They sat at a circular table in the small room off the Council chamber. “Doctor, how serious is this?” Mrs. Bernstein asked.
“Hard to say. It’s got me buffaloed; doesn’t behave like any disease I ever heard of.”
Ira Clark, a scholarly looking man, leaned forward. “What are the symptoms before a person collapses?”
‘None that we know of. Well, there is one thing. A momentary dizziness or faintness a day or so before.”
“What if we asked everybody to report to you if they felt dizzy? Could we isolate them that way and keep this thing from spreading?”
“Maybe. That’s another can of worms, though. In a place this size, how many people feel dizzy? It’s a common experience, especially in older folks.”
“Would you be willing to try it?”
“Sure. Might need another hundred rooms, though.”
“Mr. Bliss?”
“Gentlemen, and Mrs. Bernstein,” said Bliss, spreading his hands, “I’m willing to do anything in reason, but can’t we go a little slower? For the moment, at least. Doctor, don’t you think a hundred rooms might be enough?”
“I guess so. If we run out, we can always ask for more space.”
McNulty’s phone beeped; he said, “Excuse me,” and took it out of his pocket. “McNulty.”
He listened a moment. “Okay, I’m coming.” He put the phone away and said, “Got another patient—that makes eight. I’ve got to go.”
15
The new patient was Julie Prescott, twenty-eight. Her parents were all over McNulty with anxious questions. With them was a young man named Stevens; he and Ms. Prescott had been on the Promenade Deck when she was stricken.
“Did you notice any dizziness at the time?” McNulty asked.
“Why, yes, as a matter of fact. It was just for a moment. That’s odd, isn’t it, because the same thing happened to Julie yesterday.”
“Where was that? What time?”
“In the Liberty Restaurant, about seven o’clock.”
McNulty made a note. “Did a man collapse, near your table?”
“Yes. Really, Doctor, this is amazing.”
McNulty felt a breath of cold air on his skin. He drew a cross and put a square around it. “Mr. Stevens, I’m going to see if I can have you assigned to another stateroom temporarily. It’ll be in an isolation corridor here on the Upper Deck.”
“Why, may I ask?”
“There’s a chance that you’re infected. I don’t want to alarm you, but I think the best thing is to put you where we can keep an eye on you. You’re traveling alone?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if you did come down with it, you wouldn’t want to be by yourself.” McNulty pressed a button on his desk. “Jan, will you call Bliss’s office and see if you can get Mr. Stevens into an isolation room as soon as possible?”
“Yes, Doctor. What room is he in now?”
McNulty asked, and passed the information along. “In the meantime,” he said, “it would be better if you wouldn’t go back to your room. If you’ll wait in the outer office, as soon as we’re ready to move you, we’ll give you a buzz.”
“This is very alarming, Doctor.”
“I know it is, but you look to me like a young man who can do whatever has to be done.”
“Thank you,” said Stevens with a charming smile, and stood up. “Until later, then.”
The man did not wait. As he left the office, the watcher inside him was interested to note that his agitation was not expressed in the muscles of his face. His movements were natural and unhurried as he crossed the lobby to the elevator and stood aside to allow two elderly women to enter: As the elevator rose, he was thinking simultaneously of two things. One was that if, as seemed likely, he had been infected with Julie’s disease, he had only a short time to work in. He could not take the risk of waiting until tonight to carry out his attack. Elegance would have to go; this would have to be quick and dirty. In his mind was the image of a sleek gray-steel gun, small enough to be concealed in the palm of his hand; he was visualizing its location in a locked traveling case in his closet.
Under this, rigidly suppressed, was the image of a man, himself, lying on a hospital bed with a tube up his nose, and the thought that of all possible things, he detested illness most. He was recalling that he had decided years ago that he would prefer death to being a helpless vegetable; but he put this thought aside. At the surface of his mind there were other images: the door opens, a large young man appears— Harold Winter, Newland’s companion. He raises the gun. . . .
With regret, the observer realized that it was time to go. For him, too, there were unacceptable risks. He slipped out into that fuzzy black space of floating snowflake patterns, and drifted toward the nearest one.
Mr. and Mrs. Eulan Neffield had just finished dressing for dinner when there was a tap at the door. “Yes?” said Mr. Neffield.
“Security.”
Mr. Neffield opened the door: there stood a woman in uniform, with a steward and a stewardess behind her. “Mr. Neffield, we’re sorry to disturb you and your wife, but there’s a medical emergency, and we're going to have to move you to another stateroom.”
“What’s this?” said Mrs. Neffield, coming forward alertly. “You’ve got to move us? What for?”
“We’re clearing out this corridor to make a hospital annex, Mrs. Neffield.”
“Well, I never heard of such a thing! I am certainly not going to move.”
“That’s perfectly all right, ma’am, but in that case you realize that you will be surrounded by people with an infectious disease.”
“Oh, my God!” said Mrs. Neffield. “Eulan, what are you waiting for?”
16
When the elevator stopped, she was still shaky and disoriented; her companion, Mrs. Murphy, was standing against the wall staring at the man on the floor and stuffing her fingers into her mouth.
“What happened?” she heard herself ask. Mrs. Murphy made an inarticulate noise.
The door slid open. “Come on,” she said, taking the other woman’s arm. “Let’s get out, Georgette, hurry!”
In the corridor, as the elevator door closed, Mrs. Murphy said, “He just—he just—”
“Did you see it?”
“Yes, didn’t you see it? He just fell down—”
“My back was turned. I felt all funny for a minute. Come on, dear, we’ll have to report this to somebody.”
“Is this the right floor?” Mrs. Murphy asked, looking around with a witless expression.
“Yes, the Signal Deck—see, right here. Come on, Georgette.”
They passed a steward with a cart; he was raising his hand to knock on a door beside a discreet brass plate that read MCKINLEY SUITE. The memory of something she had once known stirred in her, and she slipped out again, across the fuzzy void; and as the new avalanche of sensation struck him, he staggered and put his hand on the cart to steady himself. A woman was screaming, beside the body of another woman who lay sprawled on the floor, her skirts over her knees, eyeglasses beside her head.
Once he had quieted the screaming woman and turned her over to the two men with the stretcher who came to collect the other one, he was able to return his attention to his duties. The cart had been standing in front of the door for at least five minutes; the food would be cooling off, it was too bad.
He knocked on the door. Presently Mr. Winter opened it.
“Good afternoon, sir.” He wheeled the cart in. “I’m sorry for the delay, but there was an unfortunate incident in the corridor. A lady was ill. I had to call for security.”
“Is she all right now?”