Dooms Day Book

by Connie Willis

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Two more people died on the twenty-eighth, both of them secondaries who had been at the dance in Headington, and Latimer had a stroke.

  “He developed myocarditis, which caused a thromboembolism,” Mary had said when she phoned. “At this point he’s completely unresponsive.”

  Over half of Dunworthy’s detainees were down with the flu, and there was only room in infirmary for the most severe cases. Dunworthy and Finch, and a detainee William had found who’d had a year of nurse’s training, gave temps and dispensed orange juice round the clock.

  And worried. When he had told Mary about Badri’s saying, “That can’t be right,” of his saying, “It was the rats,” she had said, “It’s the fever, James. It has no connection with reality. I’ve one patient who keeps talking about the Queen’s elephants,” but he could not get the idea of Kivrin’s being in 1348 out of his mind.

  “What year is it?” Badri had said that first night, and, “That can’t be right.”

  Dunworthy had telephoned Andrews after his argument with Gilchrist and told him he couldn’t get access to Brasenose’s net.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Andrews had said. “The locational coordinates aren’t as critical as the temporals. I’ll get an L and L on the dig from Jesus. I’ve already talked to them about doing the parameter checks, and they said it’s all right.”

  The visuals had been off again, but he had sounded nervous, as if he was afraid Dunworthy would broach the subject again of his coming to Oxford. “I’ve done some research on slippage,” he said. “There are no theoretical limits, but in practice, the minimal slippage is always greater than zero, even in uninhabited areas. Maximal slippage has never gone above five years, and those were all unmanneds. The greatest slippage on a manned drop was a Seventeenth Century remote—two hundred and twenty-six days.”

  “Is there anything else it could be?” Dunworthy had asked, “Anything besides the slippage that could go wrong?”

  “If the coordinates are correct, nothing,” Andrews had said and promised to report as soon as he’d done the parameter checks.

  Five years was 1325. The plague had not even begun in China then, and Badri had told Gilchrist there was minimal slippage. And it couldn’t be the coordinates. Badri had checked them before he fell ill. But the fear continued to nag at him, and he spent the few free moments he could snatch telephoning techs, trying to find someone willing to come read the fix when the sequencing arrived and Gilchrist opened the laboratory again. It was supposed to have arrived yesterday, but when Mary phoned, she had still been waiting for it.

  She phoned again in the late afternoon. “Can you set up a ward?” she asked. The visual was back on. Her SPG’s looked like she’d slept in them, and her mask dangled from her neck by one tie.

  “I’ve already set up a ward,” he said. “It’s full of detainees. We’ve got thirty-one cases as of this afternoon.”

  “Do you have space to set up another one? I don’t need it yet,” she said tiredly, “but at this rate I will. We’re nearly at capacity here, and several of the staff are either down with it or are refusing to come in.”

  “And the sequencing hasn’t come yet?” he asked.

  “No. The WIC just phoned. They got a faulty result the first time through and had to run it again. It’s supposed to be here tomorrow. Now they think it’s a Uruguayan virus.” She smiled wanly. “Badri hasn’t been in contact with anyone from Uruguay, has he? How soon can you have the beds ready?”

  “By this evening,” Dunworthy said, but Finch informed him they were nearly out of folding cots, and he had to go to the NHS and argue them out of a dozen. They didn’t get the ward set up, in two of the Fellows’ teaching rooms, until morning.

  Finch, helping assemble the cots and make beds, announced that they were nearly out of clean linens, face masks, and lavatory paper. “We haven’t enough for the detainees,” he said, tucking in a sheet, “let alone all these patients. And we have no bandages at all.”

  “It’s not a war,” Dunworthy said. “I doubt if there will be any wounded. Did you find out if any of the other colleges has a tech here in Oxford?”

  “Yes, sir, I telephoned all of them, but none of them did.” He tucked a pillow beneath his chin. “I’ve posted notices asking that everyone conserve lavatory paper, but it’s done no good at all. The Americans are particularly wasteful.” He tugged the pillow slip up over the pillow. “I do feel rather sorry for them, though. Helen came down with it last night, you know, and they haven’t any alternates.”

