Dooms Day Book

“‘Laboratory, Brasenose,’” she said, reading from the sheets. “‘Dean’s office, Brasenose. Laboratory, Brasenose.’ Didn’t anyone see Badri except in the net?”

“In the ambulance on the way here he said, ‘Something wrong.’ There could have been slippage. If she’s more than a week off, she’ll have no idea when to rendezvous.”

She didn’t answer. She sorted through the sheets again, frowning.

“I need to make certain there weren’t any problems with the fix,” he said insistently.

She looked up. “Very well,” she said. “These contact sheets are hopeless. There are great gaps in Badri’s whereabouts for the past three days. He’s the only person who can tell us where he was and with whom he came in contact.” She led the way back down the corridor. “I’ve had a nurse with him, asking him questions, but he’s very disoriented and fearful of her. Perhaps he won’t be as frightened of you.”

She led the way down the corridor to the lift and said, “Ground floor, please,” into its ear. “Badri’s only conscious for a few moments at a time,” she said to Dunworthy. “It may be most of the night.”

“That’s all right,” Dunworthy said. “I won’t be able to rest till I’m sure Kivrin is safely through.”

They went up two flights in the lift, down another corridor, and through a door marked, “NO ENTRANCE. ISOLATION WARD.” Inside the door, a grim-looking ward sister was sitting at a desk watching a monitor.

“I’m taking Mr. Dunworthy in to see Mr. Chaudhuri,” Mary said. “We’ll need SPG’s. How is he?”

“His fever’s up again. 39.5,” the sister said, handing them the SPG’s, which were plastene-sealed bundles of paper clothing gowns that stripped up the back, caps, imperm masks that were impossible to get on over the caps, bootie-like snugs that went on over their shoes, and imperm gloves. Dunworthy made the mistake of putting his gloves on first and took what seemed like hours attempting to unfold the gown and affix the mask.

“You’ll need to ask very specific questions,” Mary said. “Ask him what he did when he got up this morning, if he’d stayed the night with anyone, where he ate breakfast, who was there, that sort of thing. His high fever means that he’s very disoriented. You may have to ask your questions several times.” She opened the door to the room.

It wasn’t really a room—there was only space for the bed and a narrow camp stool, not even a chair. The wall behind the bed was covered with displays and equipment. The far wall had a curtained window and more equipment. Mary glanced briefly at Badri and then began scanning the displays.

Dunworthy looked at the screens. The one nearest him was full of numbers and letters. The bottom line read: “ICU 14320691-22-12-54 1803 200/RPT 1800CRS IMJPCLN 200MG/q6h NHS40– 211-7 M AHRENS.” Apparently the doctor’s orders.

The other screens showed spiking lines and columns of figures. None of them made any sense except for a number in the middle of the small display second from the right. It read, “Temp: 39.9.” Dear God.

He looked at Badri. He was lying with his arms outside the bedclothes, his arms both connected to drips that hung from stanchions. One of the drips had at least five bags feeding into the main tube. His eyes were closed, and his face looked thin and drawn, as if he had lost weight since this morning. His dark skin had a strange purplish cast to it.

“Badri,” Mary said, leaning over him, “Can you hear us?”

He opened his eyes and looked at them without recognition, which was probably due less to the virus than to the fact that they were covered from head to foot in paper.

“It’s Mr. Dunworthy,” Mary said helpfully. “He’s come to see you.” Her bleeper started up.

“Mr. Dunworthy?” he said hoarsely and tried to sit up.

Mary pushed him gently down into the pillow. “Mr. Dunworthy has some questions for you,” she said, patting his chest gently the way she had in the net at Brasenose. She straightened up, watching the displays on the wall behind him. “Lie still. I need to leave now, but Mr. Dunworthy will stay with you. Rest and try to answer Mr. Dunworthy’s questions.” She left.

“Mr. Dunworthy?” Badri said again as if he were trying to make sense of the words.

“Yes,” Dunworthy said. He sat down on the campstool. “How are you feeling?”

“When do you expect him back?” he said, and his voice sounded weak and strained. He tried to sit up again. Dunworthy put out his hand to stop him.

“Have to find him,” he said. “There’s something wrong.”

Chapter Eight

They were burning her at the stake. She could feel the flames. They must already have tied her to the stake, though she could not remember that. She remembered them lighting the fire. She had fallen off the white horse, and the cutthroat had picked her up and carried her over to it.

“We must go back to the drop,’ she had told him.

He had leaned over her, and she could see his cruel face in the flickering firelight.