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If you don't care about me, you might consider the people dying of the plague who need you!" She'd played her trump, and it took the round. He followed her. "All right," he said grudgingly. "Spill your story." She held out a copy of a space radiogram, addressed to Mrs. D. E. Everts, and signed by one of the best doctors on the Lobby Board of Directors. Regret confirm diagnosis. Topsecret.
Repeat topsecret. Martian fever incubates fourteen years, believed highly fatal. No cure, research beginning immediately. Penalty violation topsecret, death all concerned. "Mrs. Everts rates a topsecret break?" Doc commented dryly. "Come off it, Chris!" "She's the daughter of Elmers of Space Lobby!" Chris answered. She pointed to the message, underlining words with her finger. "Fourteen years.
There was a manual lever, which Chris must have used before. It might work out here where there was room to maneuver and nothing to hit. But trying to make a landing was going to be different. "Dan?" she repeated. He shrugged. "I don't know. They've started research too late and they'll be under so much pressure that the real brains won't have a chance. The topsecret stuff looks bad for research.
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