Phillip's hand reached out and I grasped it. He returned the pressure firmly. "Thank you, Father," he said gravely. "I have been in mortal danger of making a mistake. You have been sent to me."

"As you were sent to the crew of the expedition, and have not yet wholly failed them. How do you feel at this moment ... in your body?"

His look became abstracted and he seemed to be searching himself internally. Then he looked back at me with a shade of a grin. "My incision itches like fury," he said, "and I need the bedpan."

"So, you are healing already? Now try to tell me a man can say nothing to his cells." I drew back the sheet and observed the drying of the serum at the edges of the incision.

"How soon can I get out of here?" he asked eagerly. "I must go to the other members of the crew at once!"

"First to confession," I reminded him. "And then, depending on God's will, it may be weeks or even days. I cannot predict the speed of a miracle."

And it was well I did not try. It was a scant ten hours later that the figure of Father Phillip Burt was wheeled in a chair to a waiting ambulance that was to take him to the first of the hospitals where a member of the crew lay in desolate quarantine. His body was still frail, but his smile was of radiant health. He waved to me.

"One flock," he called, and was borne away.

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