At that instant, her hand rested on his shoulder and it sent a charge of
high voltage through him. He stiffened.
"_Don't do that!_" he said sharply.
He could see her reflection dimly in the window glass. She took a step
backward. "What's the matter, Sylvester?"
He fought back the confusion in his brain, considered explaining that he
was making a fine adjustment on the scope. But he didn't. He turned and
let her have it. "Because I've got the virus," he said in a flat voice.
"And the object of my affection--or infected, overstimulated glands--is
_you_!"
"Oh, dear! That blonde at the restaurant...." Phyl's face was pale, but
she composed her features quickly. "Do you want me to leave?"
"Lord no! That magnifies the symptoms. Stay with me and--and just be
yourself. I won't bother you. If I lay a finger on you, clobber me."
"Have you had your blood tested?"
"I don't have to. I've got all the symp--"
He broke off, realizing that he was taking for granted that the new
virus _was_ the cause of his feeling. Clinically, this was nowhere near
proved yet. Slowly he rolled up his sleeve above the elbow. He dipped a
swatch of gauze in alcohol and swabbed a vein.
"All right, Phyl, you're the doctor. Make with the syringe."
* * * * *
By nightfall, Murt came to understand the reasons for the increase in
industrial accidents, absenteeism and the rest of the social effects of
the "mild" epidemic. Phyllis Sutton was in his mind constantly. He
deliberately did not look at her. But he was aware of her every
movement, the texture and shape of her hand when she handed him a slide,
the scent of her powder, the sound of her heels.
When she left the room, he found himself awaiting her return and
conjecturing on what she was doing every moment. Not that it was
difficult to adjust his behavior--no, that was relatively easy. All he
had to do was think about every remark he made to her, censoring word,
inflection and tone of voice--and, by keeping his back to her, it was
easy to prevent his eyes from darting glances at her profile and staring
at the curve of her hip below the tight belt.
By staying busy, he fought off the depression until he left for the
club, when it closed in on him like an autumn fog. He stopped at the
club bar.
Curly, the bald-headed bartender, eyed him curiously when he ordered a
double Scotch.
"Heavy going down at the hospital these days?" Curly asked.
Murt envied him his relaxed, carefree expression. He nodded. "Pretty
busy. I suppose you're catching it, too. Lot of people drowning their
sorrows these days?"
Curly looked up at the clock. "You said it! In about a half hour, the
place'll be loaded. This epidemic is going to run the distilleries dry
if it doesn't end pretty soon."
"Does liquor help any?"
"Seems to--a little. It's the damnedest thing! Everybody's in love with
the wrong people--I mean ten times as bad as usual. Of course, not
everybody. Take my wife--she's got it bad, but she's still in love with
_me_. So it could be worse."
* * * * *
"What do you mean?" Murt asked, raising his head.
"I mean it's bad enough for the poor woman to have the guy she wants.
It's the jealousy angle. Every minute I'm away, she sits at home
wondering if I'm faithful. Calls me up six times a shift. I don't dare
take her out anyplace. Every time another female comes in sight, she
starts worrying. Kate's a damned good wife, always has been, or I
wouldn't be putting up with it. That's what's happening to a lot of
marriages. Some guys get fed up and start looking around. About that
time, the bug bites _them_ and look out, secretary!"
"But it's not her fault," Murt said emphatically.
"I know," Curly shrugged. "A lot of people don't make any allowances for
it, though. You know Peter, the elevator boy? He and his wife both got
it. For a while it was okay, but I guess they finally drove themselves
nuts, keeping tabs on each other. Now they can't stand to be together
and they can't stand to be apart. Poor joker ran the cage past the
basement limit-switch three times today and had to be bailed out of the
shaft. Mr. Johnson said he'd fire him if he could get another boy."
The implication was shocking to Murt. He had supposed that unhappiness
would stem principally from cases of unrequited love, such as his own,
but it was apparent that the disease magnified the painful aspects of
mutual love as well. Over-possessiveness and jealousy were common reefs
of marriage, so it was hardly illogical that the divorce courts were as
busy as the marriage license bureaus, after all.
* * * * *
It helped a little to immerse himself in the troubles of others, but,
after another double Scotch, he went to his apartment and immediately
fell into despondency. The desire to phone Phyllis was almost
overpowering, though he knew talking to her wouldn't help. Instead, he
dressed and went to dinner. The club boasted a fine chef, but the food
tasted like mucilage.
Later, he went to the bar and drank excessively. Yet he had to take a
sedative to get to sleep.
He awoke in a stupor at ten o'clock. His phone was jangling
persistently. It was Phyllis Sutton, and her face showed sharp concern.
"Are you all right, Sylvester?"
For a moment his hangover dominated, but then it all came back. "Good
morning! I'm _great_!" he moaned.
"Stitchell and the new toxicologist think they have something to
report," she said.
"So do I. Alcohol is positively not the answer."
"This is important. Your suggestion on the sulfa series seems to have
paid off."
"I'll be right over," he said, "as soon as I amputate my head."
"Come down to the zoo. I'll be there."
The thought of a remedy that might relieve him was a fair hangover cure.
He dressed quickly and even managed to swallow a little coffee and
toast.
V
At the hospital, he went directly to the "zoo" in the basement. A knot
of personnel, including Phyllis, Peterson, the toxicologist, and
Feldman, opened to admit him to the cage under their inspection. A quick
glance at the control cages showed no change in the undoctored monkeys.
Males and females were paired off, huddling together miserably,
chattering and sadly rubbing their heads together. Each couple eyed the
other couples suspiciously. Even here, the overpossessiveness was
evident, and Murt cringed from the pitiful, disconsolate expressions.
The cage before him, however, appeared normally animated. The monks were
feeding and playing happily. Feldman was grinning. "Had to try a new
derivative, Sylvester, but the sulfa series was the right approach."
Murt stared at the cage, redeyed. "Hadn't realized you succeeded in
producing the symptoms in monkeys."
Phyllis said, "Why, I gave you that report yester--" She broke off with
an understanding glance.
Peterson was exclaiming, "I never saw such a rapid-acting remedy! And so
far, there's no evidence of toxic effect."
"It must absorb directly into the gland tissue," Feldman added. "Hardly
had time to materially reduce the virus content significantly."
Murt murmured words of congratulations to them, turned on his heel and
stalked out. Phyllis followed him to his office.
"Get me some of the stuff and notes on the dosages they administered,"
he ordered.
"Certainly," she said. "But why didn't you ask--_Dr. Murt, you aren't
going to try it on yourself?_"
"Why not?" he barked hoarsely.
"It'll be weeks before we can determine if it's safe," she protested,
horrified.
"We haven't got weeks. People are falling apart. This thing's
contagious."
Even while Murt said it, he felt it was the wrong approach. He knew his
own perspective was shot, but Phyllis would probably try to protect him
against himself.
She did not. Instead, her face softened with sympathy and something else
he refused to identify. She said, "I'll be right back."
* * * * *
The pressure in his head throbbed down his neck into his body. He wanted
her so much, it was difficult to resist following her out into the hall.
She returned in a few minutes with a 500-cc glass-stoppered reagent
bottle half full of a milky fluid.
"Oral administration?" he asked.