It wasn't until he had put in half the morning clock-watching and
door-gazing that he stepped outside his wretchedness and took an
objective look at his feelings.

It wasn't that he missed her help--he had plenty of personnel at his
disposal now. He simply longed for the sight of her, for the sound of
her voice and her heels clipping busily around his office-lab.

_Here we go again_, he thought, and then he came up short. The feeling
was similar to the silly evening of infatuation he had allowed himself,
but it was intensified tenfold. The burn in his stomach was almost
painful. He caught himself sighing like a frustrated poet, and he grew
to hate the sight of the hall door, through which she kept right on not
appearing.

When she failed to show up by 11:30, and he gagged over his lunch, he
knew he was sick.

He had Murt's Virus!

Now what? Did knowing you had it make it any easier? Easier to make a
damned 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 glass. 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 adjustmen