IV
The following morning, he presided at a specialists' conference at thehospital, during which he revealed the results of the blood research.They had all read the Health Service bulletin and were sharplyinterested 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 aprogram. Both agreed to take the problem back to their own departments.
The conference set Murt behind in his work and he spoke scarcely fivewords to his assistant until he was ready to leave. As he finishedscrubbing up, she handed him an early edition of the _Times_.
"Local Doctor Isolates Love Bug!" The story was sketchy and not half sopositive 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 toldthem 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. "Theleak probably came at that end." She put her hand on his arm. "It wasn'tyour fault."
His fury cooled as he noted her gesture. Then she realized that he waslooking down at her hand and withdrew it quickly.
The next few days were blindly busy. A note from the governmentacknowledged receipt of his report and pictures, and was followed by amessage that the virus could not be identified. The implication was thatthere was a strong possibility that it was the causative factor in thenew _malaise_.
* * * * *
Murt devoted more attention to the joint laboratory work on the virus.The newspapers continued to come up with confidential information theyshouldn't have had, and they dubbed the Love Bug, _Murt's Virus_. Thename stuck, and the pathologist found himself famous overnight.
Phyllis continued to force all the credit upon him, on threat oftransferring out if he violated her confidence. Except for the nuisanceof dodging reporters, the accolade was not entirely unpleasant.
His pictures--old ones, Lord knew where they had dug them up--beganappearing in the papers. Instead of reproving him, the hospital boardvoted him a substantial salary increase and gave him a free hand indirecting the research. A government grant was obtained to supplementhis budget, and the work picked up speed.
Necessarily, the lead that Phyllis Sutton's early research had giventhem on the rest of the medical world was maintained largely because ofthe time lag in disseminating the information contained in Murt'sreport, and the additional time it took for other clinical laboratoriesto confirm it.
Cages of experimental animals began arriving along with severaladditional specialists. Ebert Industrial Labs, contrite over theoriginal information leak, made available their electron microscope, andMurt assigned the new toxicologist to work over there with Feldman, thebacteriologist, studying ways to weaken or destroy the virus.
Stitchell, the endocrinologist, and a trio of psychologists from theState University began injecting monkeys with virus when Feldman foundhe could propagate it in sterile medium.
On September 12, 1961, Dr. Sylvester Murt became a victim of the viruswhich bore his name.
* * * * *
He had slept poorly and he awakened feeling empty. His first dismalthought was that Phyl wouldn't be at the hospital this morning. He hadtold her to spend a few hours down at Ebert Labs, getting notes on theirprogress.
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 anddoor-gazing that he stepped outside his wretchedness and took anobjective look at his feelings.
It wasn't that he missed her help--he had plenty of personnel at hisdisposal now. He simply longed for the sight of her, for the sound ofher voice and her heels clipping busily around his office-lab.
_Here we go again_, he thought, and then he came up short. The feelingwas similar to the silly evening of infatuation he had allowed himself,but it was intensified tenfold. The burn in his stomach was almostpainful. He caught himself sighing like a frustrated poet, and he grewto hate the sight of the hall door, through which she kept right on notappearing.
When she failed to show up by 11:30, and he gagged over his lunch, heknew he was sick.
He had Murt's Virus!
Now what? Did knowing you had it make it any easier? Easier to make adamned fool of himself, he supposed. He'd have to take hold of himselfor he'd scare her off the grounds.
At the thought of her leaving him for good, something like a dullcrosscut saw hacked across his diaphragm, and he dropped his forkful ofpotato salad.
Back at his office, he diluted 30 cc of pure grain alcohol with waterand swallowed it. Some of the distress and anxiety symptoms wererelieved, and he bent determinedly to his work.
When her distinctive steps finally came through the door, he refused toraise his head from the binocular microscope. "How are they making outover there?" he mumbled.
"It's slow," she said, dropping her notes on his desk. "They're halfwaythrough the sulfas so far. No results yet."
* * * * *
Relief at having her near him again was so great, it was almostfrightening. But he gained equal pleasure from finding his self-controladequate 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 ofhigh 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 stepbackward. "What's the matter, Sylvester?"
He fought back the confusion in his brain, considered explaining that hewas making a fine adjustment on the scope. But he didn't. He turned andlet 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, butshe composed her features quickly. "Do you want me to leave?"
"Lord no! That magnifies the symptoms. Stay with me and--and just beyourself. 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 newvirus _was_ the cause of his feeling. Clinically, this was nowhere nearproved yet. Slowly he rolled up his sleeve above the elbow. He dipped aswatch 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 inindustrial accidents, absenteeism and the rest of the social effects ofthe "mild" epidemic. Phyllis Sutton was in his mind constantly. Hedeliberately did not look at her. But he was aware of her everymovement, 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 andconjecturing on what she was doing every moment. Not that it wasdifficult to adjust his behavior--no, that was relatively easy. All hehad 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 waseasy to prevent his eyes from darting glances at her profile and staringat the curve of her hip below the tight belt.
By staying busy, he fought off the depression until he left for theclub, when it closed in on him like an autumn fog. He stopped at theclub bar.
Curly, the bald-headed bartender, eyed him
curiously when he ordered adouble Scotch.
"Heavy going down at the hospital these days?" Curly asked.
Murt envied him his relaxed, carefree expression. He nodded. "Prettybusy. I suppose you're catching it, too. Lot of people drowning theirsorrows these days?"
Curly looked up at the clock. "You said it! In about a half hour, theplace'll be loaded. This epidemic is going to run the distilleries dryif it doesn't end pretty soon."
"Does liquor help any?"
"Seems to--a little. It's the damnedest thing! Everybody's in love withthe wrong people--I mean ten times as bad as usual. Of course, noteverybody. 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 homewondering if I'm faithful. Calls me up six times a shift. I don't daretake her out anyplace. Every time another female comes in sight, shestarts worrying. Kate's a damned good wife, always has been, or Iwouldn't be putting up with it. That's what's happening to a lot ofmarriages. Some guys get fed up and start looking around. About thattime, 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 forit, though. You know Peter, the elevator boy? He and his wife both gotit. For a while it was okay, but I guess they finally drove themselvesnuts, keeping tabs on each other. Now they can't stand to be togetherand they can't stand to be apart. Poor joker ran the cage past thebasement limit-switch three times today and had to be bailed out of theshaft. Mr. Johnson said he'd fire him if he could get another boy."
The implication was shocking to Murt. He had supposed that unhappinesswould stem principally from cases of unrequited love, such as his own,but it was apparent that the disease magnified the painful aspects ofmutual love as well. Over-possessiveness and jealousy were common reefsof marriage, so it was hardly illogical that the divorce courts were asbusy 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 immediatelyfell into despondency. The desire to phone Phyllis was almostoverpowering, though he knew talking to her wouldn't help. Instead, hedressed and went to dinner. The club boasted a fine chef, but the foodtasted like mucilage.
Later, he went to the bar and drank excessively. Yet he had to take asedative to get to sleep.
He awoke in a stupor at ten o'clock. His phone was janglingpersistently. 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. "Goodmorning! I'm _great_!" he moaned.
"Stitchell and the new toxicologist think they have something toreport," she said.
"So do I. Alcohol is positively not the answer."
"This is important. Your suggestion on the sulfa series seems to havepaid 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 andtoast.