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MacNeil had decided just that morning that he’d leave the whole state of his health in the hands of the doctors. No need for a fellow to dose himself when there were three medics on the job, was there? If he needed anything, they’d give it to him, so he’d decided to take no medicine.

A delightful, dulling lassitude was creeping over him.

* * * * *

“MacNeil! MacNeil! Wake up, MacNeil!”

The spaceman vaguely heard the voice, and tried to respond, but a sudden dizziness overtook him. His stomach felt as though it were going to come loose from his interior.

“I’m sick,” he said weakly. Then, with a terrible realization, “I’m really awful sick!”

He saw Dr. Smathers’ face swimming above him and tried to lift himself from the bed. “Shoulda taken pills,” he said through the haze that was beginning to fold over him again. “Locker box.” And then he was unconscious again.

Dr. Smathers looked at him bleakly. The same thing was killing MacNeil as had killed the others. It had taken longer–much longer. But it had come.

And then the meaning of the spaceman’s mumbled words came to him. Pills? Locker box?

He grabbed the unconscious man’s right hand and shoved his right thumb up against the sensor plate in the front of the metal box next to the bed. He could have gotten the master key from Colonel Fennister, but he hadn’t the time.

The box door dilated open, and Dr. Smathers looked inside.

When he came across the bottles, he swore under his breath, then flung the spaceman’s arm down and ran from the room.

* * * * *

“That’s where he was getting his vitamins, then,” said Dr. Pilar as he looked over the assortment of bottles that he and Smathers had taken from the locker box. “Look at ’em. He’s got almost as many pills as you have.” He looked up at the physician. “Do you suppose it was just vitamins that kept him going?”

“I don’t know,” said Smathers. “I’ve given him massive doses of every one of the vitamins–from my own supplies, naturally. He may rally round, if that’s what it was. But why would he suddenly be affected by the stuff now?“

“Maybe he quit taking them?” Pilar made it half a question.

“It’s possible,” agreed Smathers. “A hypochondriac will sometimes leave off dosing himself if there’s a doctor around to do it for him. As long as the subconscious need is filled, he’s happy.” But he was shaking his head.

“What’s the matter?” Pilar asked.

Smathers pointed at the bottles. “Some of those are mislabeled. They all say vitamins of one kind or another on the label, but the tablets inside aren’t all vitamins. MacNeil’s been giving himself all kinds of things.”

Pilar’s eyes widened a trifle. “Do you suppose–“

“That one of them is an antidote?” Smathers snorted. “Hell, anything’s possible at this stage of the game. The best thing we can do, I think, is give him a dose of everything there, and see what happens.”

* * * * *

“Yeah, Doc, yeah,” said MacNeil smiling weakly, “I feel a little better. Not real good, you understand, but better.”

Under iron control, Dr. Smathers put on his best bedside manner, while Pilar and Petrelli hovered in the background.

“Now, look, son,” said Smathers in a kindly voice, “we found the medicines in your locker box.”

MacNeil’s face fell, making him look worse. He’d dropped down close to death before the conglomerate mixture which had been pumped into his stomach had taken effect, and Smathers had no desire to put too much pressure on the man.