Thomson walked to the nurses' station, questioned the nurses, searched for Professor Windwhisper's therapist along the way, and knocked on the door and walked into his office.

Dr. Russell sat in a white chair with a pair of gold-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose, holding a chest X-ray in his hand, looking at it carefully, and talking about something in his mouth. Seeing Thomson pushing the door open, he looked up and asked, "Hello, is there anything I can do to help you?"

"Hello, Dr. Russell, I'm Thomson, a friend of Mr. Windwhisper. I would like to know how Mr. Wind Whisper is doing. Thomson said, sitting in the chair in front of Dr. Russell.

"Mr. Wind Whisper is fine, and needs to be hospitalized for a few days. Dr. Russell replied.

"Judging from the situation at the venue, Mr. Wind Whisper is still quite serious, have you found the reason?"

"According to my analysis, this should be an acute myocardial infarction caused by a rare allergen, fortunately, the hospital is sent in time, otherwise the consequences will be very serious......." At this time, Dr. Russell's mobile phone rang, he picked up the mobile phone and opened the door and walked out, probably from the other side of the meeting.

Thomson stood up, walked over to Dr. Russell's chair, and saw a report on the table----- which was the language of the wind. He quickly flipped through the report, picked up his phone, adjusted to the camera function, and took all the contents of the report, and then slowly sat back in his chair, his eyes looking out the window aimlessly.

A few minutes later, the door opened and Dr. Russell walked in.

Thomson and Dr. Russell, after a few kind words, excused themselves to something else, then said goodbye to Russell, pushed the door open, and disappeared at the end of the hallway.

On the morning of December 3, New York, Fifth Avenue, a hundred-story office building.

When the elevator opened on the eighteenth floor, Thomson stepped out of the elevator hall and walked down the corridor plastered with various medical advertisements to the end of the corridor, which was an ordinary office room with a black glass door, closed tightly, like a confinement room.

He rang the doorbell, and then stood outside the door and waited, his hands in the pockets of his coat and his eyes looking to the other side of the hallway.

With a "poof", the doorbell's microphone was turned on, "May I ask who it is?" asked a shrill voice through the microphone.

"Thomson. ”

There was a flurry of sounds coming from the microphone, what seemed to be the sound of scurrying up from a chair and knocking over the cups on the table.

"Hi Mr. Thomson, I'm coming soon. ”

But a minute, through the glass door, Thomson heard footsteps coming from a distance.

The door opened, and a middle-aged *** was inside, he was wearing a white coat, medium build, earth-colored hair combed to the side, his face was as pale as paper, his eyes were turning from side to side, a pair of black-framed glasses on his nose, a stethoscope around his neck, and his teeth were like moldy corn kernels. He stood there, his hands shaking, and he looked flustered and overwhelmed.

"Mr. Soup, Soup, Mr. Thomson, welcome here. ”

"How are you doing, my dearest Dr. George, may God bless you!" Thomson walked in, holding out his pale hand and smiling hypocritically.

The man known as George hurriedly stretched out his hands, grabbed Thomson's right hand, and said, "Everything is going according to Mr. 's instructions, and the research on the genetic reset model of respiratory viruses has made good progress." ”

Thomson patted him on the shoulder, but there were no words.

Walk through a living room with a sofa and coffee table and into a small office in the innermost part of the room, which is Dr. George's office.

As if walking into his office, Thomson walked straight to the back of his desk and sat down in a black leather chair, his head resting on his back, his right leg resting on his left knee, his right fingers tapping on the tabletop, his eyes looking at the oil paintings on the wall.

Dr. George stood in front of the table, slightly hunched over, his hands hanging at his sides, his eyes timidly looking at Thomson, motionless.

Thomson's eyes looked up at Dr. George at a forty-five degree angle, and he let out a sigh of relief, and said, "Good, good!" We need your research. Respiratory virus research, hehe, find the limit of immunity, we will be invincible!"

"Yes, sir, it will work. ”

"It's up to you, Doctor!"

"It's an honor. ”

Thomson beckoned to him to come closer. Thomson took out a stack of papers from his bag and placed it on the table, "Professor Whisper of the Wind suddenly fell ill at the World Climate Change Conference, the cause is unknown, this is his medical report." This person is very important to us, and you have to figure out why he is sick. ”

"Yes, sir, I will do my best!"

"No, Doctor, not by trying. You have to figure it out, at all costs. ”

"Well, yes," Thomson continued, "it might have something to do with it----- I guess." Thomson opened the side zipper of the bag, took out something wrapped in cloth from inside, placed it next to the medical report, and uncovered the cloth layer by layer, which turned out to be the tea bag of the language of the wind.

"It takes a lot of assay work......"

Thomson interrupted him, "That's your problem, I need a detailed and thorough report, within a week." Then, with a heavy slap of his palm, he stood up and walked to the door.