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,
s