Part 4 (1/2)

He had Murt's Virus!

Now what? Did knowing you had it make it any easier? Easier to make a d.a.m.ned 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 gla.s.s. 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.