The nurse banged in. “Oh, dear, that’s twice he’s done that,” she said. “Mr. Chaudhuri, you mustn’t do that. You’ll pull your cannula out.”
“Go and get Mr. Dunworthy. Now,” he said. “There’s something wrong,” but he lay back and let her cover him up. “Why doesn’t he come?”
Dunworthy waited while the nurse retaped the cannula and reset the screens, watching Badri. He looked worn out and apathetic, almost bored. A new bruise was already forming above the cannula.
The nurse left with “I think I’d best call down for a sedative.”
As soon as she was gone, Dunworthy said, “Badri, it’s Mr. Dunworthy. You wanted to tell me something. Look at me, Badri. What is it? What’s wrong?”
Badri looked at him, but without interest.
“Was there too much slippage, Badri? Is Kivrin in the plague?”
“I don’t have time,” Badri said. “I was out there Saturday and Sunday.” He began typing again, his fingers moving ceaselessly on the blanket. “That can’t be right.”
The nurse came back with a drip bottle. “Oh, good,” he said, and his expression relaxed and softened, as if a great weight had been lifted. “I don’t know what happened. I had such a terrific headache.”
He closed his eyes before she had even hooked the drip to the cannula and began to snore softly.
The nurse led him out. “If he wakes and calls for you again, where can you be reached?” she asked.
He gave her the number. “What exactly did he say?” he asked, stripping off his gown. “Before I arrived?”
“He kept calling your name and saying he had to find you, that he had to tell you something important.”
“Did he say anything about rats?” he said.
“No. Once he said he had to find Karen—or Katherine—”
“Kivrin.”
She nodded. “Yes. He said, ‘I must find Kivrin. Is the laboratory open?’ And then he said something about a lamb, but nothing about rats, I don’t think. A good deal of the time I can’t make it out.”
He threw the imperm gloves into the bag. “I want you to write down everything he says. Not the unintelligible parts,” he added before she could object. “But everything else. I’ll be back this afternoon.”
“I’ll try,” she said. “It’s mostly nonsense.”
He went downstairs. It was mostly nonsense, feverish ramblings that meant nothing, but he went outside to get a taxi. He wanted to get back to Balliol quickly, to speak to Andrews, to get him up here to read the fix.
“That can’t be right,” Badri had said, and it had to be the slippage. Could he have somehow misread the figure, thought it was only four hours and then discovered, what? That it was four years? Or twenty-eight?
“You’ll get there faster walking,” someone said. It was the boy with the black face plasters. “If you’re waiting for a taxi, you’ll stand there forever. They’ve all been commandeered by the bloody government.”
He gestured toward one just pulling up to the door of Casualties. It had an NHS placard in the side window.
Dunworthy thanked the boy and started back to Balliol. It was raining again, and he walked rapidly, hoping that Andrews had already telephoned, that he was already on his way. “Go and get Mr. Dunworthy immediately,” Badri had said. “Now. There’s something wrong,” and he was obviously reliving his actions after he had got the fix, when he had run through the rain to the Lamb and Cross to fetch him. “That can’t be right,” he had said.
He half ran across the quad and up to his rooms. He was worried Ms. Taylor wouldn’t have been able to hear the telephone’s bell over her bell ringers’ clanging, but when he opened the door, he found them standing in a circle in the middle of his sitting room in their face masks, their arms raised and hands folded as if in supplication, bringing their hands down in front of them and bending their knees one after the other in solemn silence.
“Mr. Basingame’s scout called,” Ms. Taylor said, rising and stooping. “He said he thought Mr. Basingame was somewhere in the Highlands. And Mr. Andrews said you were to call him back. He just called.”
Dunworthy put the trunk call through, feeling immensely relieved. While he waited for Andrews to answer, he watched the curious dance and tried to determine the pattern. Ms. Taylor seemed to bob on a semiregular basis, but the others did their odd curtsies in no order he could detect. The largest one, Ms. Piantini, was counting to herself, frowning in concentration.
“I’ve obtained clearance for you to enter the quarantine area. When are you coming up?” he said as soon as the tech answered.
