The big man lifted his eyebrows and rinsed off his hands.
"I guess we'd better get over there," he said, mangling my teatowel to get the water off.
When we reached the viewing room we found Pat, completely engrossed, in the section which overlooked the cages containing the female ferrets. It was a one-way glass, and soundproof, as the weasel tribe are notoriously sensitive to outside disturbances. Pat pointed to one of the cages and said in an unnecessary whisper,
"That ferret is sick. She seems to be in labor."
"It's a good old ferret custom," I quipped.
"Idiot!" She frowned impatiently. "According to her chart, she was only in the early part of pregnancy, ... not due for a long time yet. She was the first one you inoculated today."
For a while longer we watched. There was no doubt about it. The ferret was aborting. I glanced at the Chief. His face was set, the normally gentle mouth was grim, the lips drawn and thin.
"God Almighty," he whispered. "They wouldn't try it. And yet, what better way?" He straightened up from his seat. Even now he couldn't resist a mild joke.
"When you say things are popping, young lady, I see you mean it literally."
He started for the exit. "Well, it appears that the real work is beginning. I'd hope we would all get some sleep but the flu virus works too fast in these ferrets. So let's go back for some coffee and see what happens."