“No. No one.”
The stranger was silent for a moment.
Troutman listened to his desk clock ticking. He glanced at the food laid out on a linen napkin in front of him, picked a sliver of roast beef from the sandwich, and ate it quickly like a fish taking a fly.
When the man on the other end of the line had decided on his approach, he said, “I’m going to ask you a number of important questions, Doctor. You will give me complete answers to the best of your ability. ”
“Yes, of course.”
“Have you recently had an epidemic of any sort in Black River?”
“Yes, we have.”
“Of what?”
“Night chills.”
“Explain what you mean by that term, Doctor.”
“Severe chills, cold sweats, nausea but without vomiting — and the resultant insomnia. ”
“When were the first cases reported to you?”
“Wednesday, the tenth of this month. Nine days ago.”
“Did any of your patients mention nightmares?”
“Every one of them said he’d been awakened by a terrible dream.”
“Could any of them remember what it was?”
“No. None of them.”
“What treatment did you provide?”
“I gave placebos to the first few. But when 1 suffered the chills myself on Wednesday night, and when there were scores of new cases on Thursday, I began to prescribe a low-grade antibiotic.”
“That had no effect, of course.”
“None whatsoever.”
“Did you refer any patients to another physician?”
“No. The nearest other doctor is sixty miles away — and he’s in his late seventies. However, I did request an investigation by the State Health Authority.”
The stranger was silent for a moment. Then: “You did that merely because there was an epidemic of rather mild influenza?”
“It was mild,” Troutman said, “but decidedly unusual. No fever. No swelling of the glands. And yet, for as mild as it was, it spread throughout the town and the mill within twenty-four hours. Everyone had it. Of course I wondered if it might not be influenza at all but some sort of poisoning. ”
“Poisoning?”
“Yes. Of a common food or water supply.”
“When did you contact the Health Authority?”
“Friday the twelfth, late in the afternoon.”
“And they sent a man?”
“Not until Monday.”
“Was there still an epidemic at that time?”
“No,” Troutman said. “Everyone in town had the chills, the cold sweats, and the nausea again Saturday night. But
“Did the State Health Authority still run an investigation?”
Intently studying the food on the napkin, Troutman shifted in his chair and said, “Oh, yes. Dr. Evans, one of their junior field men, spent all of Monday and most of Tuesday interviewing people and taking tests.”
“Tests? You mean of food and water?”
“Yes. Blood and urine samples too.”
“Did he take water samples from the reservoir?”
“Yes. He filled at least twenty vials and bottles.”
“Has he filed his report yet?”
Troutman licked his lips and said, “Yes. He called me last evening to give me the results of the tests.”
“I suppose he found nothing?”
“That’s correct. All the tests were negative.”
“Does he have any theories?” the stranger asked, a vague trace of anxiety in his voice.
That bothered Troutman. The key should not be anxious. The key had all the answers. “He believes that we’ve experienced a rare case of mass psychological illness.”
“An epidemic of formulated hysteria?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“Then he’s making no recommendations?”
“None that I know of.”
“He has terminated the investigation?”
“That’s what he told me.”
The stranger sighed softly. “Doctor, earlier you told me that everyone in town and at the mill had experienced the night chills. Were you speaking figuratively or literally?”
“Figuratively,” Troutman said. “There were exceptions. Perhaps twenty children, all under eight years of age. And two adults. Sam Edison and his daughter, Jenny.
“The people who run the general store?”
“That’s correct.”
“They didn’t suffer from the chills at all?”
“Not at all.”
“Are they connected to the town’s water supply?”
“Everyone in town is.”
“All right. What about the lumbermen who work in the planned forests beyond the mill? Some of them virtually live out there. Were they affected?”
“Yes. That was something Dr. Evans wanted to know too,” Troutman said. “He interviewed all of them.”
The stranger said, “I’ve no more questions, Dr. Troutman, but I do have some orders for you. When you hang up your receiver, you will instantly wipe all memory of our conversation from your mind. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Perfectly.”
“You’ll forget every word we’ve exchanged. You’ll erase this memory from both your conscious and subconscious, so that it can never be recalled no matter how much you might wish to recall it. Understood?”
Troutman nodded somberly. “Yes.”
“When you hang up your receiver, you will remember only that the phone rang — and that it was a wrong number. Is that clear?”
“A wrong number. Yes, that’s clear.”
“Very well. Hang up, Doctor.”
Carelessness, Troutman thought, a bit irritably, as he put down the receiver. If people paid attention to what they were doing, they wouldn’t dial so many wrong numbers or make one-tenth of the other mistakes that peppered their lives. How many patients, badly cut or burned, had he treated who had been injured only because they were inattentive, careless? Scores. Hundreds. Thousands! Sometimes, when he opened the door of his waiting room and peered inside, he had the feeling that he had just pulled a pan from the oven and was staring not at people but at a row of wall-eyed trout with gaping mouths. And now, tying up a doctor’s line with a wrong number, even for half a minute or so — well, that could be damned serious.
He shook his head, dismayed by the ineptitude and inefficiency of his fellow citizens.
Then he grabbed the roast beef sandwich and took an enormous bite from it.
At 11:45 Paul Annendale stepped into Sam Edison’s study on the second floor of the house, just above the general store. “Squire Edison, I wish to arrange to take your daughter to lunch.”
Sam was standing in front of a bookcase. A large volume lay open in his left hand, and he was paging
