Hall remembered that Officer Willis had gone through Piedmont earlier in the evening—just a few minutes before the disease broke out. He had gone through without stopping.

And had gone mad later on.

Connection?

He wondered. There might be. Certainly, he could see many similarities: Willis had an ulcer, had taken aspirin, and had, eventually, committed suicide.

That didn't prove anything, of course. It might be a wholly unrelated series of events. But it was certainly worth checking.

He punched a button on the computer console. The TV screen lighted and a girl at a switchboard, with a headset pressing down her hair, smiled at him.

"I want the chief medical officer for the Arizona highway patrol. The western sector, if there is one."

"Yes, sir," she said briskly.

A few moments later, the screen came back on. It was the operator. "We have a Dr. Smithson who is the medical officer for the Arizona highway patrol west of Flagstaff. He has no television monitor but you can speak to him on audio."

"Fine," Hall said.

There was a crackling, and a mechanical hum. Hall watched the screen, but the girl had shut down her own audio and was busy answering another call from elsewhere in the Wildfire station. While he watched her, he heard a deep, drawling voice ask tentatively, "Anyone there?"

"Hello, Doctor," Hall said. "This is Dr. Mark Hall, in . . . Phoenix. I'm calling for some information about one of your patrolmen, Officer Willis."

"The girl said it was some government thing," Smithson drawled. "That right?"

"That is correct. We require—"

"Dr. Hall," Smithson said, still drawling, "perhaps you'd identify yourself and your agency."

It occurred to Hall that there was probably a legal problem involved in Officer Willis' death. Smithson might be worried about that.

Hall said, "I am not at liberty to tell you exactly what it is—"

"Well, look here, Doctor. I don't give out information over the phone, and especially I don't when the feller at the other end won't tell me what it's all about."

Hall took a deep breath. "Dr. Smithson, I must ask you—"

"Ask all you want. I'm sorry, I simply won't—"

At that moment, a bell sounded on the line, and a flat mechanical voice said:

"Attention please. This is a recording. Computer monitors have analyzed cable properties of this communication and have determined that the communication is being recorded by the outside party. All parties should be informed that the penalty for outside recording of a classified government communication is a minimum of five years' prison sentence. If the recording is continued this connection will automatically be broken. This is a recording. Thank you."

There was a long silence. Hall could imagine the surprise Smithson was feeling; he felt it himself.

"What the hell kind of a place are you calling from, anyhow?" Smithson said finally.

"Turn it off," Hall said.

There was a pause, a click, then: "All right. It's off."

"I am calling from a classified government installation," Hall said.