Suddenly an idea for another test struck him and he moved to the work table to set it up. He worked rapidly, with an occasional uncoordinated movement betraying his usual efficiency.
It was strange to see Max troubled and afraid.
She put on a laboratory smock and began to work. She worked in silence. The mechanicals had failed. Hal and George Barton were busy staving off death from the weaker cases and trying to gain time for Max and her to work. The problem of the plague had to be solved by the two of them alone. It was in their hands.
Another test, no results. Another test, no results. Max's hands were shaking and he stopped a moment to take stimulants.
She went into the ward for a moment, found Bess and warned her quietly to tell the other women to be ready to take over if the men became too sick to go on. "But tell them calmly. We don't want to frighten the men." She lingered in the ward long enough to see the word spread among the women in a widening wave of paler faces and compressed lips; then she went back to the laboratory.
Another test. There was no sign of a micro-organism in anyone's blood, merely a growing horde of leucocytes and phagocytes, prowling as if mobilized to repel invasion.
Len Marlow was wheeled in unconscious, with Hal Barton's written comments and conclusions pinned to the blanket.
"I don't feel so well myself," the assistant complained. "The air feels thick. I can't breathe."
June saw that his lips were blue. "Oxygen short," she told Max.