Prologue

--There is not, and never has been, such a thing as a meaningless coincidence in this world.

     Doctor Young closed the panel on the door, and furrowed his brow.  Another one.  Half a dozen in the past week; reports of similar incidents had come in over the past few weeks from his colleagues in other cities and countries.

     It was minor, but worrisome--some sort of contagious schizophrenia, perhaps?  The idea of a bacterium that could transfer madness from individual to individual...ice ran down his spine.

     This bore further investigation.

     In his office, the doctor looked over the map, and inked in an X in every city that reported similar cases.  An X on London, another X on Paris.  He placed a question mark on Berlin, Vienna, and Moscow.

     Rome -- X.

     Sydney -- X.

     Madras -- X.

     Cape Town -- X.

     São Paulo -- X.

     He tried to trace the cases in North America in the same way, but there were far more documented cases--almost two hundred to the rest of the world’s three hundred.  He had to start on another map.

     New York -- Eight.

     Washington -- Six.

     Miami -- Three.

     Atlanta -- Six.

     Chicago -- Fifteen.

     Los Angeles -- Twenty.

     Sacramento -- Twenty-nine.

     Portland -- Fifty.

     Seattle -- Forty-one.

     Mexico City -- Four.

     Montreal -- Two.

     There was a definite trend, he decided, circling the two northwestern-most states.

     --Why is it concentrated in this area? The doctor asked aloud.

     He thought for a moment, wondering what exactly caused this strange malady and why it would be so intensified in that region of the continent.

     The mantra that they repeated was of particular note, and of some odd significance:

     --There is not, and never has been, such a thing as a meaningless coincidence in this world.

     Doctor Young and two of his colleagues met outside of the sanitarium, to discuss their recent additions.

     --They’re everywhere, Young said.

     --What do you mean ‘everywhere?’ Doctor Brant asked.  He was the youngest of the three men, a fresh-faced man who had just started working at the sanitarium last year.

     --Everywhere means everywhere, Young said, we don’t have any reports from Germany, Austria, or Moscow, but there seems to be a distinct pattern pretty much everywhere else in the world.

     --Don’t be daft, man, Doctor Melanadis said.  He was an old man with a graying beard, and he raised a cigarette to his mouth and inhaled deeply.

     --It’s true, Doctor Young said, I’ve looked at the reports.  I’ve sent letters.  Same symptoms, everywhere.  Same phrase.

     --So what?  What do you think we’re dealing with? Brant asked.

     Doctor Young thought for a moment, crossing his arms and looking downward.

     --I don’t know, but I know that whatever is happening is happening in the northwest.  That’s where the highest concentration of cases is.

     --Have you gotten in contact with any of the authorities up there? Doctor Melanadis asked.

     --I have, but they don’t have anything special to report.  Maybe it’s something in the water; I don’t know.

     --Perhaps we should do some more research on this, Doctor Brant suggested.

     --Yes.  We need to try to understand this phenomenon better, Doctor Melanadis stated.

     As Doctor Young walked home from the sanitarium--his ’31 Hudson having long ago been set aside due to a lack of enough money to fill it up--he heard the sounds of a baseball game coming from an empty lot a block from his apartment building.

     Curious, he rounded the corner, and watched as a pitch was thrown.  There was a child at the plate, holding a stick in his hands as a bat.  The pitcher, some dozen paces away, was a tall, gangly youth that shared the same mien as the batter.  Perhaps brothers.

     The doctor watched the first pitch sail past; the younger brother didn’t swing, and the catcher caught it in a makeshift glove.  The ball was returned to the pitcher, who grabbed it out of the air barehanded, lacking a glove of his own.

     The pitcher wound up, holding the ball in a white-knuckled grip.  It sailed toward the batter, and though he swung this time, the ball passed just under his makeshift bat.

     The catcher caught the pitcher’s pitch.  The ball was returned to the elder brother, who spat on the dusty ground, pausing to think.

     The younger brother had a determined look in his eye, and he squared his stance, raising the bat in anticipation.

     The ball sailed toward him like a lightning bolt, streaking through the air.

     He swung, and his bat broke, and a sound like a thunderclap resounded throughout the lot.

     A trail of dust was raised, as the baseball sailed horizontally out from the batter.  It struck the fence at the far side of the lot, and there was another crack as it broke one of the slats.  

     As one, the young men and boys bolted from the scene, taking what they could but leaving the broken bat and abandoning the ball.

     Had his seeing this, arriving just in time to witness a minor victory of the younger against the elder, been a meaningless coincidence?

     Two weeks passed, the three doctors pooled their money, and packed their belongings into the back of Doctor Young’s Hudson.

     They would join the flow of dustbowl refugees westward, and turn north to Oregon and Washington.

     --I’ve sent a letter on ahead, telling our colleagues in Portland that we’re coming, Doctor Young said.

     --They as interested in finding the cause as you are? Doctor Brant asked.

     --Yes, I’d imagine they are, Doctor Young responded.

     --We’re men of science, Doctor Melanadis said with a wry smile, it’s our calling to find the cause.

     They got into the sedan, and pulled out onto the road, headed westward.