COMPETITION
By JAMES CAUSEY
They would learn what caused the murderous disease—if it was the last thing they did!
GRETA
January 18, Earth Time
I wish Max would treat me like a woman.
An hour ago, at dinner, John Armitage proposed a toast, especially for my benefit. He loves to play the gallant. Big man, silver mane, very blue eyes, a porcelain smile. The head of WSC, the perfect example of the politician-scientist.
"To the colony," he announced, raising his glass. "May Epsilon love them and keep them. May it only be transmittal trouble."
"Amen," Max said.
We drank. Taylor Bishop put down his glass precisely. Bishop is a gray little man with a diffident voice that belies his reputation as the best biochemist in the system. "Has Farragut hinted otherwise?" he asked mildly.