"What's wrong? Don't you feel well, Bud?"
"Fine, fine," Bud said. "I feel fine.... I'm very busy just now."
Norma sat down. The box rested on the desk between them. Warily Bud sank into his chair. She saw his face framed above the box, almost as if the head were hanging suspended and bodiless, and she felt an unaccountable tremor of superstitious fear.
"You poor dear," she said. "You've been worrying so much about the starmen.... You're losing weight. Have Frank give you a checkup, Bud; you ought to take things easier."
"... I will. I've been intending to.... I'll have him look me over. Where is he; do you know where he is?"
"He went out last night. I expect him back any time."
He stood up. He was calmer now. He rested one hand on the box. "Yes, I wouldn't worry. He'll show up. I am tired, terribly tired. You saw the Secret Service men out there? They're out to kill me, Norma! Senator Stilson is hiring them!"
Norma started to protest.
"I tell you, they are. If the Secret Service weren't out there to protect me, I'd be dead right now. But God has given me a job to do. I can't let them kill me until I have done His will."
"Bud, you're just overworked. Nobody's trying to do a thing like that. Frank says it's just publicity, and I thought...."