alternates.”
“Helen?”
“Ms. Piantini. The tenor. She has a fever of 39.7. The Americans won’t be able to do their Chicago Surprise.”
Which is probably a blessing, Dunworthy thought. “Ask them if they’ll continue to keep watch on my telephone, even though they’re no longer practicing,” he said. “I’m expecting several important calls. Did Andrews ring back?”
“No, sir, not yet. And the visual is off.” He plumped the pillow. “It is too bad about the peal. They can do Stedmans, of course, but that’s old hat. It does seem a pity there’s no alternative solution.”
“Did you get the list of techs?”
“Yes, sir,” Finch said, struggling with a reluctant cot. He motioned with his head. “It’s there by the chalkboard.”
Dunworthy picked up the sheets of paper and looked at the one on top. It was filled with columns of numbers, all of them with the digits one through six, in varying order.
“That’s not it,” Finch said, snatching the papers away. “Those are the changes for the Chicago Surprise.” He handed Dunworthy a single sheet. “Here it is. I’ve listed the techs by college with addresses and telephone numbers.”
Colin came in, wearing his wet jacket and carrying a roll of tape and a plastene-covered bundle. “The vicar said I’m to put these up in all the wards,” he said, taking out a placard that read “Feeling Disoriented? Muddled? Mental Confusion Can Be a Warning Sign of the Flu.”
He tore off a strip of tape and stuck the placard to the chalkboard. “I was just posting these at the Infirmary, and what do you think the Gallstone was doing?” he said, taking another placard out of the bundle. It read “Wear Your Face Mask.” He taped it to the wall above the cot Finch was making up. “Reading the Bible to the patients.” He pocketed the tape. “I hope I don’t catch it.” He tucked the rest of the placards under his arm and started out.
“Wear your face mask,” Dunworthy said.
Colin grinned. “That’s what the Gallstone said. And she said, the Lord would smite anyone who heeded not the words of the righteous.” He pulled the gray plaid muffler out of his pocket. “I wear this instead of a face mask,” he said, tying it over his mouth and nose highwayman fashion.
“Cloth cannot keep out microscopic viruses,” Dunworthy said.
“I know. It’s the color. It frightens them away.” He darted out.
Dunworthy rang Mary to tell her the ward was ready but couldn’t get through, so he went over to Infirmary. The rain had let up a little, and people, mostly wearing masks, were out again, coming back from the grocer’s and queueing in front of the chemist’s. But the streets seemed hushed, unnaturally silent.
Someone’s turned the carillon off, Dunworthy thought. He almost regretted it.
Mary was in her office, staring at a screen. “The sequencing’s arrived,” she said before he could tell her about the ward.
“Have you told Gilchrist?” he said eagerly.
“No,” she said. “It’s not the Uruguay virus. Or the South Carolina.”
“What is it?”
“It’s an H9N2. Both the South Carolina and the Uruguay were H3’s.”
“Then where did it come from?”
“The WIC doesn’t know. It’s not a known virus. It’s previously unsequenced.” She handed him a printout. “It has a seven point mutation, which explains why it’s killing people.”
He looked at the printout. It was covered with columns of numbers, like Finch’s list of changes, and as unintelligible. “It has to come from somewhere.”
“Not necessarily. Approximately every ten years, there’s a major antigenic shift with epidemic potential, so it may have originated with Badri.” She took the printout back from him. “Does he live around livestock, do you know?”
“Livestock?” he said. “He lives in a flat in Headington.”
“Mutant strains are sometimes produced by the intersection of an avian virus with a human strain. The WIC wants us to check possible avian contacts and exposure to radiation. Viral mutations have sometimes been caused by X rays.” She studied the printout as though it made sense. “It’s an unusual mutation. There’s no recombination of the hemagluttinin genes, only an extremely large point mutation.”
No wonder she had not told Gilchrist. He had said he would open the laboratory when the sequencing arrived, but this news would only convince him he should keep it closed.
“Is there a cure?”
“There will be as soon as an analogue can be manufactured. And a vaccine. They’ve already begun work on the prototype.”
“How long?”
“Three to five days to produce a prototype, then at least another five to manufacture, if they don’t run into any difficulty with duplicating