"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 adjustment on the scope. But he didn't. He turned and let her have it. "Because I've got the virus," he said in a flat voice. "And the object of my affection—or infected, overstimulated glands—is you!"
"Oh, dear! That blonde at the restaurant...." Phyl's face was pale, but she composed her features quickly. "Do you want me to leave?"
"Lord no! That magnifies the symptoms. Stay with me and—and just be yourself. I won't bother you. If I lay a finger on you, clobber me."
"Have you had your blood tested?"
"I don't have to. I've got all the symp—"
He broke off, realizing that he was taking for granted that the new virus was the cause of his feeling. Clinically, this was nowhere near proved yet. Slowly he rolled up his sleeve above the elbow. He dipped a swatch of gauze in alcohol and swabbed a vein.
"All right, Phyl, you're the doctor. Make with the syringe."