The Doomsday Book

by Connie Willis

  “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 percent 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.”

  He wrote down the number, rang off, and started to punch it in and then thought better of it and telephoned Mary.

  “I want to help source the virus,” he said.

  “Gilchrist wouldn’t open the net,” she said.

  “No,” he said. “What can I do to help with the sourcing?”

  “What you were doing before with the primaries. Trace the contacts, look for the things I told you about, exposure to radiation, proximity to birds or livestock, religions that forbid antivirals. You’ll need the contacts charts.”

  “I’ll send Colin for them,” he said.

  “I’ll have someone get them ready. You’d better check Badri’s contacts back four to six days, as well, in case the virus did originate with him. The time of incubation from a reservoir can be longer than a person-to-person incubation period.”

  “I’ll put William on it,” he said. He pushed the phone back at the porter, who immediately came around the counter and walked him out to the pavement. Dunworthy was surprised he didn’t follow him all the way to Balliol.

  As soon as he got there, he phoned Polly Wilson. “Is there some way you can get into the net’s console without having access to the laboratory?” he asked her. “Can you go in directly through the University’s computer?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “The University’s computer is moated. I might be able to rig a battering ram, or worm in from Balliol’s console. I’ll have to see what the safeties are. Do you have a tech to read it if I can get it set up?”

  “I’m getting one,” he said. He rang off.

  Colin came in, dripping wet, to get another roll of tape. “Did you know the sequencing came, and the virus is a mutant?”

  “Yes,” Dunworthy said. “I want you to go to Infirmary and get the contacts charts from your great-aunt.”

  Colin set down his load of placards. The one on top read “Do Not Have a Relapse.”

  “They’re saying it’s some sort of biological weapon,” Colin said. “They’re saying it escaped from a laboratory.”

  Not Gilchrist’s, he thought bitterly. “Do you know where William Gaddson is?”

  “No.” Colin made a face. “He’s probably on the staircase kissing someone.”

  He was in the buttery, embracing one of the detainees. Dunworthy told him to find out Badri’s whereabouts for Thursday through Sunday morning and to obtain a copy of Basingame’s credit records for December, and went back to his rooms to telephone techs.

  One of them was running a net for Nineteenth Century in Moscow, and two of them had gone skiing. The others weren’t at home, or perhaps, alerted by Andrews, they weren’t answering.

  Colin brought the contacts charts. They were a disaster. No attempt had been made to correlate any of the information except possible American connections, and there were too many contacts. Half of the primaries had been at the dance in Headington, two thirds of them had gone Christmas shopping, all but two of them had ridden the tube. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

  He spent half the night checking religious affiliations and running cross-matches. Forty-two of them were Church of England, nine Holy Re-Formed, seventeen unaffiliated. Eight were students at Shrewsbury College, eleven had stood in line at Debenham’s to see Father Christmas, nine had worked on Montoya’s dig, thirty had shopped at Blackwell’s.

  Twenty-one of them had cross-contacts with at least two secondaries, and Debenham’s Father Christmas had had contact with thirty-two (all but eleven at a pub after his shift), but none of them could be traced to all the primaries except Badri.

  Mary brought the overflow cases in the morning. She was wearing SPG’s, but no mask. “Are the beds ready?” she said.

  “Yes. We’ve got two wards of ten beds each.”

  “Good. I’ll need all of them.”

  They helped the patients into the makeshift ward and into bed and left them in the care of William’s nurse trainee. “The stretcher cases will be over as soon as we have an ambulance free,” Mary said, walking back across the quad with Dunworthy.

  The rain had stopped completely, and the sky was lighter, as if it might clear.

  “When will the analogue arrive?” he asked.

  “It’ll be two days at the least,” she said.

  They reached the gate. She leaned against the stone passageway. “When all this is over, I’m going to go through the net,” she said. “To some century where there aren’t any epidemics, where there isn’t any waiting or worrying or helpless standing
by.”

  She pushed her hand back over her gray hair. “Some century that isn’t a ten.” She smiled. “Only there isn’t one, is there?”

  He shook his head.

  “Did I ever tell you about the Valley of the Kings?” she said.

  “You said you saw it during the Pandemic.”