“That’s the thing, sir,” Andrews said. There was a visual, but it was too fuzzy to read his expression. “I don’t think I’d better. I’ve been watching all about the quarantine on the vids, sir. They say this Indian flu is extremely dangerous.”
“You needn’t come in contact with any of the cases,” Dunworthy said. “I can arrange for you to go straight to Brasenose’s laboratory. You’ll be perfectly safe. This is extremely important.”
“Yes, sir, but the vidders say it might have been caused by the University’s heating system.”
“The heating system?” Dunworthy said. “The University has no heating system, and the individual ones of the colleges are over a hundred years old and incapable of heating, let alone infecting.” The bell ringers turned as one to look at him, but they did not break rhythm. “It has absolutely nothing to do with the heating system. Or India, or the wrath of God. It began in South Carolina. The vaccine is already on the way. It’s perfectly safe.”
Andrews looked stubborn. “Nevertheless, sir, I don’t think it would be wise for me to come.”
The bell ringers abruptly stopped. “Sorry,” Ms. Piantini said, and they started again.
“This fix must be read. We have an historian in 1320, and we don’t know how much slippage there has been. I’ll see to it that you’re paid for hazardous duty,” Dunworthy said, and then realized that was exactly the wrong approach. “I can arrange for you to be isolated or wear SPG’s or—”
“I could read the fix from here,” Andrews said. “I’ve a friend who’ll set up the access connections. She’s a student at Shrewsbury.” He paused. “It’s the best I can do. Sorry.”
“Sorry,” Ms. Piantini said again.
“No, no, you ring in second’s place,” Ms. Taylor said. “You dodge two-three up and down and three-four down and then lead a whole pull. And keep your eyes on the other ringers, not on the floor. One-two-and-off!” They started their minuet again.
“I simply can’t take the risk,” Andrews said.
It was clear he couldn’t be persuaded. “What is the name of your friend at Shrewsbury?” Dunworthy asked.
“Polly Wilson,” Andrews said, sounding relieved. He gave Dunworthy her number. “Tell her you need a remote read, IA inquiry, and bridge transmit. I’ll stay by this number.” He moved to ring off.
“Wait!” Dunworthy said. The bell ringers glanced disapprovingly at him. “What would the maximal slippage be on a drop to 1320?”
“I’ve no idea,” Andrews said promptly. “Slippage is difficult to predict. There are so many factors.”
“An estimate,” Dunworthy said. “Could it be twenty-eight years?”
“Twenty-eight years!” Andrews said, and the amazed tone sent a gust of relief through Dunworthy. “Oh, I wouldn’t think so. There’s a general tendency toward greater slippage the farther back you go, but the increase isn’t exponential. The parameter checks will tell you.”
“Mediaeval didn’t do any.”
“They sent an historian back without parameter checks?” Andrews sounded shocked.
“Without parameter checks, without unmanneds, without recon tests,” Dunworthy said. “Which is why it’s essential I get this fix read. I want you to do something for me.”
Andrews stiffened.
“You don’t have to come here to do it,” he said rapidly. “Jesus has an on-site set up in London. I wan
t you to go over there and run parameter checks on a drop to noon, 13 December 1320.”
“What are the locational coordinates?”
“I don’t know. I’ll get them when I go to Brasenose. I want you to telephone me here as soon as you’ve determined maximal slippage. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” he said, but he was looking doubtful again.
“Good. I’ll telephone Polly Wilson. Remote read, IA inquiry, bridge transmit. I’ll ring you back as soon as she’s got it set up at Brasenose,” Dunworthy said, and rang off before Andrews could renege.
He held on to the receiver, watching the bell ringers. The order changed each time, but Ms. Piantini apparently did not lose count again.
He telephoned Polly Wilson and gave her the specifications Andrews had dictated, wondering if she had been watching the vidders, too, and would be afraid of Brasenose’s heating system, but she said promptly, “I’ll need to find a gateway. I’ll meet you there in three-quarters of an hour.”
