is normal. Come in immediately if your temp exceeds 37.4 or rises suddenly, or if you begin to feel any symptoms—headache, tightness in the chest, mental confusion, or dizziness.”
Everyone looked at his or her monitor, and, no doubt, began to feel a headache coming on. Dunworthy had had a headache all afternoon.
“Avoid contact with others as much as possible,” Mary said. “Keep careful track of any contacts you do have. We’re still uncertain of the mode of transmission, but most myxoviruses spread by droplet and direct contact. Wash your hands with soap and water frequently.”
She handed Dunworthy another pink sheet. She was running out of colors. This one was a log, headed “Contacts,” and under it, “Name, Address, Type of Contact, Time.”
It was unfortunate that Badri’s virus had not had to deal with the CDC, the NHS, and the WIC. It would never have got in the door.
“You must report back here at seven tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I’d recommend a good supper and then to bed. Rest is the best defense against any virus. You are off-duty,” she said, looking at the medics, “for the duration of the temp quarantine.” She passed out several more rainbow-hued papers and then asked brightly, “Any questions?”
Dunworthy looked at the medic, waiting for her to ask Mary if smallpox had come through the net, but she was looking uninterestedly at her clutch of papers.
“Can I go back to my dig?” Montoya asked.
“Not unless it’s inside the quarantine perimeter,” Mary said.
“Well, great,” she said, jamming her papers angrily into the pockets of her terrorist jacket. “The whole village will have washed away while I’m stuck here.” She stomped out.
“Are there any other questions?” Mary said imperturbably. “Very well, then, I’ll see you all at seven o’clock.”
The medics ambled out, the one who had asked about the virus yawning and stretching as if she were preparing for another nap. Latimer was still sitting down, watching his temp monitor. Gilchrist said something snappish to him, and he got up and put his coat on and collected his umbrella and his stack of papers.
“I expect to be kept informed of every development,” Gilchrist said. “I am contacting Basingame and telling him it’s essential that he return and take charge of this matter.” He swept out and then had to wait, holding the door open, for Latimer to pick up two papers he had dropped.
“Go round in the morning and collect Latimer, won’t you?” Mary said, looking through the contacts lists. “He’ll never remember he’s to be here at seven.”
“I want to see Badri,” Dunworthy said.
“ ‘Laboratory, Brasenose,’ ” she said, reading from the sheets. “ ‘Dean’s office, Brasenose. Laboratory, Brasenose.’ Didn’t anyone see Badri except in the net?”
“In the ambulance on the way here he said, ‘Something wrong,’ ” Dunworthy said. “There could have been slippage. If she’s more than a week off, she’ll have no idea when to rendezvous.”
She didn’t answer. She sorted through the sheets again, frowning.
“I need to make certain there weren’t any problems with the fix,” he said insistently.
She looked up. “Very well,” she said. “These contact sheets are hopeless. There are great gaps in Badri’s whereabouts for the past three days. He’s the only person who can tell us where he was and with whom he came in contact.” She led the way back down the corridor. “I’ve had a nurse with him, asking him questions, but he’s very disoriented and fearful of her. Perhaps he won’t be as frightened of you.”
She led the way down the corridor to the lift and said, “Ground floor, please,” into its ear. “Badri’s only conscious for a few moments at a time,” she said to Dunworthy. “It may be most of the night.”
“That’s all right,” Dunworthy said. “I won’t be able to rest till I’m sure Kivrin is safely through.”
They went up two flights in the lift, down another corridor, and through a door marked “no entrance, isolation ward.” Inside the door, a grim-looking ward sister was sitting at a desk watching a monitor.
“I’m taking Mr. Dunworthy in to see Mr. Chaudhuri,” Mary said. “We’ll need SPG’s. How is he?”
“His fever’s up again—39.8,” the sister said, handing them the SPG’s, which were plastene-sealed bundles of paper clothing gowns that stripped up the back, caps, imperm masks that were impossible to get on over the caps, bootielike snugs that went on over their shoes, and imperm gloves. Dunworthy made the mistake of putting his gloves on first and took what seemed like hours attempting to