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must be sabotaged. The top researchers must be identified. So far as possible, they must be eliminated.”
    “Comrade!” She shivered. “That’s too much!”
    “As I said, it will require extraordinary efforts, but you must understand that Mother Russia is facing a new and deadly danger. The Americans must be checkmated. Now, comrade! At any cost! Before they possess this weapon. That is your assignment. The nation depends on you. And I must warn you, comrade.” His tone turned bleak. “You must act with the utmost secrecy, without delay!”
    “There—there’ll have to be delay.” She had half risen, but now she sank back into her chair. “We are not prepared—not for this. I do have informers in EnGene, but nobody—no experts in genetics. No fit staff to sabotage the plant and dispose of the researchers. Even in America, foolish as their leaders are, some things are impossible.”
    “Make them possible! You’ll find means.” He lifted his teacup as if to drink to her success. His gaze grew thoughtful. “I regret Mr. Roman’s illness, because he has been so generous to you. Certainly, the association with him has given you an excellent cover, and I believe the trade ministry has found him a valuable partner. Even now—” The gold teeth lent a glint of malice to his grin. “Sick as you say he is, I think he will serve us one more time.”
    Jules Roman died in his bed that night. The cause, as reported by Dr. Vladimir Rykov, was a pulmonary embolism. His trusted private secretary, Anya Ostrov, carried his ashes back to his widow in Palm Beach, that island haven where so many senescent capitalists retired to die in luxury.
    Exit permission denied, the nurse stayed behind.

3
    The Limits of
    Life
     
     
    S ummer had come early and hot. On that breathless Monday night in Fort Madison, Dr. Saxon Belcraft stayed at the hospital with a recovering cardiac patient longer than he was really needed. He stayed for a second Bud with his sirloin at Stan’s Steak Place, and finally killed an hour at the office, frowning over his bank statement and the file of past-due bills. Since Midge left, he hated going home.
    Tara Two—that was her fond name for the old house on the river bluffs. Timbers decaying and foundations settling, it had cost too much, certainly more than a beginning physician should have mortgaged himself to pay, but the white-columned entrance was still impressive, and it overlooked a magnificent sweep of the Mississippi. Midge had loved it. Without her now, it had become an empty hell.
    The phone was ringing when he let himself in, too loud against the silence. He rushed to answer, spurred by the crazy hope that she might be coming back.
    “Hiya, Wulf.” His brother’s voice, so unexpected that he didn’t recognize it until he recalled how Vic used to cull him Beowulf. “Happy birthday!”
    The greeting surprised him again, because the years had let them drift so far apart. Even when he married Midge, there had been only that short note on the En-Gene letterhead. Sorry, Sax, but I can’t be there. We’ve just broken into something new here at the labs. Something too big to be neglected.
    “Thanks, Vic.” He paused, remembering. “It’s been a long time. What’s new at EnGene?”
    “Nothing I can say much about.” Vic seemed gently hesitant, no longer the brash kid brother. “How’s the young riverboat doctor? And the beautiful bride?”
    For a moment he couldn’t speak. The empty house got to him again. Midge had walked out just last week. Still crying for herself, blaming herself for wanting too much. There would never be anybody else. It was just that the hospital and the office and the night calls took too much of him. The grand old house was too lonely for her now, no longer enough.
    “So-so.” He didn’t try explaining anything to Vic. “I’m on the .hospital staff. Financial sunlight maybe in sight.” And he asked, “Is anything wrong?”
    “There has been, Wulf.” A