A week passed, during which a bulletin from the Government Health
Service announced official suspicion that the human race was suffering a
mysterious, pandemic affliction which was as yet undiagnosed. Although
the symptoms, as reported by hundreds of clinics, were relatively mild,
the effect on the nation's economy was growing serious.
Industry and business reported unprecedented absenteeism. Factory
supervisors and insurance companies were frantic over the upsurge in
accidents. It was estimated that almost fifty per cent of the population
exhibited the symptoms of depression, absent-mindedness, insomnia and
loss of appetite.
Negligent driving was increasing the highway toll sharply. Educational
institutions reported classroom discipline rapidly vanishing. Armed
forces headquarters cautiously admitted a new high in desertions and
AWOLs.
The consensus among psychiatrists and psychologists was that the
condition stemmed from pathogenic causes.
Dr. Murt raised his eyebrows when he read this. Perhaps Phyllis Sutton
was right, after all.
The bulletin continued, "All clinical pathologists are requested to be
alert to the presence of any unusual organisms discovered in body fluids
or tissues examined. Please report your findings to the U. S. Public
Health Service."
Murt found Phyllis Sutton at the microtome, finishing a wax section, and
showed her the bulletin.
"Score one for woman's intuition," he smiled. "Federal Health Service
tends to agree with your theory."
"Now I _am_ eager to see those pictures," she said.
* * * * *
Less than two hours later, a messenger brought the photomicrographs, and
the two pathologists bent over them together. Phyllis had submitted
eighteen samples, six of which were controls taken from healthy,
unafflicted subjects. Per her instructions, smears of the specimens in
various degrees of dilution had been photographed through the great
electron microscope.
[Illustration]
Murt muttered to himself as they compared the controls with the
"infected specimens." The "healthy" samples were relatively clear,
except for minute protein matter. Conversely, all twelve suspect
specimens swarmed with shadowy six-sided dots.
Phyllis' eyes widened. "There is something there! Do you suppose it
could be the Love Bug?"
"Love Bug?"
"Certainly. That bulletin didn't go into the psychologists' findings.
The diagnosticians downstairs say that the symptoms appear to be no more
than complaints of the lovesick."
"Are you back on the pantie-raid theme again?"
"I've never been off it," she replied. "From the first, I've had a
notion that some organism was increasing glandular activity. Excess
emotionalism often originates in overstimulated glands."
"Of course, but mental attitudes can trigger the glands, and they are
interacting. How do you separate the effects? How could you guess that
an organism was responsible?"
She shrugged. "It was a possibility within our specialty, so I set out
to prove or disprove it. From the appearance of these photographs, I
don't think we have _disproved_ it."
It was a properly cautious statement that pleased Murt. They were a long
way from proving that their newly discovered virus was the culprit, but
the research had definitely produced a question mark.
Murt ordered copies of the photomicrographs from Ebert Industrial Labs
and arranged for a complete dossier to be forwarded to the U. S. Health
Service.
That night, he was startled by a headline and lead story that quoted the
government bulletin. The science editor had a field day, tying in
speculation that "Doctors Suspect Love Bug Epidemic."
* * * * *
The next day, three reporters called upon him, each with the same query.
"It's rumored that you are doing research on the Love Bug, Dr. Murt.
Anything to report?"
He shooed them out angrily, after learning that someone at Ebert Labs
had given them the tip. Phyllis smiled at him as he slammed the door
after the last reporter.
"You still discount the Love Bug idea, don't you?" she asked.
"I dislike sensationalism in a matter like this," he said. "Even if
their assumptions were true, I wouldn't like it."
"You can't blame the papers. They're starved for some explanation. I
pity your passion for anonymity if your virus proves to be the causative
factor."
"_My_ virus?"
"Certainly. The whole project is under your auspices and direction."
"See here, Phyl, _you_ did the work."
"Don't you dare mention my name," she said. "You're my superior and
senior pathologist and it's your duty to protect me against the press. I
don't want columnists popping out of my bathroom any more than you do."
Murt gave up. "The argument is entirely anticipatory," he pointed out.
"The virus might turn out to be a batch of dormant German measles. Would
you consider having dinner with me tonight?"
"Why?" She shot the question back at him like a rebounding tennis ball.
"Answer that first!"
Murt opened his mouth. He could not recall ever hearing such a rude
rejoinder to an invitation to dinner. Not that there had been a plethora
of amenities between them, but this was unthinkable! The question was,
why _should_ she have dinner with him? Give her eight good reasons. What
was his motive in asking her? In one word, _why_?
Murt searched her face, but only a quiet interest showed in her
expression.
"Why does any man invite any woman to dinner?" he countered.
"You aren't _any_ man, Dr. Murt. Nor am I _any_ woman. I want your
specific reason for inviting me to dinner. Is it to discuss professional
matters or--what?"
"Good Lord, Dr. Sutton!" He followed her lead in using the formal
address. "Man is a social animal! I would enjoy your company at dinner,
that's all. At least, I thought I would."
She looked at him unrelentingly. "If the talk will be about baseball,
books or billiards, I'm for it. If it's to be moonlight, roses and
dimmed lights--no sale."
* * * * *
It was like asking one's grandfather for a date. His regard for her
highly professional approach turned to resentment. After all, she was a
woman, a woman who persisted in belting her smock too tightly and
wearing sheer nylons. Why this absurd revulsion at his casual
acknowledgment of her sex?
He almost withdrew the invitation, but changed his mind at the last
moment. "You name the place and the subject for conversation."