  “Helen?”

  “Ms. Piantini. The tenor. She has a fever of 39.7. The Americans won’t be able to do their Chicago Surprise.”

  Which is probably a blessing, Dunworthy thought. “Ask them if they’ll continue to keep watch on my telephone, even though they’re no longer practicing,” he said. “I’m expecting several important calls. Did Andrews ring back?”

  “No, sir, not yet. And the visual is off.” He plumped the pillow. “It is too bad about the peal. They can do Stedmans, of course, but that’s old hat. It does seem a pity there’s no alternative solution.”

  “Did you get the list of techs?”

  “Yes, sir,” Finch said, struggling with a reluctant cot. He motioned with his head. “It’s there by the chalkboard.”

  Dunworthy picked up the sheets of paper and looked at the one on top. It was filled with columns of numbers, all of them with the digits one through six, in varying order.

  “That’s not it,” Finch said, snatching the papers away. “Those are the changes for the Chicago Surprise.” He handed Dunworthy a single sheet. “Here it is. I’ve listed the techs by college with addresses and telephone numbers.”

  Colin came in, wearing his wet jacket and carrying a roll of tape and a plastene-covered bundle. “The vicar said I’m to put these up in all the wards,” he said, taking out a placard that read, “Feeling Disoriented? Muddled? Mental Confusion Can Be a Warning Sign of the Flu.”

  He tore off a strip of tape and stuck the placard to the chalkboard. “I was just posting these at the Infirmary, and what do you think the Gallstone was doing?” he said, taking another placard out of the bundle. It read, “Wear Your Face Mask.” He taped it to the wall above the cot Finch was making. “Reading the Bible to the patients.” He pocketed the tape. “I hope I don’t catch it.” He tucked the rest of the placards under his arm and started out.

  “Wear your face mask,” Dunworthy said.

  Colin grinned. “That’s what the Gallstone said. And she said, the Lord would smite anyone who heeded not the words of the righteous.” He pulled the gray plaid muffler out of his pocket. “I wear this instead of a face mask,” he said, tying it over his mouth and nose highwayman fashion.

  “Cloth cannot keep out microscopic viruses,” Dunworthy said.

  “I know. It’s the color. It frightens them away.” He darted out.

  Dunworthy rang Mary to tell her the ward was ready but couldn’t get through, so he went over to Infirmary. The rain had let up a little, and people, mostly wearing masks, were out again, coming back from the grocer’s and queueing in front of the chemist’s. But the streets seemed hushed, unnaturally silent.

  Someone’s turned the carillon off, Dunworthy thought. He almost regretted it.

  Mary was in her office, staring at a screen. “The sequencing’s arrived,” she said before he could tell her about the ward.

  “Have you told Gilchrist?” he said eagerly.

  “No,” she said. “It’s not the Uruguay virus. Or the South Carolina.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s an H9N2. Both the South Carolina and the Uruguay were H3’s.”

  “Then where did it come from?”

  “The WIC doesn’t know. It’s not a known virus. It’s previously unsequenced.” She handed him a printout. “It has a seven point mutation, which explains why it’s killing people.”

  He looked at the printout. It was covered with col
umns of numbers, like Finch’s list of changes, and as unintelligible. “It has to come from somewhere.”

  “Not necessarily. Approximately every ten years, there’s a major antigenic shift with epidemic potential, so it may have originated with Badri.” She took the printout back from him. “Does he live around livestock, do you know?”

  “Livestock?” he said. “He lives in a flat in Headington.”

  “Mutant strains are sometimes produced by the intersection of an avian virus with a human strain. The WIC wants us to check possible avian contacts and exposure to radiation. Viral mutations have sometimes been caused by X-rays.” She studied the printout as though it made sense. “It’s an unusual mutation. There’s no recombination of the hemagluttinin genes, only an extremely large point mutation.”

  No wonder she had not told Gilchrist. He had said he would open the laboratory when the sequencing arrived, but this news would only fuel his ridiculous theories.

  “Is there a cure?”

