"What is it?" Dunworthy said. He glanced at his digital. It was ten o'clock. Too early for someone to have come down with the virus if the incubation period was twelve hours. "Is someone ill?"

"No, sir. It's worse than that. It's Mrs. Gaddson. She's in Oxford. She got through the quarantine perimeter somehow."

"I know. The last train. She made them hold the doors."

"Yes, well, she called from hospital. She insists on staying at Balliol, and she accused me of not taking proper care of William because I was the one who typed out the tutor assignments, and apparently his tutor's made him stay up over vac to read Petrarch."

"Tell her we haven't any room. Tell her the dormitories are being sterilized."

"I did, sir, but she said in that case she would room with William. I don't like to do that to him, sir."

"No," Dunworthy said. "There are some things one shouldn't have to endure, even in an epidemic. Have you told William his mother's coming?"

"No, sir. I tried, but he's not in college. Tom Gailey told me Mr. Gaddson was visiting a young lady at Shrewsbury, so I rang her up, but there was no answer."

"No doubt they're out reading Petrarch somewhere," Dunworthy said, wondering what would happen if Mrs. Gaddson should come upon the unwary couple on her way to Balliol.

"I don't see why he should be doing that, sir," Finch said, sounding troubled. "Or why his tutor should have assigned Petrarch at all. He's reading for mods."

"Yes, well, when Mrs. Gaddson arrives, put her in Warren." The nurse looked up sharply from polishing his spectacles. "It's across the quad at any rate. Give her a room that doesn't look out on anything. And check our supply of rash ointment."

"Yes, sir," Finch said. "I spoke with the bursar at New College. She said Mr. Basingame told her before he left that he wanted to be 'free of distractions,' but she said she assumed he'd told someone where he was going and that she'd try to phone his wife as soon as the lines settled down."

"Did you ask about their techs?"

"Yes, sir," Finch said. "All of them have gone home for the holidays."

"Which of our techs lives the closest to Oxford?"

Finch thought for a moment. "That would be Andrews. In Reading. Would you like his number?"

"Yes, and make me up a list of the others' numbers and addresses."

Finch recited Andrews' number. "I've taken steps to remedy the lavatory paper situation. I've put up notices with the motto: Waste Leads to Want."

"Wonderful," Dunworthy said. He rang off and tried Andrews' number. It was engaged.

The student nurse handed him back his spectacles and a new bundle of SPG's, and he put them on, taking care this time to put the mask on before the cap and to leave the gloves till last. It still took an unconscionable amount of time to array himself. He hoped the nurse would be significantly faster if Badri rang the bell for help.

He went back in. Badri was still restlessly asleep. He glanced at the display. His temp read 39.2.

His head ached. He took off his spectacles and rubbed at the space between his eyes. Then he sat down at the campstool and looked at the chart of contacts he had pieced together thus far. It could scarcely be called a chart, there were so many gaps in it. The name of the pub Badri had gone to after the dance. Where Badri had been Monday evening. And Monday afternoon. He had come up from London on the tube at noon, and Dunworthy had phoned him to ask him to run the net at half-past two. Where had he been those two and a half hours?

And where had he gone Tuesday afternoon after he came to Balliol and left the note saying he'd run a systems check on the net? Back to the laboratory? Or to another pub? He wondered if perhaps someone at Balliol had spoken to Badri while he was there. When Finch called back to inform him of the latest developments in American bellringers and lavatory paper, he would tell him to ask everyone who'd been in college if they'd seen Badri.

The door opened, and the student nurse, swathed in SPG's, came in. Dunworthy looked automatically at the displays, but he couldn't see any dramatic changes. Badri was still asleep. The nurse entered some figures on the display, checked the drip, and tugged at a corner of the bedclothes. She opened the curtain and then stood there, twisting the cord in her hands.

"I couldn't help overhearing you on the telephone," she said. "You mentioned a Mrs. Gaddson. I know it's terribly rude of me to ask, but might that have been William Gaddson's mother you were speaking of?"

"Yes," he said, surprised. "William's a student of mine at Balliol. Do you know him?"

"He's a friend of mine," she said, flushing such a bright pink he could see it through her imperm mask.

"Ah," he said, wondering when William had time to read Petrarch. "William's mother is here in hospital," he said, feeling he should warn her but unclear as to whom to warn her about. "It seems she's come to visit him for Christmas."

"She's here?" the nurse said, flushing an even brighter pink. "I thought we were under quarantine."

"Hers was the last train up from London," Dunworthy said wistfully.

"Does William know?"

"My secretary is attempting to notify him," he said, omitting the bit about the student at Shrewsbury.

"He's at the Bodleian," she said, "reading Petrarch." She unwrapped the curtain cord from her hand and went out, no doubt to telephone the Bodleian.

Badri stirred and murmured something Dunworthy could not make out. He looked flushed, and his breathing seemed more labored.

"Badri?" he said.

Badri opened his eyes. "Where am I?" he said.

Dunworthy glanced at the monitors. His fever was down a half a point and he seemed more alert than before.

"In infirmary," he said. "You collapsed in the lab at Brasenose while you were working the net. Do you remember?"

"I remember feeling odd," he said. "Cold. I came to the pub to tell you I'd got the fix…" A strange, frightened look came over his face.

"You told me there was something wrong," Dunworthy said. "What was it? Was it the slippage?"

"Something wrong," Badri repeated. He tried to raise himself on his elbow. "What's wrong with me?"

"You're ill," Dunworthy said. "You have the flu."

"Ill? I've never been ill." He struggled to sit up. "They died, didn't they?"

"Who died?"

"It killed them all."

"Did you see someone, Badri? This is important. Did someone else have the virus?"

"Virus?" he said, and there was obvious relief in his voice. "Do I have a virus?"

"Yes. A type of flu. It's not fatal. They've been giving you antimicrobials, and an analogue's on the way. You'll be recovered in no time. Do you know who you caught it from? Did someone else have the virus?"

"No." He eased himself back down onto the pillow. "I thought — Oh!" He looked up in alarm at Dunworthy. "There's something wrong," he said desperately.

"What is it?" He reached for the bell. "What's wrong?"

His eyes were wide with fright. "It hurts!"

Dunworthy pushed the bell. The nurse and a house officer came in immediately and went through their routine again, prodding him with the icy stethoscope.

"He complained of being cold," Dunworthy said. "And of something hurting."

"Where does it hurt?" the house officer said, looking at a display.

"Here," Badri said. He pressed his hand to the right side of his chest. He began to shiver again.

"Lower right pleurisy," the house officer said.

"Hurts when I breathe," Badri said through chattering teeth. "There's something wrong."

Something wrong. He had not meant the fix. He had meant that something was wrong with him. He was how old? Kivrin's age? They had begun giving routine rhinovirus antivirals nearly twenty years ago. It was entirely possible that when he'd said he'd never been ill, he meant he'd never had so much as a cold.