Doomsday Book

by Connie Willis

  “I’m glad they found the kid,” Montoya said, looking at her digital. “How long do you think they’ll keep us here? I’ve got to get back to my dig before it turns into a swamp. We’re excavating Skendgate’s churchyard right now. Most of the graves date from the 1400s, but we’ve got some Black Deaths and a few pre-William the Conquerors. Last week we found a knight’s tomb. Beautiful condition. I wonder if Kivrin’s there yet?”

  Dunworthy assumed she meant at the village and not in one of the graves. “I hope so,” he said.

  “I told her to start recording her observations of Skendgate immediately, the village and the church. Especially the tomb. The inscription’s partly worn off, and some of the carving. The date’s readable, though—1318.”

  “It’s an emergency,” Gilchrist said. He fumed through a long pause. “I know he’s fishing in Scotland. I want to know where.”

  Mary put a plaster on Latimer’s arm and motioned to Gilchrist. He shook his head at her. She went over to the medic and shook her awake. She followed her over to the tray, blinking sleepily.

  “There are so many things only direct observation can tell us,” Montoya said. “I told Kivrin to record every detail. I hope there’s room on the corder. It’s so small.” She looked at her watch again. “Of course it had to be. Did you get a chance to see it before they implanted it? It really does look like a bone spur.”

  “Bone spur?” Dunworthy said, watching the medic’s blood spurt into the vial.

  “That’s so it can’t cause an anachronism even if it’s discovered. It fits right against the palmar surface of the scaphoid bone.” She rubbed the wrist bone above the thumb.

  Mary motioned to Dunworthy, and the medic stood up, rolling down her sleeve. Dunworthy took her place in the chair. Mary peeled the back from a monitor, stuck it to the inside of Dunworthy’s wrist, and handed him a temp to swallow.

  “Have the bursar call me at this number as soon as he returns,” Gilchrist said, and hung up.

  Montoya snatched up the phone, punched in a number, and said, “Hi. Can you tell me the quarantine perimeter? I need to know if Witney’s inside it. My dig’s there.” Whoever she was talking to apparently told her no. “Then who can I talk to about getting the perimeter changed? It’s an emergency.”

  They’re worried about their “emergencies,” Dunworthy thought, and neither of them’s even given a thought to worrying about Kivrin. Well, what was there to worry about? Her corder had been disguised to look like a bone spur so it wouldn’t cause an anachronism when the contemps decided to chop off her hands before they burned her at the stake.

  Mary took his blood pressure and then jabbed him with the punch. “If the phone ever becomes available,” she said, slapping on the plaster and motioning to Gilchrist, who was standing next to Montoya, looking impatient, “you might ring up William Gaddson and warn him that his mother’s coming.”

  Montoya said, “Yes. The number for the National Trust,” hung up the phone, and scribbled a number on one of the brochures.

  The phone trilled. Gilchrist, halfway to Mary, launched himself at it, grabbing it up before Montoya could reach it. “No,” he said and handed it grudgingly over to Dunworthy.

  It was Finch. He was in the bursar’s office. “Have you got Badri’s medical records?” Dunworthy said.

  “Yes, sir. The police are here, sir. They’re looking for places to put all the detainees who don’t live in Oxford.”

  “And they want us to put them up at Balliol,” Dunworthy said.

  “Yes, sir. How many shall I tell them we can take?”

  Mary had stood up, Gilchrist’s vial of blood in hand, and was signaling to Dunworthy.

  “Wait a minute, please,” he said, and punched hold on the mouthpiece.

  “Are they asking you to board detainees?” Mary asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Don’t commit to filling all your rooms,” she said. “We may need infirmary space.”

  Dunworthy took his hand away and said, “Tell them we can put them in Fisher and whatever rooms are left in Salvin. If you haven’t assigned rooms to the bell ringers, double them up. Tell the police Infirmary has asked for Bulkeley-Johnson as an emergency ward. Did you say you’d found Badri’s medical records?”

  “Yes, sir. I had the very devil of a time finding them. The bursar had filed them under Badri comma Chaudhuri, and the Americans—”

  “Did you find his NHS number?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “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. 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 antivirais?”

