Dooms Day Book

He expected her to come back as soon as she’d finished giving him the directions to Witney. When she didn’t, he started after her. She wasn’t in the corridor. Neither was the medic, but the nurse from Casualties was.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, barring his path the way the registrar in Casualties had. “Dr. Ahrens asked that you wait for her here.”

“I’m not leaving the infirmary. I need to put a call through to my secretary.”

“I’ll be glad to fetch you a phone, sir,” she said firmly. She turned and looked down the corridor.

Gilchrist and Latimer were coming. “…hope Ms. Engle has the opportunity to observe a death,” Gilchrist was saying. “Attitudes toward death in the 1300’s differed greatly from ours. Death was a common and accepted part of life, and the contemps were incapable of feeling loss or grief.”

“Mr. Dunworthy,” the nurse said, tugging at his arm, “if you’ll just wait inside, I’ll bring you a telephone.”

She went to meet Gilchrist and Latimer. “If you’ll come with me, please,” she said, and ushered them into the waiting room.

“I’m acting head of Mediaeval,” Gilchrist said, glaring at Dunworthy. “Badri Chaudhuri is my responsibility.”

“Yes, sir,” the nurse said, shutting the door. “Dr. Ahrens will be with you directly.”

Latimer set his umbrella on one of the chairs and Mary’s shopping bag on the one next to it. He had apparently retrieved all the parcels Mary had dumped on the floor. Dunworthy could see the muffler box and one of the Christmas crackers sticking out of the top. “We couldn’t find a taxi,” he said, breathing hard. He sat down next to his burdens. “We had to take the tube.”

“Where is the apprentice tech you were going to use on the drop—Puhalski—from?” Dunworthy said. “I need to speak with him.”

“Concerning what, if

I may ask? Or have you taken over Mediaeval entirely in my absence?”

“It’s essential that someone read the fix and make sure it’s all right.”

“You’d be delighted if something were to go wrong, wouldn’t you? You’ve been attempting to obstruct this practicum from the beginning.”

“Were to go wrong?” Dunworthy said, disbelievingly. “It’s already gone wrong. Badri is lying in hospital unconscious and we don’t have any idea if Kivrin is when or where she’s supposed to be. You heard Badri. He said something was wrong with the fix. We’ve got to get a tech here to find out what it is.”

“I should hardly put any credence in what someone says under the influence of drugs or dorphs or whatever it is he’s been taking,” Gilchrist said. “And may I remind you, Mr. Dunworthy, that the only thing to have gone wrong on this drop is Twentieth Century’s part in it. Mr. Puhalski was doing a perfectly adequate job. However, at your insistence, I allowed your tech to replace him. It’s obvious I shouldn’t have.”

The door opened, and they all turned and looked at it. The sister brought in a portable telephone, handed it to Dunworthy, and ducked out again.

“I must ring up Brasenose and tell them where I am,” Gilchrist said.

Dunworthy ignored him, flipped up the phone’s visual screen, and rang up Jesus. “I need the names and home telephone numbers of your techs,” he told the Acting Principal’s secretary when she appeared on the screen. “None of them are here over vac, are they?”

None of them were there. He wrote down the names and numbers on one of the inspirational pamphlets, thanked the senior tutor, hung up, and started on the list of numbers.

The first number he punched was engaged. The others got him an engaged tone before he’d even finished punching in the town exchanges, and on the last a computer voice broke in and said, “All lines are engaged. Please attempt your call later.”

He rang Balliol, both the hall and his own office. He didn’t get an answer at either number. Finch must have taken the Americans to London to hear Big Ben.

Gilchrist was still standing next to him, waiting to use the phone. Latimer had wandered over to the tea cart and was trying to plug in the electric kettle. The medic came out of her drowse to assist him. “Have you finished with the telephone?” Gilchrist said stiffly.

“No,” Dunworthy said and tried Finch again. There was still no answer.

He rang off. “I want you to get your tech back to Oxford and pull Kivrin out. Now. Before she’s left the drop site.”

“You want?” Gilchrist said. “Might I remind you that this is Mediaeval’s drop, not yours.”

“It doesn’t matter whose it is,” Dunworthy said, trying to keep his temper. “It’s University policy to abort a drop if there’s any sort of problem.”

“May I also remind you that the only problem we’ve encountered on this drop is that you failed to screen your tech for dorphs.” He reached for the phone. “I will decide if and when this drop needs to be aborted.”

The phone rang.

“Gilchrist here,” Gilchrist said. “Just a moment please.” He handed the telephone to Dunworthy.

“Mr. Dunworthy,” Finch said, looking harried. “Thank goodness. I’ve been calling round everywhere. You won’t believe the difficulties I’ve had.”