The last vial

The ground floor of the Laboratory is occupied by the Administration Office and Clinical Pathology Section. Shut off at the back are the white tiled walls and monel metal tables of the Autopsy Rooms. On the first floor the Tissue Pathologists sit at their microscopes and study the pretty blue and red stained slides of human and animal tissues which come from the batteries of Technicon machines and the skillful microtomes of the laboratory technicians. Here too are the Medical Library and the Hematology Section, where blood from thousands of patients is smeared on slides, stained, and examined for signs of disease. I was just rounding the banister at the top of the stairs when, coming out of the Serology Room, I saw the long thin slow-moving figure and wavy blond hair of Harry Cope, the hematologist. He saw me at once and waved a languid hand.

"Hello, John! How was the holiday?" he said in his soft English voice.

"Pretty good, Harry. Keeping you busy?"

"Not in my own shop," he said. "But Dr. Hallam will certainly be glad to see you back. I've had to give him a hand the last day or two."

"Why, what's up?" I was surprised. Harry knew quite a bit about Virology and had kept up his interest in it even though hematology was his specialty. However he seldom worked for us unless there was a real emergency.

"I'd better let the Director tell you himself, old man. I have an appointment just now. See you later." He moved down the hall, as quiet and impassive as usual.

A little worried now, I went up the stairs to the second floor, passed Bacteriology and poked my head into the Virology Section. The routine work on virus diseases goes on here. The Research Lab, Dr. Hallam's pet project, is in a specially designed penthouse on the third floor, alongside the animal house, and is never used for ordinary tests.

In the Tissue Culture Room, Pat was already busy with the specimens and had time only to wink at me. No hope for enlightenment there! I looked back at her trim figure as I moved away and, at the door of Electron Microscopy, ran head on into Polly Cripps, our electron microscopy technician and Harry Cope's fiancee. Even at thirty-five she was still good looking in a bold way, with white gold hair waving over deep blue eyes, a full mouth and a full figure to go with it.

When I recovered my breath after bouncing off that pneumatic form, I started to speak but, as usual, she beat me to it.

"My Goodness, John, you Northerners are always in a hurry," she gasped. "You almost mashed me flat."

"Ah caint see no difference honey," I parodied her Alabama drawl. "Say, Harry tells me something big is happening."

"It surely is," she said, "I've taken more pictures in the last two weeks than in the six months before that. I took a whole mess of them to Dr. Hallam this morning."

"Maybe I'd better go find out for myself. See you later, cutie." As I went by I gave her a friendly pat on her well rounded posterior and got the back of my head clipped for my temerity.

"You keep your cotton-pickin' hands to yourself, boy," she said, but she was smiling.

The time was late autumn. Because of a special project, I hadn't been able to take my summer vacation. Patricia Delaney, our senior virology technician, had worked with me and, as the days went by, it looked as if neither of us would get a break. The fall is the season for respiratory viruses to start causing trouble and we couldn't afford to take time off if even a minor outbreak appeared. But the weather stayed dry and finally, one lovely Indian summer day, Dr. Hallam had shoved us both out of the office for ten days' rest.

I stopped on the front steps of the Lab and looked at Pat, standing beside me, her brown curly head, topped by one of the new round space satellite hats, bent over as she fumbled at her handbag.

"Now what do we do?" I felt at a loss, a little tired and let down. I hadn't expected to get time off and consequently had made no plans for spending the next ten days. The sun was bright, the clouds were small and fluffy, the air was warm. It was autumn at its best. Surely it would be a shame to waste such wonderful weather.

Pat was speaking, her clear grey eyes thoughtful behind the heavy-rimmed glasses. The soft Louisiana voice was a treat after the harder northern accents of the Canadians.

"I don't know. I haven't made plans to do anything."

"Well then, let's go have some coffee and talk it over."

She nodded and fell into step beside me, her long legs, long for her medium height that is, keeping up with my short ones. In her high heeled shoes she stood as tall as I, her broad shoulders and slim but prettily rounded figure contrasting nicely with my stocky frame. We make a good pair, I thought, she, the American of Irish descent and I, the immigrant Irishman, educated in Canada and naturalized American during the Korean War. She had come to British Columbia just a year ago, when her marriage had broken up, to make a fresh start. The year before that I had returned to Canada to join the staff of the Civic Hospital as a pathologist.

We crossed the parking area to the main hospital building and went into the restaurant through the back entrance.

"How about this table?" I said and pulled out a chair for her. I tipped my head to the girl behind the counter and held up two fingers. The coffee came, not too strong, but at least it was hot. Pat shrugged out of her mackintosh, reached for the Players I held out to her and dragged at the battery match flame. I watched her as she leaned forward over the lighter. The tiny creases at the corners of her eyes, the slightly deeper lines of her mouth, marked her as a woman of thirty, mature, a little worldly, but still attractive. Delightfully so to me, I thought, since, at thirty-five and a casualty of the divorce mill too, I was no longer interested in young girls, good to look at but unseasoned by life.

She sat back in her chair and looked at me quizzically.

"Did I pass inspection?" she said.

I hadn't realized I'd been so obvious. It was a little disconcerting, even after dating her frequently in the last six months, to have my thoughts read the way she seemed to do.

I smiled at her. "I'll have to have a closer look to be sure."

"I don't know about that," she said teasingly. "I wouldn't trust you too far."

"How far would you trust me," I asked quickly, an idea growing hopefully behind my bantering tone.

She looked at me and her smile slowly faded. Again her intuition was right and the fear of getting emotionally tangled up with a man, the reluctance to bare her heart again so soon after it had been lacerated by another male, was obvious in her caution.