ed by the squeak of a key in the
lock. "Fifteen minutes, Judge Wilson," a voice said.

"Thank you, officer." Wilson came into the cell, carrying a tray of
breakfast and a copy of the Northport _Gazette_. He began unloading
bracky weeds from his pocket while Doc attacked the breakfast.

"They tossed the book at you, Doc," he said. "You haven't got a chance,
and there's nothing the villages can do. Trial's set for tomorrow at
Northport, and it's in closed session. We can't get you off this time."

Doc nodded. "Thanks for coming, even if there's nothing you can do. I've
been living on borrowed time for a year, anyhow, so I have no right to
kick. But who's 'we'?"

"The villages. I've been part of their organization for years." The old
man sighed heavily. "You might say a revolution has been going on since
I can remember, though most villagers don't know it. We've just been
waiting our time. Now we've stopped waiting and the rifles will be
coming out--rifles made in village shops. The villages are going to
rebel, even if we're all dead of plague in a month."

Doc Feldman nodded and reached for the bracky. He knew that this was
their way of trying to make him feel his work hadn't been for nothing,
and he was grateful for Wilson's visit. "It was a good year for me.
Damned good. But time's running short. I'd better brief you on the
latest on the plague."

Wilson began making notes until Doc was finished. Finally he got up as
steps sounded from the hall. "Anything else?"

"Just a guess. A lot of Earth germs can't live in Mars-normal flesh;
maybe this can't live in Earth-normal. Tell them so long for me."

"So long, Doc." He shook hands briefly and was waiting at the door when
the guard opened it.

An hour later, the Lobby police took Feldman to the Northport shuttle
rocket. They had some trouble on the way; a runner cut down the street,
with the crowds frantically rushing out of his way. Terror was reaching
the cities already.

Doc flashed a look at Chris. "Mob hysteria. Like flying saucers and
wriggly tops, I suppose?" he asked, before the guard could stop him.

They locked his legs, but left his hands free in the rocket. He unfolded
the paper Wilson had brought and buried his face in it. Then he swore.
They _were_ explaining the runners as a case of mob hysteria!

Northport was calmer. Apparently they had yet to have first-hand
experience with the plague. But now nothing seemed quite real to Doc,
even when they l