  “There will be as soon as an analogue can be manufactured. And a vaccine. They’ve already begun work on the prototype.”

  “How long?”

  “Three to five days to produce a prototype, then at least another five to manufacture, if they don’t run into any difficulty with duplicating the proteins. We should be able to begin inoculating by the tenth.”

  The tenth. And that was when they could begin giving immunizations. How long would it take to immunize the quarantine area? A week? Two? Before Gilchrist and the idiot protesters considered it safe to open the laboratory?

  “That’s too long,” Dunworthy said.

  “I know,” Mary said, and sighed. “God knows how many cases we’ll have by then. There have been five new ones already this morning.”

  “Do you think it’s a mutant strain?” Dunworthy asked.

  She thought about it. “No. I think it’s much more likely that Badri caught it from someone at that dance in Headington. There may have been New Hindus there, or Earthers, or someone else who doesn’t believe in antivirals or modern medicine. The Canadian goose flu of 2010, if you’ll remember, was traced back to a Christian Science commune. There’s a source. We’ll find it.”

  “And what about Kivrin in the meantime? What if you don’t find the source by the rendezvous? Kivrin’s supposed to come back on the sixth of January. Will you have it sourced by then?”

  “I don’t know,” she said wearily. “She may not want to come back to a century that’s rapidly becoming a ten. She may want to stay in 1320.”

  If she’s in 1320, he thought, and went up to see Badri. He had not mentioned rats since Christmas night. He was back to the afternoon at Balliol when he had come looking for Dunworthy. “Laboratory?” he murmured when he saw Dunworthy. He tried feebly to hand him a note, and then seemed to sink into sleep, exhausted by the effort.

  He stayed only a few minutes and then went to see Gilchrist.

  It was raining hard again by the time he reached Brasenose. The gaggle of picketers were huddling underneath their banner, shivering.

  The porter was standing at the lodge desk, taking the decorations off the little Christmas tree. He glanced up at Dunworthy and looked suddenly alarmed. Dunworthy walked past him and through the gate.

  “You can’t go in there, Mr. Dunworthy,” the porter called after him. “The college is restricted.”

  Dunworthy walked into the quad. Gilchrist’s rooms were in the building behind the laboratory. He hurried toward them, expecting the porter to catch up to him and try to stop him.

  The laboratory had a large yellow sign on it that read “No Admittance Without Authorization,” and an electronic alarm attached to the jamb.

  “Mr. Dunworthy,” Gilchrist said, striding toward him through the rain. The porter must have phoned him. “The laboratory is off-limits.”

  “I came to see you,” Dunworthy said.

  The porter came up, trailing a tinsel garland. “Shall I phone for the University police?” he asked.

  “That won’t be necessary. Come up to my rooms,” he said to Dunworthy. “I have something I want you to see.”

  He led Dunworthy into his office, sat down at his cluttered desk, and put on an elaborate mask with some sort of filters.

  “I’ve just spoken to the WIC,” he said. His voice sounded hollow, as if it were coming from a great distance. “The virus is a previously unsequenced virus whose source is unknown.”

  “It’s been sequenced now,” Dunworthy said, “and the analogue and vaccine are due to arrive in a few days. Dr. Ahrens has arranged for Brasenose to be given immunization priority, and I’m attempting to locate a tech who can read the fix as soon as immunization has been completed.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Gilchrist said hollowly. “I’ve been conducting research into the incidence of influenza in the 1300’s. There are clear indications that a series of influenza epidemics in the first half of the fourteenth century severely weakened the populace, thereby lowering their resistance to the Black Death.”

  He picked up an ancient-looking book. I have found six separate references to outbreaks between October of 1318 and February of 1321.” He held up a book and began to read. “‘After the harvest there came upon all of Dorset a fever so fierce as to leave many dead. This fever began with an aching in the head and confusion in all the parts. The doctors bled them, but many died in despite.’”

  A fever. In an age of fevers—typhoid and cholera and measles, all of them producing “aching of the head and confusion in all the parts.”

