Thrice upon a Time (36 page)

"I see… " Elizabeth said, starting to sound interested. "That's an intriguing thought. What happened then?"

"They used some of Grandpa's equations to try to estimate how far back in time the tau radiation from a supernova collapse should rematerialize in normal space, and what the characteristics of the transfer would be. The results were interesting, to say the least: They gave a concentration of energy equal to about a hundred times the amount radiated by an average galaxy, rematerializing inside a volume of about one millionth of a galactic diameter. And it would rematerialize approximately four billion years ago!"

Elizabeth's jaw dropped open in amazement as she saw the implication. She stared incredulously at Murdoch for a second, and then gasped, "Not quasars!"

"Yes, quasars!" Murdoch exclaimed. "They must be. The quasars that we see today from four billion years in the past must be nothing less than the white holes that today's black holes are feeding through tau space!"

"A closed system," Elizabeth breathed. "The quasars evolved into today's galaxies, which produced the supernovas, which produced the black holes. The whole thing is a closed system."

"And you haven't heard all of it," Murdoch said, nodding vigorously. "How do you think the number works out when you figure the same thing for when the whole universe caves in at the end of it all—the 'Ultimate Collapse'? That'll be the biggest black hole ever. Every particle of matter and photon of radiation will be squeezed into tau space and shot back through time. Guess where to."

Elizabeth's eyes widened even further; she had already guessed the answer.

"Forty billion years!" Murdoch said, still nodding. "It will reappear forty billion years in the past. That's what caused the Big Bang! The Big Bang was the end of the universe projected back through tau space. They're both the same thing! How's that for a total recycling system? It has to be the biggest reset loop ever!"

Before Elizabeth could form any reply, a technician came out of an office that opened out onto the control room floor, looked around, and came over to where they were standing. "Excuse me," he said. "There's a call for Mr. Ross in the Supervisor's Office."

"Who is it?" Murdoch asked.

"A Dr. Patterson."

"Who's Dr. Patterson?"

"You'd better go and find out," Elizabeth suggested.

Murdoch followed the technician into the office and was ushered across to a swivel-mounted vi-set on one of the consoles. His eyebrows lifted in surprise as he moved around in front of the screen. It was Anne, from the Medical Department.

"Hello," he greeted brightly. "What can I do for you?" Then he saw the serious expression on her face, and his smile faded. "What's up?"

"I've some bad news for you, I'm afraid," she replied. "Your friend, Mr. Walker, was taken very ill at Storbannon late this morning."

"Lee? What's wrong with him? Where is he now?"

"We're not exactly sure," Anne said. "He collapsed about halfway through the morning and was taken to the hospital at Kingussie. The Emergency Unit at Kingussie contacted us and asked us to get in touch with you. I understand that he doesn't have any direct relatives over here."

Murdoch was unable to think clearly with the suddenness of the news. "No… that's right, he hasn't," he mumbled. "How much do you know yet. Is—is it serious?" He frowned suddenly as the meaning of something that Anne had said at last percolated through. "Why did Kingussie contact you about it? Is it the same thing as you've had breaking out around here in the last couple of weeks?"

Anne bit her lip, hesitated for a moment, then nodded almost imperceptibly. "It's impossible to say for sure at this stage, but… it sounds as if it could be."

"If it is, how serious is it?" Murdoch asked, sounding worried.

Anne avoided a direct answer. "Can you come over to the Medical Department?" she suggested. "There are some things we'd like to ask you. We'll tell you as much then as it's possible to tell."

"Of course," Murdoch replied. "I just want to call Storbannon first to find out what happened. Then I'll be right over."

He called Storbannon immediately after Anne cleared down. Robert answered and transferred the call to Cartland.

"It's a bloody bad show, I'm afraid," Cartland told him. "Robert took him in a tray of something to eat because he hadn't had anything for two days. Then we heard an almighty crash in there a few minutes later. He seemed to be having some kind of seizure, mainly in his arm. He didn't seem to be able to see anything, and we couldn't get any response when we talked to him. I did what I could, and Robert called an ambulance from Kingussie. That's about all I can tell you. What else have you heard?"

"Only that it could be the same as that thing people here have been coming down with, and nobody knows what it is," Murdoch replied. "I'm going over to talk to them now. I'll call you again as soon as I get out."

"I'd appreciate it," Cartland said. "I found his U.S. social security card and all that stuff, and sent it off with the ambulance in case they needed it for anything. Do you want me to call his folks in the States?"

"Better wait until I've had a chance to talk here," Murdoch suggested. "I may have more news later."

"Jolly good. Okay then, Murdoch, I'll wait until I hear from you."

Murdoch cut the call, left the control room, and headed for the elevator bank. Minutes later he was up at ground level, hurrying out of the main entrance of the
Reactor Building.

Murdoch arrived in the Medical Department and was greeted by the blue-eyed nurse; there was no sign of Anne. The nurse showed him to a door marked DR. M.J. WARING, which opened off the waiting room. From its position, Murdoch guessed that it was another door into the same office that he had seen from the room in which his arm had been treated. The nurse knocked once, then opened the door and showed him in without waiting for a reply; evidently his arrival was being awaited.

The frizzy-haired doctor, who Murdoch had already guessed had to be Waring, was sitting behind the desk inside, clad in a white coat and peering up over his gold-rimmed spectacles. Sitting next to Waring was another man, whose face was unfamiliar. He gave the impression of being tall, even though he was seated, and was lean, gray-haired, gaunt-faced, and of distinguished appearance. He was dressed in a three-piece suit of dark charcoal pinstripe, and was resting his hands on the desk in front of him, fingers interlaced loosely, to reveal brilliant white shirt cuffs fastened by heavy, gold links. Frizzy-hair motioned Murdoch into a chair on the opposite side of the desk, and waited until the nurse had left and closed the door before he began speaking.

