Dooms Day Book

“I’m putting Dr. Ahrens on,” he said before Finch could launch into tales of the bell ringers. He motioned to Mary. “You can give her the information directly.”

Mary attached a plaster to Gilchrist’s arm and a temp monitor to the back of his hand.

“I got through to Ely, sir,” Finch said. “I informed them of the handbell concert cancellation and they were quite pleasant, but the Americans are still very unhappy.”

Mary finished entering Latimer’s reads, stripped off the gloves and came over to take the phone from Dunworthy.

“Finch? Dr. Ahrens here. Read me Badri’s NHS number.”

Dunworthy handed her his Secondaries sheet and a pencil, and she wrote it down and then asked for Badri’s inoculation records and made a number of notations Dunworthy couldn’t decipher.

“Any reactions or allergies?” There was a pause, and then she said, “All right, no. I can get the rest off the computer,” she said. “I’ll ring you back if I need additional information.” She handed the phone back to Dunworthy. “He wants to speak with you again,” she said, and left, taking the paper with her.

“They’re most unhappy at being kept here,” Finch said. “Ms. Taylor is threatening to sue for involuntary breach of contract.”

“When was Badri’s last course of antivirals?”

Finch took a considerable time looking through the sheaf of printouts, Scriptures and lavatory paper tallies. “Here it is, sir. September fourteenth.”

“Did he have the full course?”

“Yes, sir. Receptor analogues, MPA booster, and seasonals.”

“Has he ever had a reaction to an antiviral?”

“No, sir. There’s nothing under Allergies in the history. I already told Dr. Ahrens that.”

Badri had had all his antivirals. He had no history of reactions.

“Have you been to New College yet?” Dunworthy asked.

“No, sir, I’m just on my way. What should I do about supplies, sir? We’ve adequate stores of soap, but we’re very low on lavatory paper.”

The door opened, but it wasn’t Mary. It was the medic who had been sent to fetch Montoya. He went over to the tea trolley and plugged in the electric kettle.

“Should I ration the toilet paper, do you think, sir,” Finch said, “or put up notices asking everyone to conserve?”

“Whatever you think best,” Dunworthy said and rang off.

It must still be raining. The medic’s uniform was wet, and when the kettle boiled, he put his red hands over the steam, as if trying to warm them.

“Are you quite finished using the telephone?” Gilchrist said.

Dunworthy handed it to him. He wondered what the weather was like where Kivrin was, and whether Gilchrist had had Probability compute the chances of her coming through in the rain. Her cloak had not looked specially waterproof, and that friendly traveller who was supposed to come along within l.6 hours would have holed up in a hostelry or haymow till the roads dried enough to be passable.

Dunworthy had taught Kivrin how to make a fire, but she could hardly do so with wet kindling and numb hands. Winters in the 1300’s had been cold. It might even be snowing. The Little Ice Age had just begun in 1320, the weather eventually getting so cold that the Thames froze over. The lower temps and erratic weather had played such havoc with the crops that some historians blamed the Black Death’s horrors on the malnourished state of the peasants. The weather had certainly been bad. In the autumn of 1348, it had rained in one part of Oxfordshire every day from Michaelmas to Christmas. Kivrin was probably lying there on the wet road, half-dead from hypothermia.

And broken out in a rash, he thought, from her over-doting tutor worrying too much about her. Mary was right. He did sound like Mrs. Gaddson. The next thing he knew he’d be plunging off into 1320, forcing the doors of the net open like Mrs. Gaddson on the tube, and Kivrin would be as glad to see him as William was going to be to see his mother. And as in need of help.

Kivrin was the brightest and most resourceful student he had ever had. She surely knew enough to get in out of the rain. For all he knew, she had spent her last vac with the Eskimos, learning to build an igloo.

She had certainly thought of everything else, even down to her fingernails. When she had come in to show him her costume, she had held up her hands. Her nails had been broken off, and there were traces of dirt in the cuticles. “I know I’m supposed to be nobility, but rural nobility, and they did a lot of farm chores in between Bayeaux Tapestries, and East Riding ladies didn’t have scissors till the 1600’s, so I spent Sunday afternoon in Montoya’s dig, grubbing among the dead bodies, to get this effect.” There was obviously no reason to worry about a minor detail like snow.

But he couldn’t help it. If he could speak to Badri, ask him what he’d meant when he said, “Something wrong,” make certain the drop had gone properly and that there hadn’t been too much slippage, he might be able to stop worrying. But Mary had not been able even to get Badri’s NHS number till Finch phoned with it. He wondered if he were still unconscious. Or worse.