C4 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 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?”

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.