"Mr. Ross, I take it. You are Mr. Walker's colleague from the United States?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry about what's happened, naturally. I don't think we've met before. My name is Waring, and I'm in charge of this department. This is Sir Giles Fennimore. Sir Giles is a specialist from London who is up here to investigate the cases of sickness that have been occurring at Burghead. No doubt you've heard about them."

"How do you do," Murdoch said awkwardly, not quite knowing what form of address was appropriate. Fennimore inclined his head slightly without smiling. Murdoch looked back at Waring. "A specialist in what? Have you found out what this thing is?"

"It appears to be a disturbance of the central nervous system," Waring replied. "The cause has not yet been positively identified." He paused for a moment. "It is of an extremely virulent nature, and all the cases that we have seen to date have exhibited rapid deterioration." His voice fell to an apologetic note. "I'm afraid that, so far, there have been no indications of any subsequent… improvement."

Murdoch could only nod his head numbly. "I see," he managed, in a voice that caught somewhere in his throat. A few seconds of heavy silence passed.

Then Fennimore leaned forward and brought his hands up to his chin. "You should be aware, Mr. Ross, that we cannot be absolutely sure at this stage that your colleague is suffering from the same complaint as the others from Burghead," he said. "However, from the information that we have received from Kingussie, it does sound highly likely." His voice was quiet, but at the same time firm in the kind of way that could command instant authority and respect without needing to sound overbearing.

"We should know the answer to that very shortly," Waring said. "Mr. Walker is being moved here from Kingussie at this moment. We expect him to arrive within the next fifteen minutes or so."

Murdoch studied the two expressionless faces across the desk. There was something very strange about this whole business, he told himself. Why had Fennimore, a "sir" who was clearly far removed from being a prescriber of pills and bottles for family medicine closets, come all the way from London to investigate a few cases of an obscure sickness in a place as remote as this? Why was he here?

And surely it wasn't normal for a patient admitted to a regular hospital to be transferred to the medical facility of a privately owned industrial plant… or, come to that, any industrial plant. Why were they sending Lee here? The only possible reason was that Fennimore was here. But how had the people at Kingussie known that Fennimore was here? More likely they hadn't known, Murdoch thought. They had probably been alerted, presumably along with lots of other places as well, to watch out for any further cases of the Burghead type, and report them to some kind of agency that knew of Fennimore's movements. Why?

And given that Fennimore had been informed through some channel such as that, surely it would have been far simpler to send him to Kingussie rather than have Lee brought to him… unless, of course, the medical people at Burghead knew something that the doctors at Kingussie didn't know. And the doctors at Burghead had seen this sickness before.

All very strange. But Murdoch was neither in a position, nor in a frame of mind, to cross-examine anybody.

"We would like you to answer a few questions about Mr. Walker if you can," Waring resumed. "It could be of considerable help to us."

"Sure… " Murdoch shrugged and spread his hands. "Anything you want to know." Waring reached out and tapped a pad on the touchboard of the terminal standing on a small table by the desk. Evidently the conversation was going to be recorded.

"How long have you known Mr. Walker?" Waring asked.

"About six years. When I met him, we were both working for the Fusion Electric Corporation in California. That was in… 2004, I think. Yes… about six years."

"And you've known him fairly closely ever since?"

"Pretty much. We went into business together in 2006."

"What kind of business?"

"Technical consulting."

"Did it involve any hazardous environments? Any time overseas?"

"No, none that I can think of. We did all our work in the States."

"He didn't go abroad at all during that time?"

"To Mexico once, and Canada a couple of times… oh, and a vacation in Hawaii."

"When was that?"

"About three years ago."

"I see. Do you know if Mr. Walker ever suffered from any major ailments or diseases during his early life?"

"None that he ever mentioned, but he didn't talk much about that kind of thing. Certainly there was nothing disabling; he's always been pretty active."

"In the time that you have known him, has he ever complained of minor visual disturbances—haziness, blurring, dimness of vision, temporary blind spots, anything like that?"

"Never."

"Has he ever shown any signs of susceptibility to fatigue, or complained of dizziness, unsteadiness of the legs, or problems with balance?"

"Never… unless you count the last couple of days."

"How about emotional abnormalities—things like inexplicable euphoria, apathy, inability to concentrate, sudden depression, or laughter for no reason? Ever anything like that?"

Murdoch could only shake his head. "No, nothing like that at all, ever." He sighed. "He's always been the exact opposite: totally in control of himself physically and mentally for as long as I've known him. I've never known him to be sick before. It's a complete shock."

"I see, Mr. Ross," Waring said. "Well, thank you very much for your help."

"I don't really feel I've been much help at all," Murdoch said.

"On the contrary, you've given us some valuable information," Waring told him. He turned to look at Fennimore. "Do you have anything to add, Sir Giles?"

"Just one thing." Fennimore raised a pair of mild, gray eyes; Murdoch suddenly had the eerie feeling that they were looking in through his own, and reading the currents in his brain directly. "Was Mr. Walker in the California area around the time of August-September last year?"

"Why, yes," Murdoch answered, slightly surprised by the question. "We lived there. We ran our office in Palo Alto."

A flicker of concern passed momentarily across Fennimore's face. "Were you there at that time as well?" he asked, in a voice that had suddenly taken on a sharper tone.

"No, I wasn't," Murdoch told him. "I moved to New York in late July. Lee was due to follow on after he'd cleared up a few outstanding things. Why?"