III
A week passed, during which a bulletin from the Government HealthService announced official suspicion that the human race was suffering amysterious, pandemic affliction which was as yet undiagnosed. Althoughthe 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. Factorysupervisors and insurance companies were frantic over the upsurge inaccidents. It was estimated that almost fifty per cent of the populationexhibited the symptoms of depression, absent-mindedness, insomnia andloss of appetite.
Negligent driving was increasing the highway toll sharply. Educationalinstitutions reported classroom discipline rapidly vanishing. Armedforces headquarters cautiously admitted a new high in desertions andAWOLs.
The consensus among psychiatrists and psychologists was that thecondition stemmed from pathogenic causes.
Dr. Murt raised his eyebrows when he read this. Perhaps Phyllis Suttonwas right, after all.
The bulletin continued, "All clinical pathologists are requested to bealert to the presence of any unusual organisms discovered in body fluidsor tissues examined. Please report your findings to the U. S. PublicHealth Service."
Murt found Phyllis Sutton at the microtome, finishing a wax section, andshowed her the bulletin.
"Score one for woman's intuition," he smiled. "Federal Health Servicetends 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, andthe two pathologists bent over them together. Phyllis had submittedeighteen samples, six of which were controls taken from healthy,unafflicted subjects. Per her instructions, smears of the specimens invarious degrees of dilution had been photographed through the greatelectron microscope.
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 suspectspecimens swarmed with shadowy six-sided dots.
Phyllis' eyes widened. "There is something there! Do you suppose itcould 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 morethan 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 anotion that some organism was increasing glandular activity. Excessemotionalism often originates in overstimulated glands."
"Of course, but mental attitudes can trigger the glands, and they areinteracting. How do you separate the effects? How could you guess thatan organism was responsible?"
She shrugged. "It was a possibility within our specialty, so I set outto prove or disprove it. From the appearance of these photographs, Idon't think we have _disproved_ it."
It was a properly cautious statement that pleased Murt. They were a longway from proving that their newly discovered virus was the culprit, butthe research had definitely produced a question mark.
Murt ordered copies of the photomicrographs from Ebert Industrial Labsand arranged for a complete dossier to be forwarded to the U. S. HealthService.
That night, he was startled by a headline and lead story that quoted thegovernment bulletin. The science editor had a field day, tying inspeculation 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 Labshad given them the tip. Phyllis smiled at him as he slammed the doorafter 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 iftheir assumptions were true, I wouldn't like it."
"You can't blame the papers. They're starved for some explanation. Ipity your passion for anonymity if your virus proves to be the causativefactor."
"_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 andsenior pathologist and it's your duty to protect me against the press. Idon'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. Wouldyou 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 ruderejoinder to an invitation to dinner. Not that there had been a plethoraof amenities between them, but this was unthinkable! The question was,why _should_ she have dinner with him? Give her eight good reasons. Whatwas his motive in asking her? In one word, _why_?
Murt searched her face, but only a quiet interest showed in herexpression.
"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 yourspecific reason for inviting me to dinner. Is it to discuss professionalmatters or--what?"
"Good Lord, Dr. Sutton!" He followed her lead in using the formaladdress. "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 anddimmed lights--no sale."
* * * * *
It was like asking one's grandfather for a date. His regard for herhighly professional approach turned to resentment. After all, she was awoman, a woman who persisted in belting her smock too tightly andwearing sheer nylons. Why this absurd revulsion at his casualacknowledgment of her sex?
He almost withdrew the invitation, but changed his mind at the lastmoment. "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 himforget it during the whole meal. The restaurant she picked wasexpensive, but about as romantic as a bus depot. She ordered beerinstead of a cocktail, toyed wordlessly with a $5.00 steak, and arguedover the check.
Only as they were preparing to leave did she betray a sign offemininity. 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'nlookin' for all m'life," and planted a wet alcoholic kiss on his mouthbefore he could defend himself.
Her escort peeled her away with sad-eyed apologies. There was nojealousy or anger in his face, only a deep hurt. "She--she isn't well, Ithink," he said. "You know, this new--whatever it is that's goingaround."
Murt wiped off the lipstick and looked at Phyllis, expecting to find atbest 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'sgoing 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 eveninghad been a bust. Murt wondered how he had ever visualized her as awarm-blooded, responsive female. He smiled at the evening of torment shehad once given him.
She was entirely frigid or else so leery of men that she might as wellhave been one herself.