He left the bell ringers still bobbing and went over to Brasenose. The rain had slowed again, and there were more people on the streets, though many of the shops were closed. Whoever was in charge of the Carfax carillon had either come down with the flu or forgotten about it because of the quarantine. It was still playing “Bring a Torch, Jeanette Isabella,” or possibly “O Tannenbaum.”
There were three picketers outside an Indian grocer’s and a half dozen more outside Brasenose with a large banner they were holding between them that read “TIME TRAVEL IS A HEALTH THREAT.” He recognized the young woman on the end as one of the medics from the ambulance.
Heating systems and the EC and time travel. During the Pandemic it had been the American germ warfare program and air conditioning. Back in the Middle Ages they had blamed Satan and the appearance of comets for their epidemics. Doubtless when the fact that the virus had originated in South Carolina was revealed, the Confederacy, or southern fried chicken, would be blamed.
He went in the gate to the porter’s desk. The Christmas tree was sitting on one end of it, the angel perched atop it. “I have a student from Shrewsbury meeting me to set up some communications equipment,” he told the porter. “We’ll need to be let into the laboratory.”
“The laboratory is restricted, sir,” the porter said.
“Restricted?”
“Yes, sir. It’s been locked and no one’s allowed in.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“It’s because of the epidemic, sir.”
“The epidemic!?”
“Yes, sir. Perhaps you’d better speak with Mr. Gilchrist, sir.”
“Perhaps I had. Tell him I’m here, and I need to be let into the laboratory.”
“I’m afraid he’s not here just now.”
“Where is he?”
“At the Infirmary, I believe. He—”
Dunworthy didn’t wait to hear the rest. Halfway to the Infirmary it occurred to him that Polly Wilson would be left waiting with no idea where he’d gone, and as he came up to the hospital, it came to him that Gilchrist might be there because he’d come down with the virus.
Good, he thought, it’s what he deserves, but Gilchrist was in the little waiting room, hale and hearty, wearing an NHS face mask, rolling up his sleeve in preparation for the inoculation a nurse was holding.
“Your porter told me the laboratory’s restricted,” he said, stepping between them. “I need to get into it. I’ve found a tech to do a remote fix. We need to set up transmission equipment.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Gilchrist said. “The laboratory is under quarantine until the source of the virus is determined.”
“The source of the virus?” he said incredulously. “The virus originated in South Carolina.”
“We will not be certain of that until we’ve obtained positive identification. Until then, I felt it was best to minimize all possible risks to the University by restricting access to the laboratory. Now, if you will excuse me, I’m here to receive my immune system enhancement.” He started past Dunworthy toward the nurse.
Dunworthy put out his arm to stop him. “What risks?”
“There has been considerable public concern that the virus was transmitted through the net.”
“Public concern? Do you mean those three halfwits with the banner outside your gate?” he shouted.
“This is a hospital, Mr. Dunworthy,” the nurse said. “Please keep your voice down.”
He ignored her. “There has been ‘considerable public concern,’ as you call it, that the virus was caused by liberal immigration laws,” he said. “Do you intend to secede from the EC as well?”
Gilchrist’s chin went up, and the pinched lines appeared by his nose, visible even through the mask. “As Acting Head of the History Faculty, it is my responsibility to act in the University’s interest. Our position in the community, as I’m certain you’re aware, depends on maintaining the goodwill of the townspeople. I felt it important to calm the public’s fears by closing the laboratory until the sequencing arrives. If it indicates that the virus is from South Carolina, then of course the laboratory will be reopened immediately.”
“And in the meantime, what about Kivrin?”
“If you cannot keep your voice down,” the nurse said, “I shall be forced to report you to Dr. Ahrens.”
“Excellent. Go and fetch her,” Dunworthy told her. “I want her to tell Mr. Gilchrist how ridiculous he’s being. This virus cannot possibly have come through the net.”
The nurse stamped out.
“If your protesters are too ignorant to understand the laws of physics,” Dunworthy said, “surely they can understand the simple fact that this was a drop. The net was only open to 1320, not from it. Nothing came through from the past.”
