“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. Phyllis 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.