Purr, the novel

By F. Wyman Morgan

What if 4 out of 10 people in the world carried, deep in their brains, a cat-borne microbe that had developed the power of mind control? What if animals on all continents except Antarctica were infected with this microbe?
What if the mind-control power of this microbe was so strong that it could force an infected rat to seek out a cat—and be eaten by it?
What if this microbe could affect the behavior of infected humans, also? What if it could cause women to be amorous and desirable and men to be anxious and unattractive?
What if the microbe could be deliberately used to alter human behavior—for noble or contemptible purposes—on a worldwide basis?
If this microbe were real, what would people—health authorities, governments or research institutions—do about it?
The microbe is real. Fictional characters set about to do something about it in Purr, the novel...
When Trent Schmitt, an assistant professor of biology with a well-earned reputation as a womanizer, is embarrassed into taking his university research job seriously, he launches a study of Toxoplasma gondii, a potentially deadly cat-borne parasite that apparently causes infected women to become more amorous. It's a study that could make Schmitt's reputation or ruin it, and ironically, it sets Trent on a quest to win the woman of his dreams-or perhaps create her by spreading parasite-infected cats across four continents. Opposing him is a rival professor who has ample reason to want Trent to fail. On Schmitt's side is his loyal "lab rat," Jacob, an ardent ballroom dancer, who deploys skills ranging from surveillance to behind-the-scenes deal making to protect his boss's back.

Purr, the novel–a work of fiction-is based on real science.

• Language: English
• Publisher: F. Wyman Morgan
• Release date: Aug 25, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465991645

F. Wyman Morgan

F. Wyman Morgan is a consultant living on the New Jersey Shore. F. Wyman Morgan for twenty-five years was a leader in industrial research in two major chemical companies and currently provides technology assessment and planning guidance for specialty chemical and pharmaceutical companies. As a result of his experiences in biotechnology, and his interest in diverse fields of research, he has developed passion for understanding the biological forces that influence human behavior.

Book preview

Chapter One

A Simple Matter of Balance

During his four years as Haney University’s dean of faculty affairs, Carlos Harcross had received no complaints about faculty members, and although it had occurred to him that eventually he would be faced with some form of faculty impropriety, he felt unprepared and unnerved by the prospect. He had been dean for only two years, but had been a faculty member for twenty-five years, including department head of the School of History and Philosophy for fifteen years.

During those twenty-five years he had survived and advanced in a sea of academic politics based on one core philosophical principle: cooperate, fight as a last resort, attack only the helpless. The latter part of this principle he had acquired by watching sharks on a television nature show avoid prey that were able to inflict injury or even cause death.

Fortunately, the position of dean of faculty affairs had not been particularly more challenging than that of department head, but now Harcross was experiencing an unsettling anxiety because of the phone call he had received earlier in the morning from a young woman, an employee of the School of Biological Sciences. All she had said was that she wanted to meet with him and lodge a complaint against Dr. Schmitt.

When that conversation was over, Dean Harcross immediately called Bob Carrigan, head of the School of Biological Sciences, and asked if he was aware of any conflict involving one of his faculty members. The answer was no.

Harcross was in the middle of deleting unimportant e-mails that he had already read but hadn’t taken the time to discard when the young woman arrived and was shown into his office by his administrative assistant, Miss Quinn.

As she entered his office Dean Harcross could see that the young woman was upset and, judging by her swollen red eyes, she had been crying for some time. In spite of her distress she was strikingly attractive in the white lab coat she wore. The first thought Harcross had when he noticed the lab coat was that she was wearing nothing else, but as his gaze moved to her face, the innocence and sincerity he saw there convinced him that his earlier impression was wrong. He nodded to her and was about to ask what seemed to be the problem, but before he could speak, she said, I’ve prayed over this and talked about it with my parents, and we all agree that Dr. Schmitt has behaved in a manner unbecoming a faculty member.

