t 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