  She nodded. “Cairo was quarantined, so we had to fly out of Addis Ababa, and on the way down I bribed the taxi driver to take us to the Valley of the Kings so I could see Tutankhamen’s tomb,” she said. “It was a foolhardy thing to do. The Pandemic had already reached Luxor, and we just missed being caught in the quarantine. We were shot at twice.” She shook her head. “We might have been killed. My sister refused to get out of the car, but I went down the stairs and up to the door of the tomb, and I thought, This is what it was like when Carter found it.”

  She looked at Dunworthy and through him, remembering it. “When they found the door to the tomb, it was locked, and they were supposed to wait for the proper authorities to open it. Carter drilled a hole in the door, and held a candle up and looked through.” Her voice was hushed. “Carnarvon said, ‘Can you see anything?’ and Carter said, ‘Yes. Wonderful things.’ ”

  She closed her eyes. “I’ve never forgotten that, standing there at that closed door. I can see it clearly even now.” She opened her eyes. “Perhaps that’s where I’ll go when this is over. To the opening of King Tut’s tomb.”

  She leaned out the gate. “Oh, dear, it’s started raining again. I must get back. I’ll send the stretcher cases as soon as there’s an ambulance.” She looked sharply at him. “Why aren’t you wearing your mask?”

  “It causes my spectacles to steam up. Why aren’t you wearing yours?”

  “We’re running out of them. You’ve had your T-cell enhancement, haven’t you?”

  He shook his head. “I haven’t had any time.”

  “Make time,” she said. “And wear your mask. You’ll be of no help to Kivrin if you fall ill.”

  I’m of no help to Kivrin now, he thought, walking back across to his rooms. I can’t get into the laboratory, I can’t get a tech to come to Oxford, I can’t find Basingame. He tried to think who else he should contact. He’d checked every booking agent and fishing guide and boat rental in Scotland. There was no trace of the man. Perhaps Montoya was right, and he wasn’t in Scotland at all, but off in the tropics somewhere with a woman.

  Montoya. He’d forgotten completely about her. He hadn’t seen her since the Christmas Eve service. She’d been looking for Basingame then so he could sign the authorization for her to go out to the dig, and then she had rung up on Christmas Day to ask whether Basingame was trout or salmon. And rung back with the message, “Never mind.” Which might mean she had found out not only whether he was salmon or trout but the man himself.

  He climbed the staircase to his rooms. If Montoya had located Basingame and got her authorization, she would have gone straight out to the dig. She would not have waited to tell anyone. He was not even certain she knew he was looking for Basingame, too.

  Basingame would surely have come back as soon as Montoya told him about the quarantine unless he had been stopped by bad weather or impassable roads. Or Montoya might not have told him about the quarantine. Obsessed as she was with the dig, she might merely have told him she needed his signature.

  Ms. Taylor, her four healthy bell ringers, and Finch were in his rooms, standing in a circle and bending their knees. Finch was holding a paper in one hand and counting under his breath. “I was just going over to the ward to assign nurses,” he said sheepishly. “Here’s William’s report.” He handed it to Dunworthy and scurried out.

  Ms. Taylor and her foursome gathered up their handbell cases. “A Ms. Wilson called,” Ms. Taylor said. “She said to tell you a battering ram won’t work, and you’ll have to go in through Brasenose’s console.”

  “Thank you,” Dunworthy said.

  She went out, her four bell ringers in a line behind her.

  He rang the dig. No answer. He rang Montoya’s flat, her office at Brasenose, the dig again. There was no answer at any of them. He phoned her flat again and let it ring while he looked at William’s report. Badri had spent all day Saturday and Sunday morning working at the dig. William must have been in contact with Montoya to find that out.

  He wondered suddenly about the dig itself. It was out in the country from Witney, on a National Trust farm. Perhaps it had ducks, or chickens, or pigs, or all three. And Badri had spent an entire day and a half working there, digging in the mud, a perfect chance to come in contact with a reservoir.

  Colin came in, soaked to the skin. “They ran out of placards,” he said, rummaging through his duffel. “London’s sending some more tomorrow.” He unearthed his gobstopper and popped it, lint and all, into his mouth. “Do you know who’s standing on your staircase?” he asked. He flung himself onto the window seat and opened his Middle Ages book. “William and some girl. Kissing and talking all lovey-dovey. I could scarcely get past.”

  Dunworthy opened the door. William disengaged himself reluctantly from a small brunette in a Burberry and came in.

  “Do you know where Ms. Montoya is?” Dunworthy asked.

