peculiar hit, and no further talk was needed. But if Drogan wanted
to talk, he would listen. 'First of all, you know who I am? Where
the money comes from?'
'Drogan Pharmaceuticals.'
'Yes. One of the biggest drug companies in the world. And the
cornerstone of our financial success has been this.' From the
pocket of his robe he handed Halston a small, unmarked vial of
pills. 'Tri-Dormal-phenobarbin, compound G. Prescribed almost
exclusively for the terminally ill. It's extremely habit-forming, you
see. It's a combination painkiller, tranquilizer, and mild
hallucinogen. It is remarkably helpful in helping the terminally ill
face their conditions and adjust to them.'
'Do you take it?' Halston asked.
Drogan ignored the question. 'It is widely prescribed throughout
the world. It's a synthetic, was developed in the fifties at our New
Jersey labs. Our testing was confined almost solely to cats, because
of the unique quality of the feline nervous system.'
'How many did you wipe out?'
Drogan stiffened. 'That is an unfair and prejudicial way to put it.'
Halston shrugged.
'In the four-year testing period which led to FDA approval of Tri-
Dormal-G, about fifteen thousand cats ... uh, expired.'
Halston whistled. About four thousand cats a year. 'And now you
think this one's back to get you, huh?'
'I don't feel guilty in the slightest,' Drogan said, but that
quavering, petulant note was back in his voice. 'Fifteen thousand
test animals died so that hundreds of thousands of human beings -
'
'Never mind that,' Halston said. Justifications bored him.
'That cat came here seven months ago. I've never liked cats. Nasty,
disease-bearing animals ... always out in the fields ... crawling
around in barns ... picking up God knows what germs in their fur ...
always trying to bring something with its insides falling out into
the house for you to look at ... it was my sister who wanted to take
it in. She found out. She paid.' He looked at the cat sleeping on
Halston's lap with dead hate.
'You said the cat killed three people.'
Drogan began to speak. The cat dozed and purred on Halston's lap
under the soft, scratching strokes of Halston's strong and expert
killer's fingers.
Occasionally a pine knot would explode on the hearth, making it
tense like a series of steel springs covered with hide and muscle.
Outside the wind whined around the big stone house far out in the
Connecticut countryside. There was winter in that wind's throat.
The old man's voice droned on and on.
Seven months ago there had been four of them here-Drogan, his
sister Amanda, who at seventy-four was two years Drogan's elder,
her lifelong friend Carolyn Broadmoor ('of the Westchester
Broadmoors,' Drogan.said), who was badly afflicted with