  Finch took a considerable time looking through his sheaf of papers. “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 lavatory 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 especially waterproof, and that friendly traveler who was supposed to come along within 1.6 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 1300s 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 lyi
ng there on the wet road, half-dead from hypothermia.

  And broken out in a rash, he thought, from her overdoting 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 1600s, so I spent Sunday afternoon in Montoya’s dig, grubbing among the dead bodies, to get this effect.” Her nails had looked dreadful, and utterly authentic. 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 Badri were still unconscious. Or worse.

  He got up and went over to the tea trolley and made himself a cup of tea. Gilchrist was on the phone again, apparently speaking to the porter. The porter didn’t know where Basingame was either. When Dunworthy had talked to him, he had told him he thought Basingame had mentioned Loch Balkillan, a lake that turned out not to exist.

  Dunworthy drank his tea. Gilchrist rang up the bursar and the deputy warden, neither of whom knew where Basingame had gone. The nurse who had guarded the door earlier came in and finished the blood tests. The male medic picked up one of the inspirational brochures and began to read it.

  Montoya filled out her admissions form and her lists of contacts. “What am I supposed to do?” she asked Dunworthy. “Write down the people I’ve been in contact with today?”

  “The past three days,” he said.

  They continued to wait. Dunworthy drank another cup of tea. Montoya rang up the NHS and tried to persuade them to give her a quarantine exemption so she could go back to the dig. The female medic went back to sleep.

  The nurse wheeled in a trolley with supper on it. “ ‘Greet chere made our hoste us everichon, And to the soper sette us anon, ’ ” Latimer said, the only remark he had made all afternoon.

  While they ate, Gilchrist regaled Latimer with his plans for sending Kivrin to the aftermath of the Black Death. “The accepted historical view is that it completely destroyed mediaeval society,” he told Latimer as he cut his roast beef, “but my research indicates it was purgative rather than catastrophic.”

  From whose point of view? Dunworthy thought, wondering what was taking so long. He wondered if they were truly processing the blood tests or if they were simply waiting for one or all of them to collapse across the tea trolley so they could get a fix on the incubation period.

  Gilchrist rang up New College again and asked for Basingame’s secretary.

  “She’s not there,” Dunworthy said. “She’s in Devonshire with her daughter for Christmas.”

  Gilchrist ignored him. “Yes. I need to get a message through to her. I’m trying to reach Mr. Basingame. It’s an emergency. We’ve just sent an historian to the 1300s, and Balliol failed to properly screen the tech who ran the net. As a result, he’s contracted a contagious virus.” He put the phone down. “If Mr. Chaudhuri failed to have any of the necessary antivirals, I’m holding you personally responsible, Mr. Dunworthy.”

  “He had the full course in September,” Dunworthy said.

  “Have you proof of that?” Gilchrist said.

  “Did it come through?” the medic asked.

  They all, even Latimer, turned to look at her in surprise. Until she’d spoken, she’d seemed fast asleep, her head far forward on her chest and her arms folded, holding the contacts lists.

  “You said you sent somebody back to the Middle Ages,” she said belligerently. “Did it?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t—” Gilchrist said.

  “This virus,” she said. “Could it have come through the time machine?”

  Gilchrist looked nervously at Dunworthy. “That isn’t possible, is it?”

  “No,” Dunworthy said. It was obvious Gilchrist knew nothing about the continuum paradoxes or string theory. The man had no business being Acting Head. He didn’t even know how the net he had so blithely sent Kivrin through worked. “The virus couldn’t have come through the net.”

  “Dr. Ahrens said the Indian was the only case,” the medic said. “And you said”—she pointed at Dunworthy—“that he’d had the full course. If he’s had his antivirals, he couldn’t catch a virus unless it was a disease from somewhere else. And the Middle Ages was full of diseases, wasn’t it? Smallpox and the plague?”

  Gilchrist said, “I’m certain that Mediaeval has taken steps to protect against that possibility—”

  “There is no possibility of a virus coming through the net,” Dunworthy said angrily. “The space-time continuum does not allow it to happen.”

