"Of course not. The reporters were here, but I sent them away. I told
them we were medicine men, not tobacco men."
"Your name isn't even mentioned," he said suspiciously.
"You signed the report to the Health Service," she pointed out. "The
leak probably came at that end." She put her hand on his arm. "It wasn't
your fault."
His fury cooled as he noted her gesture. Then she realized that he was
looking down at her hand and withdrew it quickly.
The next few days were blindly busy. A note from the government
acknowledged receipt of his report and pictures, and was followed by a
message that the virus could not be identified. The implication was that
there was a strong possibility that it was the causative factor in the
new _malaise_.
* * * * *
Murt devoted more attention to the joint laboratory work on the virus.
The newspapers continued to come up with confidential information they
shouldn't have had, and they dubbed the Love Bug, _Murt's Virus_. The
name stuck, and the pathologist found himself famous overnight.
Phyllis continued to force all the credit upon him, on threat of
transferring out if he violated her confidence. Except for the nuisance
of dodging reporters, the accolade was not entirely unpleasant.
His pictures--old ones, Lord knew where they had dug them up--began
appearing in the papers. Instead of reproving him, the hospital board
voted him a substantial salary increase and gave him a free hand in
directing the research. A government grant was obtained to supplement
his budget, and the work picked up speed.
Necessarily, the lead that Phyllis Sutton's early research had given
them on the rest of the medical world was maintained largely because of
the time lag in disseminating the information contained in Murt's
report, and the additional time it took for other clinical laboratories
to confirm it.
Cages of experimental animals began arriving along with several
additional specialists. Ebert Industrial Labs, contrite over the
original information leak, made available their electron microscope, and
Murt assigned the new toxicologist to work over there with Feldman, the
bacteriologist, studying ways to weaken or destroy the virus.
Stitchell, the endocrinologist, and a trio of psychologists from the
State University began injecting monkeys with virus when Feldman found
he could propagate it in sterile medium.
On September 12, 1961, Dr. Sylvester Murt became a victim of the virus
which bore his name.
* * * * *
He had slept poorly and he awakened feeling empty. His first dismal
thought was that Phyl wouldn't be at the hospital this morning. He had
told her to spend a few hours down at Ebert Labs, getting notes on their
progress.
As he shaved, dressed and breakfasted, this thought preyed on his mind.
It wasn't until he had put in half the morning clock-watching and
door-gazing that he stepped outside his wretchedness and took an
objective look at his feelings.
It wasn't that he missed her help--he had plenty of personnel at his
disposal now. He simply longed for the sight of her, for the sound of
her voice and her heels clipping busily around his office-lab.
_Here we go again_, he thought, and then he came up short. The feeling
was similar to the silly evening of infatuation he had allowed himself,
but it was intensified tenfold. The burn in his stomach was almost
painful. He caught himself sighing like a frustrated poet, and he grew
to hate the sight of the hall door, through which she kept right on not
appearing.
When she failed to show up by 11:30, and he gagged over his lunch, he
knew he was sick.
He had Murt's Virus!
Now what? Did knowing you had it make it any easier? Easier to make a
damned fool of himself, he supposed. He'd have to take hold of himself
or he'd scare her off the grounds.
At the thought of her leaving him for good, something like a dull
crosscut saw hacked across his diaphragm, and he dropped his forkful of
potato salad.
Back at his office, he diluted 30 cc of pure grain alcohol with water
and swallowed it. Some of the distress and anxiety symptoms were
relieved, and he bent determinedly to his work.
When her distinctive steps finally came through the door, he refused to
raise his head from the binocular microscope. "How are they making out
over there?" he mumbled.
"It's slow," she said, dropping her notes on his desk. "They're halfway
through the sulfas so far. No results yet."
* * * * *
Relief at having her near him again was so great, it was almost
frightening. But he gained equal pleasure from finding his self-control
adequate to keep from raising his head and devouring her with his eyes.
"Sylvester," her voice came from behind his stool, "if you don't mind,
I'd rather not go over there again."
"Why not?"