by Various
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."
She nodded. "Very well, I'll pick you up at seven."
He had his date--with an emancipated female, and she didn't let him forget it during the whole meal. The restaurant she picked was expensive, but about as romantic as a bus depot. She ordered beer instead of a cocktail, toyed wordlessly with a $5.00 steak, and argued over the check.
Only as they were preparing to leave did she betray a sign of femininity. A platinum blonde, two tables away, had been eying Murt. Suddenly, she lurched to her feet without a word to her escort, staggered over to the pathologist, slurred, "You're what I've b'n lookin' for all m'life," and planted a wet alcoholic kiss on his mouth before he could defend himself.
Her escort peeled her away with sad-eyed apologies. There was no jealousy or anger in his face, only a deep hurt. "She--she isn't well, I think," he said. "You know, this new--whatever it is that's going around."
Murt wiped off the lipstick and looked at Phyllis, expecting to find at best sardonic amusement, but she seemed pale and annoyed.
"I'm sorry I brought you here," she said.
"Think nothing of it," Murt told her. "You heard the man. This is what's going around. Do you think I'll catch it?"
Phyllis wasn't amused. She did let him ride the taxi to her apartment, but bade him a terse goodby at the door.
Except for the incident of the blonde and Phyl's reaction, the evening had been a bust. Murt wondered how he had ever visualized her as a warm-blooded, responsive female. He smiled at the evening of torment she had once given him.
She was entirely frigid or else so leery of men that she might as well have been one herself.
IV
The following morning, he presided at a specialists' conference at the hospital, during which he revealed the results of the blood research. They had all read the Health Service bulletin and were sharply interested in the photomicrographs.
When the meeting was over, Feldman, the bacteriologist, and Stitchell, an endocrinologist, volunteered to work with Murt. They gave Phyllis' "gland-irritation" theory more credence than Murt. He outlined a program. Both agreed to take the problem back to their own departments.
The conference set Murt behind in his work and he spoke scarcely five words to his assistant until he was ready to leave. As he finished scrubbing up, she handed him an early edition of the Times.
"Local Doctor Isolates Love Bug!" The story was sketchy and not half so positive as the headline, but it did name him and High Dawn Hospital, and described the new virus.
He stared at Phyllis Sutton. "Did you--"
"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 li
ke 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?"
Her voice was strangely soft. "Because I--I missed...."
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. P
hyllis 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.
She nodded. "Fifteen cc for the monkeys."
She secured a small beaker and a tapered graduate from the glassware cabinet and set them before him. He poured 50 cc into the graduated measure and transferred it to the beaker.
"What do they call it?" he asked.
"Sulfa-tetradine," she replied. "One of a series Peterson was testing. There is no physiological data on it yet. All he knows is that it inhibited the virus in culture. So they tried it on the monkeys."
Murt raised the beaker to his lips. It was against every sensible tenet of scientific procedure. He was amazed that Phyllis was silent as he swallowed the bland, chalky fluid. He heard a clink. Turning, he saw her raising the graduate to her lips. In it was a like quantity of sulfa-tetradine.
"What are you doing?" he half-shouted. "We don't need a test-control!"
"I'm not a control," she said softly, touching her lips with a scrap of gauze. "I've had the virus for months."
He stared at her unbelievingly. "How do you know?"