Nothing had ever looked better than the airlock of the ship. He let the
grapples hook the suit off him as soon as the outer seal was shut and
went into a whirling dervish act. Aches and pains could be stood--but
_itching_!

Apparently, though, the spray and gargle had helped a little, since
his nose felt somewhat clearer and his eyes were definitely better. He
repeated them, and then found the medical supplies, with a long list of
instructions.

They were really shooting the pharmacy at him. He injected himself,
swallowed things, rubbed himself down with others, and waited. Whatever
they'd given him didn't offer any immediate help. He began to feel
worse. But on contacting Earth by radar, he was assured that that might
be expected.

"We've got another missile coming, with metal foil for the maps and
photos--plus a small copying camera. You can print them right on the
metal, seal that in a can, and leave it for the rocket that's bringing
the doctor. The pilot will blast over it--that should sterilize it--and
pick it up when it cools."

Bill swore, but he was in his suit when the missile landed, heading out
across the pumice-covered wastes toward it. The salves had helped the
itching a little, but not much. And his nose had grown worse again.

He jockeyed the big supply can out of the torpedo-shaped missile,
packed it on his back, and headed for his ship. The itching was acting
up as he sweated--this made a real load, about like packing a hundred
bulky pounds over his normal Earth weight through the soft drift of the
pumice. But his nose was clearing again; it was apparently becoming
cyclic. He'd have to relay that information back to the medics. And
where were they getting a doctor crazy enough to take a chance with him?He climbed out of the suit and went through the ritual of scratching, noticing that his fever had gone up, and that his muscles were shaking. His head seemed light, as if he were in for a spell of dizziness. They'd be interested in that, back on Earth, though it wouldn't do much good. He couldn't work up a clinical attitude about himself. All he wanted was a chance to get over this disease before it killed him.

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