■ "We call it Thurston's Disease fortwo perfectly good reasons," Dr.Walter Kramer said. "He discoveredit—and he was the first to die of it."The doctor fumbled fruitlesslythrough the pockets of his lab coat."Now where the devil did I put thosematches?"

"Are these what you're lookingfor?" the trim blonde in the grayseersucker uniform asked. She pickeda small box of wooden safety matchesfrom the littered lab table besideher and handed them to him.

"Ah," Kramer said. "Thanks.Things have a habit of getting lostaround here."

"I can believe that," she said asshe eyed the frenzied disorder aroundher. Her boss wasn't much betterthan his laboratory, she decided asshe watched him strike a matchagainst the side of the box and applythe flame to the charred bowl of hispipe. His long dark face became halfobscured behind a cloud of bluishsmoke as he puffed furiously. Helooked like a lean untidy devil recentlyescaped from hell with histhick brows, green eyes and lankblack hair highlighted intermittentlyby the leaping flame of the match.He certainly didn't look like a pathologist.She wondered if she was goingto like working with him, and shookher head imperceptibly. Possibly, butnot probably. It might be difficult beingcooped up here with him day afterday. Well, she could always quitif things got too tough. At least therewas that consolation.

He draped his lean body across alab stool and leaned his elbows on itsback. There was a faint smile on hisface as he eyed her quizzically."You're new," he said. "Not just tothis lab but to the Institute."

She nodded. "I am, but how didyou know?"

"Thurston's Disease. Everyone inthe Institute knows that name for theplague, but few outsiders do." Hesmiled sardonically. "Virus pneumonicplague—that's a better term forpublic use. After all, what good doesit do to advertise a doctor's stupidity?"

She eyed him curiously. "De mortuis?"she asked.

He nodded. "That's about it. Wemay condemn our own, but we don'tlike laymen doing it. And besides,Thurston had good intentions. Henever dreamed this would happen."

"The road to hell, so I hear, ispaved with good intentions."

"Undoubtedly," Kramer said dryly."Incidentally, did you apply forthis job or were you assigned?"

"I applied."

"Someone should have warned youI dislike clichés," he said. He pauseda moment and eyed her curiously."Just why did you apply?" he asked."Why are you imprisoning yourselfin a sealed laboratory which youwon't leave as long as you work here.You know, of course, what the conditionsare. Unless you resign or arecarried out feet first you will remainhere ... have you considered whatsuch an imprisonment means?"

"I considered it," she said, "and itdoesn't make any difference. I haveno ties outside and I thought I couldhelp. I've had training. I was a nursebefore I was married."

"Divorced?"

"Widowed."

Kramer nodded. There were plentyof widows and widowers outside.Too many. But it wasn't much worsethan in the Institute where, despiteprecautions, Thurston's disease tookits toll of life.

"Did they tell you this place iscalle

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