the "pink medicine" every two hours instead of every
four.

The elixir alurate, I thought.

That brickbat on the safety valve of America: barbital.

I would soon be on morphine myself . . .

"How long?" I asked, when Tom hung up.

His pale eyes peered affectionately from behind his
spectacles. I felt sorry for him. "Let's get that biopsy,
first."

"No fooling, Tom. You're nine-tenths convinced. The
learned goons in your profession have told me my num-
ber was up, several times, before this. Sooner or later, one
of you is bound to be right. And I don't feel lucky today.
How long?"

He picked up a letter he had dictated, read it, and put
it in a tray. He straightened his prescription pad so it was
square with the tooled leather corner of his desk blotter.
He glanced at the photograph of Aileen, his wife, Joy
and Lee, his daughters."If it's malignant-it's where you
can't operate."

"How long will I be-able to write?"

"Month. Two. Three. Maybe more. No way to tell."

"Radiation -- won't slow it down?"

"Can't use strong doses that near your brain, Phil." He
grasped his telephone again. He told his nurse to arrange
the biopsy. Immediately. He wrote an address.

"I'm busy tonight," he told me. "Can't get out of it.
What about tomorrow-for dinner?"

I said, "Swell. When will I have the report?"

"Monday."

"Be quite a long weekend."

He commenced writing a prescription.

I had told him how well he seemed, when the nurse
had ushered me in. He didn't seem well any more. The
vestige of his White Mountain tan was saffron. In fifteen

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