Dooms Day Book

He had come to see Dunworthy at half-past two and was there until four. Dunworthy entered the times on the chart. Badri had told him he’d gone to London Sunday, though he couldn’t remember what time. He entered, “London—phone Jesus for time of arrival.”

“He drifts in and out a good bit,” the sister said disapprovingly. “It’s the fever.” She checked the drips, gave a yank to the bedclothes, and went out.

The door’s shutting seemed to wake Badri up. His eyes fluttered open.

“I need to ask you some questions, Badri,” he said. “We need to find out who you’ve seen and talked to. We don’t want them to come down with this, and we need you to tell us who they are.”

“Kivrin,” he said. His voice was soft, almost a whisper, but his hand was holding tightly to Dunworthy’s. “In the laboratory.”

“This morning?” Dunworthy said. “Did you see Kivrin before this morning? Did you see her yesterday?”

“No.”

“What did you do yesterday?”

“I checked the net,” he said weakly, and his hand clung to Dunworthy’s.

“Were you there all day?”

He shook his head, the effort producing a whole series of bleeps and climbs on the displays. “I went to see you.”

Dunworthy nodded. “You left me a note. What did you do after that? Did you see Kivrin?”

“Kivrin,” he said. “I checked Puhalski’s coordinates.”

“Were they correct?”

He frowned. “Yes.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes. I verified them twice.” He stopped to catch his breath. “I ran an internal check and a comparator.”

Dunworthy felt a rush of relief. There hadn’t been a mistake in the coordinates. “What about the slippage? How much slippage was there?”

“Headache,” he murmured. “This morning. Must have drunk too much at the dance.”

“What dance?”

“Tired,” he murmured.

“What dance did you go to?” Dunworthy persisted, feeling like an Inquisition torturer. “When was it? Monday?”

“Tuesday,” Badri said. “Drank too much.” He turned his head away on the pillow.

“You rest now,” Dunworthy said. He gently disengaged his hand from Badri’s. “Try to get some sleep.”

“Glad you came,” Badri said, and reached for it again.

Dunworthy held it, watching Badri and the displays by turns as he slept. It was raining. He could hear the patter of drops behind the closed curtains.

He had not realized how ill Badri really was. He had been too worried about Kivrin to even think about him. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so angry with Montoya and the rest of them. They had their preoccupations, too, and none of them had stopped to think what Badri’s illness meant except in terms of the difficulties and inconvenience it caused. Even Mary, talking about needing Bulkeley-Johnson for an infirmary and the possibilities of an epidemic, hadn’t brought home the reality of Badri’s illness and what it meant. He had had his antivirals, and yet he lay here with a fever of 39.7.

The evening passed. Dunworthy listened to the rain and the chiming of the quarter hours at St. Hilda’s and, more distantly, Christ Church. The ward sister informed Dunworthy grimly that she was going off-duty, and a much smaller and more cheerful blonde nurse, wearing the insignia of a student, came in to check the drips and look at the displays.

Badri struggled in and out of consciousness with an effort Dunworthy would hardly have described as “drifting.” He seemed more and more exhausted each time he fought his way back to consciousness, and less and less able to answer Dunworthy’s questions.

Dunworthy kept at it mercilessly. The Christmas dance had been in Headington. Badri had gone to a pub afterward. He couldn’t remember the name of it. Monday night he had worked alone in the laboratory, checking Puhalski’s coordinates. He had come up at noon from London. On the tube. It was impossible. Tube passengers and partygoers, and everyone he’d had contact with in London. They would never be able to trace and test all of them, even if Badri knew who they were.

“How did you get to Brasenose this morning?” Dunworthy asked the next time Badri “drifted” awake again.

“Morning?” Badri said, looking at the curtained window as if he thought it was morning already. “How long have I been asleep?”

Dunworthy didn’t know how to answer that. He’d been asleep off and on all evening. “It’s ten,” he said, looking at his digital. “We brought you in to hospital at half past one. You ran the net this morning. You sent Kivrin through. Do you remember when you began feeling ill?”

“What’s the date?” Badri said suddenly.

“December the twenty-second. You’ve only been here part of one day.”

“The year,” Badri said, attempting to sit up. “What’s the year?”

Dunworthy glanced anxiously at the displays. His temp was nearly 39.8. “The year is 2054,” he said, bending over him to calm him. “It’s December the twenty-second.”

“Back up,” Badri said.

Dunworthy straightened and stepped back from the bed.

“Back up,” he said again. He pushed himself up farther and looked around the room. “Where’s Mr. Dunworthy? I need to speak to him.”