  “No. The NHS said she’s out at the dig, but she’s not answering the phone. She’s probably out in the churchyard or somewhere on the farm and can’t hear it. I thought of using a screamer, but then I remembered this girl who’s reading archaeohistory and …” He nodded toward the small brunette. “She told me she saw the assignment sheets out at the dig, and Badri was signed up for Saturday and Sunday.”

  “A screamer? What’s that?”

  “You hook it to the line and it magnifies the ring on the other end. If the person’s out in the garden or in the shower or something.”

  “Can you put one on this phone?”

  “They’re a bit too complicated for me. I know a student who might be able to rig it, though. I’ve got her number in my rooms.” He left, holding hands with the brunette.

  “You know, if Ms. Montoya is at the dig, I could get you through the perimeter,” Colin said. He took his gobstopper out and examined it. “It’d be easy. There are lots of places that aren’t watched. The guards don’t like to stand out in the rain.”

  “I have no intention of breaking quarantine,” Dunworthy said. “We are trying to stop this epidemic, not spread it.”

  “That’s how the plague was spread during the Black Death,” Colin said, taking the gobstopper out and examining it. It was a sickly yellow. “They kept trying to run away from it, but they just took it along with them.”

  William stuck his head in the door. “She says it’d take two days to set it up, but she’s got one on her phone if you want to use that.”

  Colin grabbed for his jacket. “Can I go?”

  “No,” Dunworthy said. “And get out of those wet clothes. I don’t want you catching the flu.” He went down the stairs with William.

  “She’s an undergratudate at Shrewsbury,” William said, heading off through the rain.

  Colin caught up with them halfway across the quad. “I can’t catch it. I had my enhancement,” he said. “They didn’t have quarantines during the Black Death, so it went everywhere.” He pulled his muffler out of his jacket pocket. “Botley Road’s a good place to sneak through the perimeter. There’s a pub on the corner by the blockade, and the guard nips in now and again for something to keep warm.”

  “Fasten your jacket,” Dunworthy said.

  The girl turned out to be Polly Wilson. She told Dunworthy she had been working on an optical traitor that could break into the console, but hadn’t managed it yet. Dunworthy phoned the dig, but there was no answer.

  “Let it ring,” Polly said. “She may have a long trek to get to it. The screamer’s got a range of half a kilometer.”

  He let it ring for ten minutes, put the receiver down, waited five minutes, tried again and let it ring a quarter of an hour before admitting defeat. Polly was looking longin
gly at William, and Colin was shivering in his wet jacket. Dunworthy took him home and put him to bed.

  “Or I could sneak through the perimeter and tell her to phone you,” Colin said, putting his gobstopper back in the duffel. “If you’re worried about being too old to go. I’m very good at getting through perimeters.”

  Dunworthy waited till William returned the next morning and then went back to Shrewsbury and tried again, but to no avail. “I’ll set it to ring at half-hour intervals,” Polly said, walking him to the gate. “You wouldn’t know if William has any other girlfriends, would you?”

  “No,” Dunworthy said.

  The sound of bells clanged out suddenly from the direction of Christ Church, pealing loudly through the rain. “Has someone switched that horrid carillon on again?” Polly asked, leaning out to listen.

  “No,” he said. “It’s the Americans.” He cocked his head in the direction of the sound, trying to determine whether Ms. Taylor had settled for Stedmans, but he could hear six bells, the ancient bells of Osney: Douce and Gabriel and Marie, one after the other, Clement and Hautclerc and Taylor. “And Finch.”

  They sounded remarkably good, not at all like the digital carillon, not at all like “O Christ Who Interfaces with the World.” They rang out clearly and brightly, and Dunworthy could almost see the bell ringers in their circle in the belfry, bending their knees and raising their arms, Finch referring to his list of numbers.

  “Every man must stick to his bell without interruption,” Ms. Taylor had said. He had had nothing but interruptions, but he felt oddly cheered nonetheless. Ms. Taylor had not been able to get her bell ringers to Norwich for Christmas Eve, but she had stuck to her bells, and they rang out deafeningly, deliriously overhead, like a celebration, a victory. Like Christmas morning. He would find Montoya. And Basingame. Or a tech who wasn’t afraid of the quarantine. He would find Kivrin.

  The telephone was ringing when he got back to Balliol. He galloped up the stairs, hoping it was Polly. It was Montoya.

  “Dunworthy?” she said. “Hi. It’s Lupe Montoya. What’s going on?”

  “Where are you?” he demanded.