  “You send people through,” she persisted, “and a virus is smaller than a person.”

  Dunworthy hadn’t heard that argument since the early years of the nets, when the theory was only partially understood.

  “I assure you we’ve taken every precaution,” Gilchrist said.

  “Nothing that would affect the course of history can go through a net,” Dunworthy explained, glaring at Gilchrist. The man was simply encouraging her with this talk of precautions and probabilities. “Radiation, toxins, microbes, none of them has ever passed through a net. If they’re present, the net simply won’t open.”

  The medic looked unconvinced.

  “I assure you—” Gilchrist said, and Mary came in.

  She was carrying a sheaf of variously colored papers. Gilchrist stood up immediately. “Dr. Ahrens, is there a possibility that this viral infection Mr. Chaudhuri has contracted might have come through the net?”

  “Of course not,” she said, frowning as if the whole idea were ridiculous. “In the first place, diseases can’t come through the net. It would violate the paradoxes. In the second place, if it had, which it can’t, Badri would have caught it less than an hour after it came through, which would mean the virus had an incubation period of an hour, an utter impossibility. But if it did, which it can’t, you all would be down ill already”— she looked at her digital—“since it’s been over three hours since you were exposed to it.” She began collecting the contacts lists.

  Gilchrist looked irritated. “As Acting Head of the History Faculty I have responsibilities I must attend to,” he said. “How long do you intend to keep us here?”

  “Only long enough to collect your contacts lists,” she said. “And to give you your instructions. Perhaps five minutes.”

  She took Latimer’s list from him. Montoya grabbed hers up from the end table and began writing hastily.

  “Five minutes?” the medic who had asked about the virus coming through the net said. “Do you mean we’re free to go?”

  “On medical probation,” she said. She put the lists at the bottom of her sheaf of papers and began passing the top sheets, which were a virulent pink, around to everyone. They appeared to be a release form of some sort, absolving the Infirmary of any and all responsibility.

  “We’ve completed your blood tests,” she went on, “and none of them show an increased level of antibodies.”

  She handed Dunworthy a blue sheet which absolved the NHS of any and all responsibility and confirmed willingness to pay any
and all charges not covered by the NHS in full and within thirty days.

  “I’ve been in touch with the WIC, and their recommendation is controlled observation, with continuous febrile monitoring and blood samples at twelve-hour intervals.”

  The sheet she was distributing now was green and headed “Instructions for Primary Contacts.” Number one was “Avoid contact with others.”

  Dunworthy thought of Finch and the bell ringers waiting, no doubt, at the gate of Balliol with summons and Scriptures, and of all those Christmas shoppers and detainees between here and there.

  “Record your temp at half-hour intervals,” she said, passing round a yellow form. “Come in immediately if your monitor”—she tapped at her own—“shows a marked increase in temp. Some fluctuation is normal. Temps tend to rise in the late afternoon and evening. Any temp between 36 and 37.4 is normal. Come in immediately if your temp exceeds 37.4 or rises suddenly, or if you begin to feel any symptoms—headache, tightness in the chest, mental confusion, or dizziness.”

  Everyone looked at his or her monitor, and, no doubt, began to feel a headache coming on. Dunworthy had had a headache all afternoon.

  “Avoid contact with others as much as possible,” Mary said. “Keep careful track of any contacts you do have. We’re still uncertain of the mode of transmission, but most myxoviruses spread by droplet and direct contact. Wash your hands with soap and water frequently.”

  She handed Dunworthy another pink sheet. She was running out of colors. This one was a log, headed “Contacts,” and under it, “Name, Address, Type of Contact, Time.”

  It was unfortunate that Badri’s virus had not had to deal with the CDC, the NHS, and the WIC. It would never have got in the door.

  “You must report back here at seven tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I’d recommend a good supper and then to bed. Rest is the best defense against any virus. You are off-duty,” she said, looking at the medics, “for the duration of the temp quarantine.” She passed out several more rainbow-hued papers and then asked brightly, “Any questions?”