one of his hands and two pills into the other.

"Swallow those down," she commanded. "I'll take the glass when you've finished."

Marc obeyed. "Thanks," he said.

"Glad you had some aspirin handy," Memphis said, starting to move away. "I was plum out."

"Yeah," Marc murmured. Then he sat up. "What!"

It struck him, all of a sudden, that he hadn't any aspirin either. A chill went through him. He opened his eyes and glanced at the desk, and his heart accepted an invitation to the rhumba. The little green bottle had moved to the edge of the desk and it was open!

"Memphis!"

Memphis was standing in the doorway. "Shut up," she said. "Lie down, take it easy. I'll stall Wheeler in the waiting room and feed him raw meat to dull his appetite."

She closed the door behind her.

Marc made the length of the room without once noticeably touching the floor. He grabbed the bottle and stared at its label. "Take one," it instructed, "every six months."

Panic crept across the silent room, but Marc forced it back.

"Oh, well," he murmured, "there's probably nothing to it. Couldn't be."

Then it hit him.

The nausea came in waves, each one growing deeper and more relentless than the last. Everything was suddenly edged in black and gold, and slowly the room began to sway. Marc felt his knees go weak and he started back toward the lounge, stumbling; if he was going to die, he might as well do it in style. He might have cried out only his throat was suddenly dry and stiff.

Toffee fled across the valley and darted into a tiny grove of trees just as the last faint glow in the sky gave way to complete darkness. A driving wind lashed the trees above her in frenetic rhythm, and the darkness was suddenly split by a writhing streak of white lightning. Her hair whipped stingingly across her face, and her tunic pressed flat against her body until it was like a part of her. Her expression, if it could have been seen, was a curious mixture of terror and exhilaration. She 

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