Choosing not to respond to her comment and displaying a practiced smile, Dean Harcross rose from his chair and offered his hand to the woman. He introduced himself and asked her to please be seated. She did so, settling somewhat uneasily into the chair closest to his desk. She lifted the strap of a medium-sized tote bag from her shoulder and placed the bag on the floor beside her chair. She crossed her legs, pressed the wrinkles out of her white lab coat with the palm of her hand, took a deep breath and said, My name is Yvonne Kalle.

Maybe we could begin at the beginning, Harcross suggested. When did you first meet Dr. Schmitt?

Right after the results of my research were posted on the wall outside Dr. Carrigan’s office, Dr. Schmitt called me and asked if we could discuss my work because it might be of use in his own research, and he invited me to meet with him. I agreed and walked over to his office during my lunch break that day.

What happened in that meeting?

I was about to sit in a chair facing his desk, but he motioned to the worktable and we both sat there. I went over the results of my research and he was quite interested in the improved technique I had developed for quantifying proteins shed by parasites in host tissues. I told him I would send him copies of my notebook, where he could find all the details. After I had finished presenting my laboratory results, he asked whether he could impose on me to listen to his research program. Perhaps, he said, I could offer some suggestions on how my new technique could be helpful to him. I said it was no imposition and I’d be happy to listen. He said, ‘Before we begin,’ but then he paused and moved to the cabinet behind his desk. He opened the door and took out a bottle of red wine and two glasses. He said, ‘I find that a sip of wine improves concentration.’

Dean Harcross interrupted, Excuse me, Miss Kalle. It is Miss, isn’t it?"

Yes, sir.

Did you drink the wine?

Yes, sir.

Are you aware that consumption of alcoholic beverages in campus teaching facilities is a violation of university regulations? Wasn’t that covered in your orientation?

Yes, sir.

Please go on with your story, Miss Kalle.

"He explained how his laboratory provided a useful service to pharmaceutical companies and how he was always looking for techniques to improve the efficiency of his operation. He indicated that one of his sponsors had asked him to develop cell culture methods to screen potential parasite drugs before testing them in animals, and that efficient protein analysis could be very helpful.

"Then he said, ‘Excuse me for a moment,’ and walked to the credenza on the left side of his office. He flipped a switch and said, ‘You could say that this is sort of my theme song.’

"Slowly, a rhythmical tune with a soft beat emerged from speakers I could see in the two corners behind his desk. ‘Now that’s better,’ he said. ‘Please go ahead.’

"I gave him two ideas about how he might detect the presence of proteins in cell culture media, and, realizing that my lunch hour was almost over, I rose to leave, but he stopped me by placing his hand lightly on my shoulder. ‘If you could indulge me a bit more,’ he said, ‘I have one more favor to ask.’

"By then it had become clear that the music was not normal mood music, as I had thought, but was a vocal by a girl with a low, smoky voice who sang about the glories of lust. I don’t remember the words to the song exactly, but the girl said to do whatever you want until you find love.

I was eager to leave his office, but he removed a black leather-bound book from his desk drawer and said, ‘I’m writing an autobiographical novel based on the entries in my diary. I hope that my novel will be a tribute to women, and I would very much like to have your view on how the basic theme would be received. ‘After all,’ he added in a soft voice, ‘you are by far the most beautiful woman on this campus.’ By then I was getting really embarrassed, so I said I had to go. He turned to his computer and printed what he said was an excerpt from his diary. He said he realized that he had kept me too long and he knew I had to get back to work, so he walked me to the door. As I was leaving, he gave me what he had printed and asked me to call him after I had a chance to read it.

Dean Harcross shifted his position in his chair, cleared his throat, and asked, Did you have any further contact with Dr. Schmitt?

Yes, sir.

What kind of contact?

I met with him and his staff over the next two months as my methods were transferred to his lab.

What was his behavior during that time?

He was businesslike and very supportive of my work.

Did he mention his book to you during that time?

No, sir.

What happened next?

At the beginning of June, he telephoned me in my laboratory and said that he was going to be the moderator of a symposium on new techniques in protein assay, and asked if I would like to give a short presentation of my work. He said the meeting would be in Philadelphia and that his group would be attending. He invited me to go along and said that I could share a room with Mary Jenkins, one of his laboratory assistants, who was also presenting a paper.

