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He felt now that he could look forward to permanent health, and so far he didn’t seem to be losing his identity or becoming a moral monster (though certain previously buried urges—toward Alice Grant, for instance—were now rather embarrassingly uncovered). He was not, like Frank Barnes, inclined to slip out of the situation at once. He still felt the responsibility to make the decision.

He carried the vial of powder and the lab records home with him, smuggled them past his wife’s garrulity (it didn’t bother him now) and hid them. He went out with her cheerfully to visit some people he didn’t like, and found himself amused at them instead of annoyed. In general, he felt buoyant, and they stayed quite late.

When they did get home, an urgent message was waiting on the telephone recorder, and it jolted him. He grabbed up the hat and coat he’d just laid down.

“What is it?” his wife demanded.

“I’ve got to go down to the plant.” He hesitated; it was hard to say the words that were charged with personal significance. “The watchman found Frank Barnes dead in the laboratory.”