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“I was,” she said bitterly. They had stopped in front of Bernstein’s small office and she drew her arm away. “But then you called me. About this drug of yours—”

“We had to call you. Senopoline can’t be administered without permission of the patient, and since your husband has been in coma for the last four days—”

He opened the door and nodded her inside. She hesitated, then walked in. He took his place behind the cluttered desk, his grave face distracted, and waited until she sat down in the facing chair. He picked up his telephone receiver, replaced it, shuffled papers, and then locked his hands on the desk blotter.

“Senopoline is a curious drug,” he said. “I’ve had little experience with it myself. You may have heard about the controversy surrounding it.”

“No,” she whispered. “I don’t know about it. I haven’t cared about anything since Andy’s illness.”

“At any rate, you’re the only person in the world that can decide whether your husband receives it. It’s strange stuff, as I said, but in the light of your husband’s present condition, I can tell you this—it can do him absolutely no harm.”