Did you go?

Yes, sir.

Why, in view of the experience you had earlier with Dr. Schmitt, would you travel with him?

It wasn’t with him, exactly, it was with his group. And it was an opportunity for recognition and exposure to the scientific community that might not come around again.

Please just go ahead and tell me about the Philadelphia trip in its entirety, Dean Harcross said. I’m trying to understand what your concerns might be.

"The meeting was held on Thursday, July third, and we all drove down to Philadelphia in the departmental van. We had a group dinner that night at Camillo’s Little Italy, just across the street from our hotel, went to the seminar room in the convention center, practiced our presentations until about ten o’clock, and then went to our rooms.

"My presentation was at one o’clock the next afternoon. Jacob Brown followed me and Mary Jenkins followed him. We were all finished shortly after four o’clock.

Dr. Schmitt said he wanted to stay in the city for a couple of days and suggested that Jacob drive the van back to the university. Then he asked me if I would like to stay with him and get a grand tour of America’s birthplace.

Well, did you?

Yes, sir.

Why on earth would you do that?

"I had grown to like Dr. Schmitt. He had been a kind and gentle person and had treated me with respect after the office episode. I did want to see Philadelphia, a city I had studied and heard about since I was a child, but had never visited. So I said yes.

"That night, we had dinner at the Mystic Palace, where the ceiling was draped in red velvet fabric. The hotel concierge had suggested the restaurant to Dr. Schmitt, saying that it is the most romantic restaurant in Philadelphia. At first, the restaurant’s atmosphere was romantic and the mood was mellow. But, when we were about to order dessert we both saw a large rat run from the kitchen to a side door and out onto the open-air dining area. As you might guess, we skipped dessert. After the rat fiasco, Dr. Schmitt suggested we take the Lights of Liberty tour that describes historical Philadelphia in a light-and-sound show. It was excellent. After that, we returned to our rooms.

"The next day, the fourth, we toured Independence Hall, and I could feel the presence of the founders of our country and sense the gravity of the debates that went on there in the summers of 1776 and 1787. After we left Independence Hall, we went to the Second Bank of America Museum and looked at the portraits of eighteenth-century Americans. As we walked past the portrait of Alexander Hamilton, Dr. Schmitt remarked, ‘Did you know that after Hamilton was killed in a duel with Aaron Burr, New York City’s businesses closed for his funeral and the procession past the church required two hours? It was reported that the city’s windows were crowded with female mourners, none of whom had dry eyes. Hamilton had a remarkable effect on women, for his time and place.’

"That night, Dr. Schmitt suggested we dine on the Schooner Clyde, an old sailing ship converted into a popular restaurant, and watch the Fourth of July fireworks from the deck. After we ate, we stood on the top deck in a crowd of excited people. The warm summer breeze on the deck combined with the city lights to create a very romantic mood as we watched the spectacular fireworks over the river. The whole Jersey side of the river was aglow with light from the bomb bursts and streamers.

The finale seemed to last forever and I could feel the booms in my chest. I was overcome with excitement and dizzy from looking up for so long. I lost my balance and fell toward Dr. Schmitt, who caught me in his arms. It was a simple matter of balance, or the loss of it, to be precise.

Dean Harcross, impatient with the long narrative and curious to learn the details of what had provoked the young woman, asked, What did he do then? Did he kiss you?

No, sir.

Well, what did happen?

Yvonne hesitated, visibly blushed, and said, I kissed him.

You kissed him?

Yes, sir.

What did he do after you kissed him?

Well, to be honest, he seemed shocked, she said. But before he could do anything, I pushed him away and said that I wanted to go back to my hotel room. The next morning, he took me home in a car he had rented.

Between that night and today, has he made any sexual advances toward you, Miss Kalle?

No, sir.

Well, my God, Miss Kalle, what is your complaint? Harcross said incredulously.

