Approaching her was George Barton, reading a thermometer with a puzzled expression.
"What is it, George?" she asked anxiously.
"Some of the women have slight fever, but it's going down. None of the fellows have any—but their white count is way up, their red count is way down, and they look sick to me."
She approached St. Clair. His usually ruddy cheeks were pale, his pulse was light and too fast, and his skin felt clammy. "How's the headache? Did the Nucleocat treatment help?"
"I feel worse, if anything."
"Better set up beds," she told George. "Get everyone back into the clinic."
"We're doing that," George assured her. "That's what Hal is doing."
She went back to the laboratory. Max was pacing up and down, absently running his hands through his black hair until it stood straight up. He stopped when he saw her face, and scowled thoughtfully. "They are still sick?" It was more a statement than a question.
She nodded.
"The Cureall didn't cure this time," he muttered. "That leaves it up to us. We have melting sickness and according to Pat and the hamsters, that leaves us less than a day to find out what it is and learn how to stop it."