r it. . .only. . . the convulsions would be unpleasant if he
failed. He stepped into the wide double cylinder, mumbled "Six," and
felt the world fall away beneath him.

That he was not thinking clearly he knew. That his death was at hand
he also knew, but could not make the words form into any kind of
meaningful pattern in his mind. All was dark, blank, and
unintelligible. Not the slightest emotion stirred inside him.
Stepping once more into a formless corridor, he walked past floating
gray shapes he imagined must be men, and came to the portal of his
latest hell. The door opened silently before him.

Looking into room he saw upon his dresser the vial, the photograph, and
the nearly empty glass of water. He studied the trinity for a time
before entering. Almost it would have seemed poetic, something from
the epics.....
Coming closer he looked first at the one, then at the other, then back
again. To the photograph. . .of his lover. Why was she so damned
beautiful? Even now.

Through countless layers of dust, his heart throbbed a single pang of
pain and remorse, causing in its turn the irritation of a parched
corner of one eye. From some unseen source, where he had been sure
that no moisture lay, there came a gurgling bubble of mud, followed by
a tiny flow of water. A desert spring in the midst of choking sands.
He lifted the frame, brought it gently, then crushed it to his chest,
and let out a sob of life that told him he could not yet die.

He drank the water in the glass, down to the bitter and confused
sediment. Then with tears, real tears in his eyes, he heard as if from
far below the ground his own voice, set loose this utterance.

"I cannot do it. It is not for me to say when all is lost. Dear God,
please help me hold on."

He set down the empty glass, looked around him, tried to think. Then
made his way to the Infirmary.

*

The new doctor examined him thoroughly, including a scope of his
intestines that the first had considered unnecessary. He sighed to
himself as he studied the computer screen.

"What is it?" asked Brunner impatiently.

"You no doubt had an intestinal virus, but that only exacerbated the
more serious problem."

"Which is?"

... "Crohn's disease."

"What? What is that?"

"An inflammation of the intestines: similar to arthritis, and that the
body incorrectly identifies a part of itself as an alien invader, and
sends out anti-bodies to attack it.

Bru