  “1319. The Bath Assizes for the previous year were cancelled,” Gilchrist said, holding up another book. “‘A malady of the chest that fell upon the court so that none, nor judge nor jury, were left to hear the cases,’” Gilchrist said. He looked at Dunworthy over the mask. “You stated that the public’s fears over the net were hysterical and unfounded. It would seem, however, that they are based in solid historical fact.”

  Solid historical fact. References to fevers and maladies of the chest that could be anything, blood poisoning or typhus or any of a hundred nameless infections. All of which was beside the point.

  “The virus cannot have come through the net,” he said. “Drops have been made to the Pandemic, to World War I battles in which mustard gas was used, to Tel Aviv. Twentieth Century sent detection equipment to the site of St. Paul’s two days after the pinpoint was dropped. Nothing comes through.”

  “So you say.” He held up a printout. “Probability indicates a.003 per cent possibility of a microorganism being transmitted through the net and a 22.1 per cent chance of a viable myxovirus being within the critical area when the net was opened.”

  “Where in God’s name do you get these figures?” Dunworthy said. “Pull them out of a hat? According to Probability,” he said, putting a nasty emphasis on the word, “there was only a.04 per cent chance of anyone’s being present when Kivrin went through, a possibility you considered statistically insignificant.”

  “Viruses are exceptionally sturdy organisms,” Gilchrist said. “They have been known to lie dormant for long periods of time, exposed to extremes of temperature and humidity, and still be viable. Under certain conditions they form crystals which retain their structure indefinitely. When put back into solution they become infective again. Viable tobacco mosaic crystals have been found dating from the sixteenth century.

  “There is clearly a significant risk of the virus’s penetrating the net if opened, and under the circumstances I cannot possibly allow the net to be opened.”

  “The virus cannot have come through the net,” Dunworthy said.

  “Then why are you so anxious to have the fix read?”

  “Because–” Dunworthy said, and stopped to get control of himself. “Because reading the fix will tell us whether the drop went as planned or whether something went wrong.”

  “Oh, you’ll admit there’s a possibility of error then?” Gilchrist said. “Then why not an error that would allow a virus
through the net? As long as that possibility exists, the laboratory will remain locked. I’m certain Mr. Basingame will approve of the course of action I’ve taken.”

  Basingame, Dunworthy thought, that’s what this is all about. It has nothing to do with the virus or the protesters or ‘maladies of the chest’ in 1318. This is all to justify himself to Basingame.

  Gilchrist was Acting Head in Basingame’s absence, and he had rushed through the reranking, rushed through a drop, intending no doubt to present Basingame with a brilliant fait accompli. But he hadn’t got it. Instead, he’d got an epidemic and a lost historian and people picketing the college, and now all he cared about was vindicating his actions, saving himself even though it meant sacrificing Kivrin.

  “What about Kivrin? Does Kivrin approve of your course of action?” he said.

  “Ms. Engle was fully aware of the risks when she volunteered to go to 1320,” Gilchrist said.

  “Was she aware you intended to abandon her?”

  “This conversation is over, Mr. Dunworthy.” Gilchrist stood up. “I will open the laboratory when the virus has been sourced, and it has been proven to my satisfaction that there is no chance it came through the net.”

  He showed Dunworthy to the door. The porter was waiting outside.

  “I have no intention of allowing you to abandon Kivrin,” Dunworthy said.

  Gilchrist crimped his lips under the mask. “And I have no intention of allowing you to endanger the health of this community.” He turned to the porter. “Escort Mr. Dunworthy to the gate. If he attempts to enter Brasenose again, telephone the police.” He slammed the door.

  The porter walked Dunworthy across the quad, watching him warily, as if he thought he might turn suddenly dangerous.

  I might, Dunworthy thought. “I want to use your telephone,” he said when they reached the gate. “University business.”

  The porter looked nervous, but he set a telephone on the counter and watched while Dunworthy punched Balliol’s number. When Finch answered, he said, “We’ve got to locate Basingame. It’s an emergency. Phone the Scottish Fishing License Bureau and compile a list of hotels and inns. And get me Polly Wilson’s number.”