She walked up and down, trying to think, remembering the hamsters. The melting sickness, it was called. Melting. She struggled with an impulse to open a tank which held one of the men. She wanted to look in, see if that would explain the name.
Melting Sickness....
Footsteps came and Pat Mead stood uncertainly in the doorway. Tall, handsome, rugged, a pioneer. "Anything I can do?" he asked.
She barely looked at him. "You can stay out of our way. We're busy."
"I'd like to help," he said.
"Very funny." She was vicious, enjoying the whip of her words. "Every man is dying because you're a carrier, and you want to help."
He stood nervously clenching and unclenching his hands. "A guinea pig, maybe. I'm immune. All the Meads are."
"Go away." God, why couldn't she think? What makes a Mead immune?
"Aw, let 'im alone," Max muttered. "Pat hasn't done anything." He went waveringly to the microscope, took a tiny sliver from his finger, suspended it in a slide and slipped it under the lens with detached habitual dexterity. "Something funny going on," he said to June. "Symptoms don't feel right."