“Murchinson’s Syndrome involves a rapid and irreversible breakdown of the immune system. There’s no actual treatment for it.”

Eliot’s voice was almost inaudible. “How long?”

“It could be months. Or it could be weeks or days. Eventually a single rhinovirus … would be sufficient.”

“You could be isolated. Sealed off from any disease vectors.”

He shook his head. “I thought of that. As unpleasant as living out the rest of my days in a space suit would be. But like anybody, I’m carrying around a large number of disease factors that are currently more or less kept in check. As the doctor put it, there is no way to isolate a person from his own body. When the immune system weakens sufficiently, one of those factors will kill me.

“Most of you know me well enough to know that I would appreciate a minimum of sympathy and condolence. Of course I feel chagrined, cheated. Betrayed by my own body. I was looking forward to at least another half-century of observing this splendid experiment in economic isolation. But of course this does come to all of us sooner or later, and I have no new insight to offer about that.

“Fortunately, I have been working closely with my Coordinator-elect, Tania Seven, and over the course of the next few days I shall be transferring all of my responsibilities over to her in an orderly way.” Seven was sitting in the front row, and had shown no reaction; Purcell must have already discussed it with her. “I would also like to work closely with her in selecting the new candidates for Coordinator-elect.” She nodded. He paused. “I suppose that ends the formal part of this meeting. Good-bye.” He stepped down from the stage and walked out.

The rest of the meeting was short and quiet. Tom Smith and I did some preliminary hashing out of a procurement system that might simplify life for both of us (Education shares a lot of material with Entertainment, but we have separate storage areas, nearly a kilometer apart). I would have someone from John’s office go over the proposed design changes for the next couple of years and see whether Tom and I could get offices close to a large enough storage volume to hold all of our stuff in one place. I’d miss the luxury of Uchūden, but it would save a lot of time.

Evy was waiting outside in the corridor. She’d never heard of Murchinson’s Syndrome, but she had her keyboard with her. She unfolded it and asked.

The disease had never been reported on Earth. Over the past century there had been two cases in New New and one in Devon’s World; every victim had been at least third-generation spaceborn.

“That’s a little scary,” I said. “Cosmic rays?”