Connie Willis - Doomsday Book

Unfortunately (and luckily for Father Roche) he was not the envoy, but only his clerk. The envoy was the one in the red, also very impressive, with gold embroidery and a sable hem.

The third is a Cistercian monk — at least he wears the white habit of one, though it's made of even finer wool than my cloak and has a silk cord for a sash, and he wears a ring fit for a king on each of his fat fingers, but he doesn't act like a monk. He and the envoy both demanded wine before they'd even dismounted, and it's obvious the clerk had already drunk a good deal before he got here. He slipped just now getting off his horse and had to be supported into the hall by the fat monk.

I was apparently wrong about the reason for their coming here. Eliwys and Sir Bloet went off in a corner with the bishop's envoy as soon as they got in the house, but they only talked to him for a few minutes, and I just heard her tell Imeyne, "They have heard naught of Guillaume."

Imeyne didn't seem surprised or even particularly concerned at this news. It's clear she thinks they're here to bring her a new chaplain, and she is falling all over them, insisting that the Christmas feast be brought in immediately and that the bishop's envoy sit in the high seat. They seem more interested in drinking than in eating. Imeyne fetched them cups of wine herself, and they've already gone through them and called for more. The clerk caught hold of Maisry's skirt as she brought the pitcher, pulled her in hand over hand, and stuck his hand down her shift. She, of course, clapped her hands over her ears.

The one good thing about them being here is that they add tremendously to the general confusion. I only had a moment to talk to Gawyn, but sometime in the next day or so I'll surely be able to speak to him without anyone noticing — especially since Imeyne's attention is riveted on the envoy, who just grabbed the pitcher from Maisry and poured his wine himself — and get him to show me where the drop is. There's plenty of time. I have nearly a week.

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."