“If that is the case, then Ms. Engle is not in any danger, and it will do no harm to wait for the sequencing.”
“Not in any danger? You don’t even know where she is!”
“Your tech obtained the fix, and indicated the drop was successful and that there was minimal slippage,” Gilchrist said. He rolled down his sleeve and carefully buttoned the cuff. “I’m satisfied Ms. Engle is where she’s supposed to be.”
“Well, I’m not. And I won’t be until I know Kivrin made it through safely.”
“I see I must remind you again that Ms. Engle is my responsibility, not yours, Mr. Dunworthy.” He donned his coat. “I must do as I think best.”
“And you think it best to set up a quarantine around the laboratory to placate a handful of crackpots,” he said bitterly. “There is also ‘considerable public concern’ that the virus is a judgment from God. What do you intend to do to maintain the goodwill of those townspeople? Resume burning martyrs at the stake?”
“I resent that remark. And I resent your constant interference in matters which do not concern you. You have been determined from the first to undermine Mediaeval, to keep it from gaining access to time travel, and now you are determined to undermine my authority. May I remind you that I am Acting Head of History in Mr. Basingame’s absence, and as such—”
“What you are is an ignorant, self-important fool who should never have been trusted with Mediaeval, let alone Kivrin’s safety!”
“I see no reason to continue this discussion,” Gilchrist said. “The laboratory is under quarantine. It will remain so until we obtain the sequencing.” He walked out.
Dunworthy started after him and nearly collided with Mary. She was wearing SPG’s and reading a chart.
“You will not believe what Gilchrist’s done now,” he said. “A group of picketers convinced him the virus came through the net, and he’s barricaded the laboratory.”
She didn’t say anything or even look up from the chart.
“Badri said this morning that the slippage figures can’t be right. He said over and over, ‘There’s something wrong.’ ”
She looked up at him distractedly and back at the chart.
“I have a tech ready to
read Kivrin’s fix remotely, but Gilchrist’s locked the doors,” he said. “You must talk to him, tell him the virus has been firmly established as originating in South Carolina.”
“It hasn’t.”
“What do you mean, it hasn’t? Did the sequencing arrive?”
She shook her head. “The WIC located their tech, but she’s still running it. But her preliminary read indicates it’s not the South Carolina virus.” She looked up at him. “And I know it’s not.” She looked back at the chart. “The South Carolina virus had a zero mortality rate.”
“What do you mean? Has something happened to Badri?”
“No,” she said, shutting the chart and holding it to her chest. “Beverly Breen.”
He must have looked blank. He had thought she was going to say Latimer.
“The woman with the lavender umbrella,” she said, and sounded angry. “She died just now.”
TRANSCRIPT FROM THE DOMESDAY BOOK
(046381–054957)
22 December 1320 (Old Style). Agnes’s knee is worse. It’s red and painful (an understatement—she screams when I try to touch it) and she can scarcely walk. I don’t know what to do—if I tell Lady Imeyne, she’ll put one of her poultices on it and make it worse, and Eliwys is distracted and obviously worried.
Gawyn still isn’t back. He should have been home by noon yesterday, and when he hadn’t shown up by vespers, Eliwys accused Imeyne of sending him to Oxford.
“I have sent him to Courcy, as I told you,” Imeyne said defensively. “No doubt the rain keeps him.”
“Only to Courcy?” Eliwys said angrily. “Or have you sent him otherwhere for a new chaplain?”
Imeyne drew herself up. “Father Roche is not fit to say the Christmas masses if Sir Bloet and his company come,” she said. “Would you be shamed before Rosemund’s fiancé?”
Eliwys went absolutely white. “Where have you sent him?”
“I have sent him with a message to the bishop, saying that we are in sore need of a chaplain,” she said.
“To Bath?!” Eliwys said, and raised her hand as if she would strike her.
“Nay. Only to Cirencestre. The archdeacon was to lie at the abbey for Yule. I bade Gawyn give him the message. One of his churchmen will bear it thence. Though, certes, things go not so ill in Bath that Gawyn could not go thence himself without harm, else my son would have quitted it.”