Yvonne’s gaze moved slowly toward the floor. In a low voice that Dean Harcross could hardly hear, she said, I have a complaint and a concern. I’ll tell you the complaint first. He won’t leave me alone.

He won’t leave you alone, but he makes no advances?

Yes, sir.

Harcross raised himself to his full height in his chair, tilted his chin upward and drew in a breath, making the sound of a poorly concealed snort. "What in God’s name does he do?" he asked, rather more curtly than he intended. Realizing his last question bore a tone of exasperation, Harcross resolved to avoid injecting any additional emotionality into this already uncomfortable conversation.

I’ve asked him several times to leave me alone, she replied, but he keeps calling me on my cell phone one or two times a day, and he has called almost every day for two weeks.

Harcross responded in measured tones, Most cell phones are unlisted. I presume yours is. Isn’t it?

Yes, sir.

How then did he get your number?

I gave it to him.

You gave it to him?

"Yes, in Philadelphia. Now he keeps calling to ask me to read his manuscript. He says he really needs my views because he thinks I’m a sensitive, unspoiled person who is the perfect representation of the women he wants to reach with his book. He said that he was happy with the manuscript when he wrote it, but now he is consumed with anxiety. He said he’s afraid it’s not really good and that I might not like it. He says he needs to know that he’s on the right track so he doesn’t get discouraged and abandon the project altogether.

He has been acting really creepy, and I don’t want to read his manuscript because I know it will be offensive to me. I want him to leave me alone, so I’m making a formal protest to you.

Now appearing somewhat unburdened, Yvonne began to sob softly. Dean Harcross turned his glance to the quadrangle outside his window where students hurried to their classes. After what seemed like an embarrassingly long time, he rose from his chair, retrieved a bottle of water from the cooler in the credenza, and offered it, along with a box of tissues, to Yvonne, and returned to his chair.

When she had regained her composure, he said, Okay, Miss Kalle, I have been taking notes as we talked and I will take the appropriate action when the time comes, but now would you like to tell me about the concern you mentioned?

She slowly raised her head, looked at Dean Harcross, and began. Do you remember that I said Dr. Schmitt gave me a paper when I was first in his office? I didn’t read it right away. I placed it in my notebook without thinking. I forgot about it and didn’t rediscover it until about a week after I returned from Philadelphia. It was when I read the paper that I became concerned. I don’t believe it is proper for a faculty member to attempt to force this kind of filth on female employees. I was deeply offended. She reached into her tote bag and retrieved a manila folder. From the folder she removed a wrinkled sheet of paper and handed it to Harcross. Here, you can read it for yourself, she said.

Harcross leaned forward in his chair, reached across his desk, took the paper from Yvonne’s hand, and responded, Thank you, Miss Kalle. May I keep it?

Yes, sir, but I don’t have another copy.

Dean Harcross merely uttered a slow, Hmmm, nodded, and placed the paper facedown on his desk. In the brief silence that followed, Yvonne noticed the landscape of his face for the first time. She saw a square chin, slightly hollow cheeks, and a broad forehead crowned by a receding hairline. What captured her attention, however, were the three horizontal lines on his forehead. As he sat, apparently contemplating what he would do next—or say—the three lines moved up and down, flexing at their centers in a manner that reminded Yvonne of the slow undulating wings of distant soaring birds.

Harcross cleared his throat, indicating that he was about to speak, and as he did the movement ceased on his forehead. The now static lines deepened into shadowy furrows. Before you go, he said somewhat wearily, I have a few questions to ask, if I may.

Yes, sir, she said, please go ahead.

With the demeanor of a department of motor vehicles clerk, he began, Are you enrolled in classes at this university?

No, sir.

Where are you from?

Belle Plaine, Minnesota.

As Yvonne spoke the name of her hometown, a slight smile registered on her face. The thought of her hometown was always pleasing to her, but now the smile also reflected the gratitude she felt for the personal interest Dean Harcross appeared to be taking in her.

Where did you go to college, and what was your field of study?

Crown College, she said. It’s a private religious college, and I got a BS in biology. Yvonne placed the manila folder in her tote bag in anticipation that the meeting was ending.

