"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.