Connie Willis - Dooms Day Book

“Hi,” a woman said.

Dunworthy frowned at the number in the inset, but he hadn’t misdialed. “I’m trying to reach Mr. Finch at Balliol College.”

“He’s not here right now,” the woman, obviously American, said. “I’m Ms. Taylor. Can I take a message?”

This must be one of the bellringers. She was younger than he’d expected, not much over thirty, and she looked rather delicate to be a bellringer. “Would you have him call Mr. Dunworthy at Infirmary as soon as he returns, please?”

“Mr. Dunworthy.” She wrote it down, and then looked up sharply. “Mr. Dun worthy,” she said in an entirely different tone of voice, “are you the person responsible for our being held prisoner here?”

There was no good answer to that. He should never have phoned the junior common room. He had sent Finch to the bursar’s office.

“The National Health Service issues temp quarantines in cases of an unidentified disease. It’s a precautionary measure. I’m sorry for any inconvenience it’s caused you. I’ve instructed my secretary to make your stay comfortable, and if there’s anything I can do for you—”

“Do? Do?! You can get us to Ely, that’s what you can do. My ringers were supposed to give a handbell concert at the cathedral at eight o’clock, and tomorrow we have to be in Norwich. We’re ringing a peal on Christmas Eve.”

He was not about to be the one to tell her they were not going to be in Norwich tomorrow. “I’m sure that Ely is already aware of the situation, but I will be more than happy to phone the cathedral and explain—”

“Explain! Perhaps you’d like to explain it to me, too. I’m not used to having my civil liberties taken away like this. In America, nobody would dream of telling you where you can or can’t go.”

And over ten million Americans died during the Pandemic as a result of that sort of thinking, he thought. “I assure you, Madam, that the quarantine is solely for your protection and that all of your concert dates will be more than willing to reschedule. In the meantime, Balliol is delighted to have you as our guests. I am looking forward to meeting you in person. Your reputation precedes you.”

And if that were true, he thought, I would have told you Oxford was under quarantine when you wrote for permission to come.

“There is no way to reschedule a Christmas Eve peal. We were to have rung a new peal, the Chicago Surprise Minor. The Norwich Chapter is counting on us to be there, and we intend—”

He hit the disconnect button. Finch was probably in the bursar’s office, looking for Badri’s medical records, but Dunworthy wasn’t going to risk getting another bell ringer. He looked up Regional Transport’s number instead and started to punch it in.

The door at the end of the corridor opened, and Mary came through it.

“I’m trying Regional Transport,” Dunworthy said, punching in the rest of the number and passing her the receiver.

She waved it away, smiling. “It’s all right. I’ve just spoken to Dierdre. Colin’s train was stopped at Barton. The passengers were put on the tube back to London. She’s going down to Marble Arch to meet him.” She sighed. “Dierdre didn’t sound very glad that he’s coming home. She planned to spend Christmas with her new livein’s family, and I think she rather wanted him out of the way, but it can’t be helped. I’m simply glad he’s out of this.”

He could hear the relief in her voice. He put the receiver back. “Is it that bad?”

“We just got the preliminary ident back. It’s definitely a Type A myxovirus. Influenza.”

He had been expecting something worse, some third world fever or a retrovirus. He had had the flu back in the days before antivirals. He had felt terrible, congested, feverish, achy, for a few days and then gotten over it without anything but bedrest and fluids.

“Will they call the quarantine off then?”

“Not until we get Badri’s medical records,” she said. “I keep hoping he skipped his last course of antivirals. If not, then we’ll have to wait till we locate the source.”

“But it’s only the flu.”

“If there’s a small antigenic shift, a point or two, it’s only the flu,” she corrected him. “If there’s a large shift, it’s influenza, which is an entirely different matter. The Spanish Flu pandemic of 1918 was a myxovirus. It killed twenty million people. Viruses mutate every few months. The antigens on their surface change so that they’re unrecognizable to the immune system. That’s why seasonals are necessary. But they can’t protect against a large point shift.”

“And that’s what this is?”

“I doubt it. Major mutations only happen every ten years or so. I think it’s more likely that Badri failed to get his seasonals. Do you know if he was running an on-site at the beginning of term?”

“No. He may have been.”

“If he was, he may simply have forgotten to go in for them, in which case all he has is this winter’s flu.”

“What about Kivrin? Has she had her seasonals?”

“Yes, and full-spectrum antivirals and T-cell enhancement. She’s fully protected.”

“Even if it’s influenza?”

She hesitated a fraction of a second. “If she was exposed to the virus through Badri this morning, she’s fully protected.”

“And if she saw him before then?”

“If I tell you this, you’ll only worry, and I’m certain there’s no need to.” She took a breath. “The enhancement and the antivirals were given so that she would have peak immunity at the beginning of the drop.”

“And Gilchrist moved the drop up by two days,” Dunworthy said bitterly.

“I wouldn’t have allowed her to go through if I hadn’t thought it was all right.”

“But you hadn’t counted on her being exposed to an influenza virus before she even left.”

“No, but it doesn’t change anything. She has partial immunity, and we’re not certain she was even exposed. Badri scarcely went near her.”

“And what if she was exposed earlier?”

“I knew I shouldn’t have told you,” Mary said. She sighed. “Most myxoviruses have an incubation period of from twelve to forty-eight hours. Even if Kivrin was exposed two days ago, she’d have had enough immunity to prevent the virus from replicating sufficiently to cause anything but minor symptoms. But it’s not influenza.” She patted his arm. “And you’re forgetting the paradoxes. If she’d been exposed, she’d have been highly contagious. The net would never have let her through.”

She was right. Diseases couldn’t go through the net if there was any possibility of the contemps contracting them. The paradoxes wouldn’t allow it. The net wouldn’t have opened.

“What are the chances of the population in 1320 being immune?” he asked.

“To a modern-day virus? Almost none. There are eighteen hundred possible mutation points. The contemps would have all had to have had the exact virus, or they’d be vulnerable.”

Vulnerable. “I want to see Badri,” he said. “When he came to the pub, he said there was something wrong. He kept repeating it in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.”

“Something is wrong,” Mary said. “He’s got a serious viral infection.”

“Or he knows he exposed Kivrin. Or he didn’t get the fix.”

“He said he got the fix.” She looked sympathetically at him. “I suppose it’s useless to tell you not to worry about Kivrin. You saw how I’ve just acted over Colin. But I meant it when I said they’re both safer out of this. Kivrin’s much better off where she is than she would be here, even among those cutthroats and thieves you persist in imagining. At least she won’t have to deal with NHS quarantine regulations