What brought you to Haney University?

When I graduated this job was all I could find.

What line of work is your father in?

Yvonne could see no purpose for this question and felt a slight sense of resentment, but she answered dutifully, although hesitatingly, He’s a machinist at a local tool and die company. Thinking that she would challenge the current line of questioning, Yvonne uncrossed her legs and sat up stiffly on the edge of her seat.

Before she could speak, however, Harcross asked sharply, Who is your direct supervisor here at Haney?

Yvonne, careful to remove only a single tissue from the box on the desk in front of her, wiped a tear from her eye, blew her nose discreetly, and responded, Professor Robert Carrigan.

Okay, Miss Kalle, that’s all the questions I have. Is there anything more I can help you with?

Yvonne stood and looked at Dean Harcross, feeling somewhat confused but also relieved that she had completed an unpleasant task. She replied quietly, No, sir. She moved to the door and said, Thank you for your kindness and for listening to me. Good-bye. I hope you will take action soon.

Dean Harcross got up and opened the door for Yvonne, said good-bye, and closed it. He then sat down again and began to read the excerpt from Trent Schmitt’s diary.

June 21, 3:00 a.m. local time, westward bound on the Baltic.

Overstimulation can be mind-numbing, whether caused by an excess of food, entertainment, sex, or ambition. A numb mind is not subject to enthusiasm or inspiration. Yet, certain stimuli of great intensity have the power to elicit a fresh response, even though they are repeatedly experienced. Such stimuli are those that reach deep into one’s psyche and forge a connection; a connection with another being, human or animal, or with some captivating aspect of the physical world. These connections strike at the very core of one’s existence. Rather than lay down a thin layer of numbing sameness with each experience, these stimuli cleanse the psyche and bring enormous pleasure and excitement.

Yesterday morning on our shore excursion, we visited Catherine the Great’s Summer Palace in Pushkin. The palace was destroyed during the Second World War and paradoxically rebuilt as a matter of national pride by the anti-tsarist Communist regime after the war. The country had for so long eschewed lavishness, and had eliminated artisans so completely, that artists had to be brought in from Western Europe and schools established to train craftspeople for the reconstruction.

Interesting as the Summer Palace was, I felt numbness creeping in as we toured the last rooms. Next on our tour was the Hermitage, which I approached with some dread. Oh, no more rooms, I said to Betsy, but she was enthusiastic about touring it; it was the prospect of seeing the Hermitage that had caused Betsy to arrange this cruise. Because the cruise was ten days long it was especially hard this time for her to avoid spousal complications.

To my surprise, the minute our tour of the Hermitage began, no room nor any museum I had ever seen had numbed my mind sufficiently to blunt the experience that was unfolding before me. The artistry and opulence of the Hermitage totally captivated me. As we toured the da Vinci room, with its two masterpieces, its jasper columns, and its marble mantle pieces with lapis lazuli inlays, Betsy moved close to me. As she stood enthralled, looking at the Madonna and Child, she touched my bare arm with the slightest caress. The effect was electric; every hair on my arm sensed her touch. It was a sensation that began almost imperceptibly and spread through my whole body, producing a warming tingle as it went. Her touch never numbs.

Back on the cruise ship, our visit to St. Petersburg complete, we began our westward voyage. After dinner we danced in the great hall until 11:30 and then went for a stroll around the deck.

On the longest day of the year, the sun never really sets on the Baltic. On the starboard side of the ship, the midnight sun lay close to the horizon, producing a soft glow that entered the water and made a golden path all the way to the hull of the ship.

We both laughed when Betsy said, Trent, darling, the sun has rolled out a golden carpet for us. Come on, let’s walk up to the sun and melt together in its golden glow.

On the port side, shadows spread from the ship into the sea.

At the prow, the wake produced luxurious white foam that spread over the placid Baltic, producing the illusion of fine white lace covering a blanket of black velvet. Having worked its magic, the wake disappeared behind the ship in a giant inverted V.

We stood on the prow holding each other and watching dark islands pass silently in the night while a headwind arose, stirring the sea and sending the ship into a gentle undulating motion.

