let alone a cure, at this stage. I am no immunologist, anyway."

"Novik said," the Dictator's eyes narrowed, "'It is fear!'"

Euge nodded with satisfaction. "He was right. The virus attacks only brains that are already sick with fear. Not—my results with mice indicated—the normal alarm of a healthy organism, which expresses itself in flight or fight, but the pathological anxiety-state that come of an inescapable threat or frustration in the environment, and that turns itself so easily into feelings of guilt or hatred.... The fear of the criminal, the neurotic, the paranoiac."

"Then all that is needed is to stamp out such elements, the focus of infection!"

Euge looked at him with open amusement. "You're welcome to try it. But remember—we are at war now. The psychology of the people is fear, like that of the criminal, the hunted hunter, the hated hater, perhaps the guilty.... As long as there was peace, the Diktatura gave most of us security, reasonable happiness, freedom from fear. The same is true of the enemy's government, however short it may have fallen of ours. But a nation at war is a nation afraid.

"And RM4 is a successful mutation," added Euge didactically. "It creates the thing it feeds on. One of the most basic fears in men or mice—the fear of one's own dead. Thanks to that, the plague is independent now of anything you do or leave undone."

The Dictator stared smolderingly. He spoke with bitter irony, "You awe me, doctor. You are a traitor to your country and to all mankind. Yet you seem to consider yourself justified."

Euge shrugged. "I am a scientist; I deal in questions of what can be done. It is left to you politicians to concern yourselves with what should be."

The Dictator choked, recognizing his own doctrine. "Irresponsibility—science!" His face flamed with finally unleashed passion. "If I survive this, I'll see to exterminating the whole breed of scientists!"

Euge studied him coolly. "You won't survive; you are afraid."

Bent over his desk, the Dictator struggled to compose a speech to the people—one that would reassure, enhearten, inflame the blackening coals of hope.

He wrote: "There is nothing to fear but fear. A way will be found...." He scowled at the shaky hand-writing of the last line, scratched it out angrily and began again.

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