Connie Willis: Dooms Day Book

It was true. He had been visualizing Kivrin as he last saw her, lying amid the wreckage with her temple bloody, but that was probably all wrong. She had gone through nearly an hour ago. Even if no traveller had come along yet, the road would get cold, and he couldn’t imagine Kivrin lying there docilely in the Middle Ages with her eyes closed.

The first time he had gone through to the past he had been doing there-and-backs while they calibrated the fix. They had sent him through in the middle of the quad in the middle of the night, and he was supposed to stand there while they did the calculations on the fix and picked him up again. But he was in Oxford in 1956, and the check was bound to take at least ten minutes. He had sprinted four blocks down the Broad to see the old Bodleian and nearly given the tech heart failure when she opened the net and couldn’t find him.

Kivrin would not still be lying there with her eyes shut, not with the mediaeval world spread out before her. He could see her suddenly, standing there in that ridiculous white cloak, scanning the Oxford-Bath road for unwary travellers, ready to fling herself back on the ground at a moment’s notice, and in the meantime taking it all in, her implanted hands clasped together in a prayer of impatience and delight, and he felt suddenly reassured.

She would be perfectly all right. She would step back through the net in two weeks’ time, her white cloak grubby beyond belief, full of stories about harrowing adventures and hair’s– breadth escapes, tales to curdle the blood, no doubt, things that would give him nightmares for weeks after her telling him about them.

“She’ll be all right, you know, James,” Mary said, frowning at him.

“I know,” he said. He went and got them another half pint apiece. “When did you say your great-nephew was getting in?”

“At three. He’s staying a week, and I’ve no idea what to do with him. Except worry, of course. I suppose I could take him to the Ashmolean. Children always like museums, don’t they? Pocahontas’s robe and all that?”

Dunworthy remembered Pocahontas’s robe as being a completely uninteresting scrap of stiff grayish material much like Colin’s intended muffler. “I’d suggest the Natural History Museum.”

There was a rattle of tinsel and some “Ding Dong, Merrily on High” and Dunworthy looked anxiously over at the door. His secretary was standing on the threshold, squinting blindly into the pub.

“Perhaps I should send Colin up Carfax Tower to vandalize the carillon,” Mary said.

“It’s Finch,” Dunworthy said, and put his hand up so he could see them, but he had already started for their table. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, sir,” he said. “Something’s gone wrong.”

“With the fix?”

His secretary looked blank. “The fix? No, sir. It’s the Americans. They’ve arrived early.”

“What Americans?”

“The bellringers. From Colorado. The Western States’ Women’s Guild of Change and Handbell Ringers.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve imported more Christmas bells,” Mary said.

“I thought they were supposed to arrive on the twenty– second,” Dunworthy said to Finch.

“This is the twenty-second,” Finch said. “They were to arrive this afternoon but their concert at Exeter was cancelled, so they’re ahead of schedule. I called Mediaeval, and Mr. Gilchrist told me he thought you’d gone out to celebrate.” He looked at Dunworthy’s empty mug.

“I’m not celebrating,” Dunworthy said. “I’m waiting for the fix on one of my students.” He looked at his watch. “It will take at least another hour.”

“You promised you’d take them on a tour of the local bells, sir.”

“There’s really no reason why you need to be here,” Mary said. “I can ring you at Balliol as soon as the fix is in.”

“I’ll come when we have the fix,” Dunworthy said, glaring at Mary. “Show them round the college and then give them lunch. That should take an hour.”

Finch looked unhappy. “They’re only here until four o’clock. They have a handbells concert tonight in Ely, and they’re extremely eager to see Christ Church’s bells.”

“Then take them to Christ Church. Show them Great Tom. Take them up in St. Martin’s tower. Or take them round to New College. I will be there as soon as I can.”

Finch looked like he was going to ask something else and then changed his mind. “I’ll tell them you’ll be there within the hour, sir,” he said and started for the door. Halfway there he stopped and came back. “I almost forgot, sir. The vicar called to ask if you’d be willing to read the Scripture for the Christmas Eve interchurch service. It’s to be at St. Mary the Virgin’s this year.”

“Tell him yes,” Dunworthy said, thankful that he’d given up on the change ringers. “And tell him we’ll need to get into the belfry this afternoon so I can show these Americans the bells.”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “What about Iffley? Do you think I should take them out to Iffley? They’ve a very nice eleventh century.”

“By all means,” Dunworthy said. “Take them to Iffley. I will be back as soon as I can .”

Finch opened his mouth and closed it again. “Yes, sir,” he said, and went out the door to the accompaniment of “The Holly and the Ivy.”

“You were a bit hard on him, don’t you think?” Mary asked. “After all, Americans can be terrifying.”

“He’ll be back in five minutes asking me whether he should take them to Christ Church first,” Dunworthy said. “The boy has absolutely no initiative.”

“I thought you admired that in young people,” Mary said wryly. “At any rate, he won’t go running off to the Middle Ages.”

The door opened, and “The Holly and the Ivy” started up again. “That’ll be him wanting to know what he should give them for lunch.”

“Boiled beef and overcooked vegetables,” Mary said. “Americans love to tell stories about our dreadful cooking. Oh, dear.”

Dunworthy looked toward the door. Gilchrist and Latimer stood there, haloed in the gray light from outside. Gilchrist was smiling broadly and saying something over the bells. Latimer struggled to collapse a large black umbrella.

“I suppose we’ve got to be civil and invite them to join us,” Mary said.

Dunworthy reached for his coat. “Be civil if you like. I have no intention of listening to those two congratulating each other for having sent an inexperienced young girl into danger.”

“You’re sounding like you-know-who again,” Mary said. “They wouldn’t be here if anything had gone wrong. Perhaps Badri’s got the fix.”

“It’s too soon for that,” he said, but he sat back down again. “More likely he threw them out so he could get on with it.”

Gilchrist had apparently caught sight of him as he stood up. He half-turned, as if to walk back out again, but Latimer was already nearly to the table. Gilchrist followed, no longer smiling.

“Is the fix in?” Dunworthy asked.

“The fix?” Gilchrist said vaguely.

“The fix ,” Dunworthy said. “The determination of where and when Kivrin is that makes it possible to pull her out again.”

“Your tech said it would take at least an hour to determine the coordinates,” Gilchrist said stuffily. “Does it always take him that long? He said he would come tell us when it was completed, but that the preliminary readings indicate that the drop went perfectly and that there was minimal slippage.”

“What good news!” Mary said, sounding relieved. “Do come sit down. We’ve been waiting for the fix, too, and having a pint. Will you have something to drink?” she asked Latimer, who had got the umbrella down and was fastening the strap.