We when we could see the sun inching its way off the water, back into the sky, we walked arm in arm to our suite, on the way enjoying a midnight snack and a glass of wine at the Chocolate Bar.

As I closed the door to our suite, Betsy said, I can still feel the warm breeze on my face and arms. What a lovely tingle! Trent, I want to feel the breeze all over my whole body.

She moved slowly to the port-side glass door, leaving a trail of clothes on the floor as she went. Her graceful legs and petite feet remained visible, illuminated by the light from a single bedside lamp, as she stepped naked into the shadows of the balcony.

On the balcony, I kissed her softly and turned her to face the wind. She stood with her arms stretched into a V while the breeze caressed her from her forehead to her toes. I began kissing the back of her neck and continued until I reached the fold behind her knees; then I lifted her gently and placed her on the down-filled coverlet from our cabin bed.

Hidden from all eyes but our own by the port-side shadows, and bathed by the warm breeze as the ship moved through the summer air, we made love, and the rhythm of the rise and fall of the ship became our rhythm. In the dim light of the cabin lamp I could see an expression of pleasure stealing across her face, an expression that no artist’s brush could capture.

Afterward, while we still lay together cradled by our bed of down, she looked up at me through dreamy eyes and said, "I feel consumed by the warmth of you, my midnight sun. I have no cares and no leftover desires. I wish I could make you feel what I feel. I wish you could feel what I feel, she said. She closed her eyes, sighed, and said, I wish I could purr."

I said to myself, I wish I could make all women feel the way you feel.

Dean Harcross placed the excerpt from Trent Schmitt’s diary on his desk, reached for his notepad, tore out all the pages of notes he had taken while Yvonne was in his office, put them on top of the diary excerpt, turned the combined papers on end, tapped them gently to align the edges, laid them on his desk, and dialed Professor Robert Carrigan.

Bob, this is Carlos, he said. One of your employees was just in my office making a complaint against one of your faculty members. No, I’m sorry, I can’t tell you the name of the faculty member, but the employee who registered the complaint is Yvonne Kalle. The complaint, in my view, is totally unfounded. Then, with no trace of emotion, he said, Get rid of her.

As he replaced the receiver in its cradle, his forehead, which only moments before had been deeply furrowed, became as smooth and pacific as the countenance of a saint depicted in a medieval oil painting.

Harcross picked up the stack of notes from his desk and fed them one by one into his paper shredder, pausing only slightly when he came to the cruise episode. When the roar of the shredder died, he turned to his computer screen and resumed deleting unimportant e-mail messages.

Chapter Two

The Dance of the Lab Rat

The Grand Aureate Hotel didn’t get many requests like the one Georgina Barnes, activities manager, was hearing from the animated man on the telephone. The request bordered on the outlandish, and she patiently explained that she could not possibly rent the whole hotel to any one party because of long-standing reservations and other commitments.

Beset by the demands of hotel staff to approve myriad details for a gala society wedding that would begin in just two hours, Georgina, being a person of enormous patience, listened at excruciating length to the man on the phone. She heard the historical background of his organization, the criticality of the upcoming event to the morale of the group, and the importance of properly receiving the man’s boss, who would be attending one of the organization’s galas for the first time. When she was able to break into the narrative, she said, I think I might have a solution, but I will need to get some information to be sure. First, what is your name?

Jacob Brown, but my friends call me Mr. Six by Five, or just Five.

Okay, Mr. Brown, when do you need to use the hotel facilities?

One year from today. I plan ahead.

I’m sorry, Mr. Brown, I was unable to understand when you want to use the facilities of our hotel. There seems to be an odd metallic clanging sound in the background.

Sorry, Ms. Barnes. You did hear clanking metal. I was just taking a break from a saber-fencing warm-up bout and my opponent didn’t seem to know about that break. It’s okay, though. I sent him scurrying for cover and he got the message. He won’t be back until we finish our conversation. One year from today is when we need to use your hotel.

