I don’t understand.”
    “All right. I’ll see you at the house in an hour. And don’t tell anyone anything. Get Chamberlain there on any pretext. Say you’re very ill.”
    He broke the connection and looked at his watch. A moment later he left the ship, stepping down into the darkness. He had a half-mile to go.
    He began to walk.
    One light showed in the window, the study light. He watched It. kneeling against the fence. There was no sound, no movement of any kind. He held his watch up and read it by starlight. Almost an hour had passed.
    Along the street a shoot bug came. It went on.
    Olham looked towards the house. The doctor should have already come. He should be inside, waiting with Mary. A thought struck him. Had she been able to leave the house? Perhaps they had