“It was a nice brush-up on your bacteriology,” he said. “Have you saved the filtrates?”
“Yes, of course. Did I overlook anything?”
“Nothing that we could do here, but there’s an electron microscope downtown at Ebert Industrial Labs. How about photomicrography? Could be a filtrable virus.”
He knew that she was aware of the possibility, and also that she was reluctant to ask him for additional funds to go into a virus hunt with the expensive piece of equipment.
“Wonderful!” she told him. “I did hate to ask you, but it would be a shame to waste all that immaculate filtrate.”
III
A week passed, during which a bulletin from the Government Health Service announced official suspicion that the human race was suffering a mysterious, pandemic affliction which was as yet undiagnosed. Although the 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. Factory supervisors and insurance companies were frantic over the upsurge in accidents. It was estimated that almost fifty per cent of the population exhibited the symptoms of depression, absent-mindedness, insomnia and loss of appetite.
Negligent driving was increasing the highway toll sharply. Educational institutions reported classroom discipline rapidly vanishing. Armed forces headquarters cautiously admitted a new high in desertions and AWOLs.
The consensus among psychiatrists and psychologists was that the condition stemmed from pathogenic causes.
Dr. Murt raised his eyebrows when he read this. Perhaps Phyllis Sutton was right, after all.
The bulletin continued, “All clinical pathologists are requested to be alert to the presence of any unusual organisms discovered in body fluids or tissues examined. Please report your findings to the U. S. Public Health Service.”
Murt found Phyllis Sutton at the microtome, finishing a wax section, and showed her the bulletin.
“Score one for woman’s intuition,” he smiled. “Federal Health Service tends 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, and the two pathologists bent over them together. Phyllis had submitted eighteen samples, six of which were controls taken from healthy, unafflicted subjects. Per her instructions, smears of the specimens in various degrees of dilution had been photographed through the great electron 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 suspect specimens swarmed with shadowy six-sided dots.
Phyllis’ eyes widened. “There is something there! Do you suppose it could 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 more than 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 a notion that some organism was increasing glandular activity. Excess emotionalism often originates in overstimulated glands.”
“Of course, but mental attitudes can trigger the glands, and they are interacting. How do you separate the effects? How could you guess that an organism was responsible?”
She shrugged. “It was a possibility within our specialty, so I set out to prove or disprove it. From the appearance of these photographs, I don’t think we have disproved it.”
It was a properly cautious statement that pleased Murt. They were a long way from proving that their newly discovered virus was the culprit, but the research had definitely produced a question mark.
Murt ordered copies of the photomicrographs from Ebert Industrial Labs and arranged for a complete dossier to be forwarded to the U. S. Health Service.
That night, he was startled by a headline and lead story that quoted the government bulletin. The science editor had a field day, tying in speculation 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 Labs had given them the tip. Phyllis smiled at him as he slammed the door after 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 if their assumptions were true, I wouldn’t like it.”
“You can’t blame the papers. They’re starved for some explanation. I pity your passion for anonymity if your virus proves to be the causative factor.”
“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 and senior pathologist and it’s your duty to protect me against the press. I don’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. 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.