In defiance of her strict resolution never to judge her customers, Georgina’s eyebrows had raised slightly at the mention of her caller’s nickname. Now she imagined a tall, wide man agile enough to win a fencing match, and she could not suppress a broad grin.

Banishing the grin and regaining her normal professional composure, she asked in rapid succession, How many people will be attending the gala? How many sleeping rooms will you need, and what size meeting room will you need? Our largest room is the Grand Ballroom. It’s just over three thousand square feet in area.

That will do just fine, Jacob replied with enthusiasm. We expect one hundred people and will need about sixty sleeping rooms. I want to be prepared for last-minute drop-ins.

Okay, thanks. Now, what is the name of your organization and who will be responsible for the cost of the affair?

Our name is the Lab Rat Stock Investment and Ballroom Dancing Club, and I’m bankrolling the event.

Georgina replied, Excuse me a moment, Mr. Brown, and pressed the hold button on her telephone. She turned toward the wall behind her desk and laughed loudly and heartily. Her laugh was one of pleasant surprise, not one of derision, and she was now eager to meet this man of interesting contradictions. Hearing her laugh, people waiting to speak with her began to register anticipatory smiles, hoping to be let in on the joke.

The laughter faded as rapidly as it had appeared and she pressed the hold button again. Mr. Brown, here’s what I think we can do, but I’ll need to check with the hotel manager.

Fair enough, he said. Shoot.

We can give you the Grand Ballroom, a block of sixty guest rooms, and we can arrange for a cocktail hour in our outdoor garden, with private access to the ballroom. If it rains we will provide inside arrangements, Georgina said, making an inch symbol with her thumb and forefinger to tell the staff awaiting her attention that her telephone conversation was nearing a close. She continued speaking into the telephone receiver. We can cater the meal in a private area of our Doric Frieze Restaurant, which is one of the highest-rated restaurants in the U.S.

Jacob repositioned his face guard, signaled that the point would be his, and charged his opponent with saber in hand and cell phone to his ear. That sounds great, Ms. Barnes, he responded. Not fabulous, like having the whole hotel, but still great. One more thing: we must have an elevated platform for a sixteen-piece band, and we would like to have refreshments and snacks available until four a.m. in the ballroom.

Over the clank of metal and the sound of heavy breathing, Georgina replied, Mr. Brown, I’ll have to get my manager’s approval, but I think we can handle your request with style. I will call you later today with our commitment. I have your number on my caller ID display.

##

One year later, Chun Zhu, the chairman of the Lab Rat Stock Investment and Ballroom Dancing Club, stood at the podium in the Grand Ballroom and introduced the awards program.

Good evening, everyone, he said, adjusting the height of the microphone. My name is Chun Zhu and I’m this year’s chairperson. We’ve had a wonderful cocktail hour, some great dancing and a fabulous dinner. I could tell that you all enjoyed the fine cuisine based on all the empty plates I saw on your tables. Our hotel hosts have done a great job making this this evening one of perfection. Let’s give them a big hand.

He waited until the applause faded, and then said, Shana and her dance instructors from the Dance Academy put on a fabulous show, didn’t they? They also did a marvelous job of arranging this evening’s program and getting everyone on the dance floor. Shana and other studio owners are doing a marvelous job of introducing new people to ballroom dancing. A few of you in this room, like thousands of other seniors in America, have had a love of dancing since you heard the real big bands in the 1940s.

At the mention of the 1940s, applause broke out at a table to Chun’s left and spread across the ballroom.

As it became quiet, a gray-haired man tilted his chair on its back two legs, waved his arm toward the podium, and exclaimed with a sparkle in his voice, I’ll have you know, sonny, that I remember the 1940s, and the 1930s too, by golly. We danced our asses off every Saturday night for thirty cents. Didn’t have much else to do, so we learned to dance, and to love it.

Chun searched for words for a moment, and then said, "Thank you, sir. Things are certainly different today, but our youngsters can still learn to love dancing through the efforts of talented and dedicated people like Shana. As a result of that effort, the love of ballroom dancing is again spreading across the country and is making a big splash on television. Let’s give Shana and her teachers a big round of applause for their great skill and wonderful contributions. Don’t forget that after the formal program, the dance floor is open again until four a.m.

Now we come to an exciting part of tonight’s program: the presentation of our two most coveted awards. I have the distinct pleasure of presenting the first award, our Lifetime Stock Jock Award. That award goes to the person in our club who has been the most successful stock investor. The second award will be presented by a person to be named later. That award is for the Most Appreciated Dancer of the evening. I guess that would be the ‘MAD’ award.

A man at the table nearest the podium, who was a co-worker of Chun’s, groaned loudly, and his groan was echoed by others across the ballroom. As laughter replaced the groans, Chun had to step briskly to his left to avoid being hit by a crumpled merlot-soaked cocktail napkin. He raised his arms over his face and cringed in fake fear.

Okay. Okay, he blurted into the microphone. I got the message from the groans. Sorry for the bad attempt at humor, but, hey, violence is not necessary. Now, let’s get right to the Stock Jock Award. Chun bowed as applause rose from the audience. When the room was quiet again, he began his introduction of the winner of the award.

Our awardee has demonstrated an uncanny knack for identifying emerging pharmaceutical companies and investing the right amount of money at the right time. He will tell you it’s all luck, but ask him about any new medical therapy or any cutting-edge medical technology and you will immediately understand the old expression ‘drinking from a fire hose.’ Oh, I see by the nods that some of you think you know who the winner is. Well, we’ll see in a few moments if you’re right. Using all the knowledge he has acquired and relying on his outstanding judgment, Chun said, bursting with admiration, our winner selected companies like Abbott Laboratories, Medtronic, Idec, and Amgen, among many others, and watched his investment build thirty-fold, and in some cases even more, if you can believe it.

As impressed as Chun with the winner’s success, the club members cheered and applauded for a feat they hoped to emulate. Over the dying applause, Chun continued, "Of course, tonight’s winner deserves our kudos for buying stocks like these when they were cheap, but he deserves our total, everlasting, humble, worshipful adoration for selling them at the peak of their value and investing all but what he calls his seed money in government securities.

Besides his personal stock triumphs, this gentleman was a founding member of the original Lab Rat Investment Club, and he alone added ‘Ballroom Dancing’ to our title. It seems that he has a real passion for dance, Chun said. "Oh, by the way, I might add that he financed this gala tonight, and you will see that wonderful word paid on your bill at checkout time tomorrow. Isn’t the Grand Aureate great? Chun shouted over the applause. How about the restaurant? It’s number two in the whole U.S. Our sponsor goes first class. Now it gives—"

Chun was interrupted by more applause. Now it gives—, Chun began again, but paused, smiling. If I couldn’t see your hands clapping I’d think there was thunder in this room. Now it gives me great pleasure to introduce our fabulous stock jock, Mr. Jacob Brown, or, as he is better known among his dancing friends, Mr. Six by Five. Chun waved his arms, taking in the expanse of the room, and said, I see some of you smiling. I know it’s a funny name, but it’s one he’s earned through excellence and he’s proud of it. Come on up here, Five, and accept this award.

As Jacob walked to the podium, the band played a spirited version of Mr. Five by Five, and he couldn’t help moving to the rhythm of the music. At the podium, Jacob warmly embraced Chun and expressed his appreciation for the tireless work Chun had done on behalf of all the members of the club.

Everybody, take a look at it, Chun said, holding the statuette over his head. It’s a gold-plated rat standing up straight, wearing a lab coat and safety glasses. For a retro touch, he has a slide rule dangling from his belt. Congratulations, Five!

Thank you, Chun, Jacob said, taking the award from him. "I’m very pleased to get this

Reviews for Purr, the novel

[Shelly Botwinick · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Not your average love story
This novel is thought-provoking, unique in its premise and fascinating. The writing is concise and relatable. The characters are well-established and vibrant. The imagery is excellent and pulls the reader in. It's the purr-fect read to curl up with my furry friend and perhaps a glass of vino. Bravo F. Wyman Morgan!