Connie Willis - To Say Nothing of the Dog

“How is that possible when according to you, you only made four drops?”

No matter how far my guess had been from the actual number of extended fingers, this was surely an inappropriate response. I considered asking her to repeat the question, but decided she would type in Difficulty in Distinguishing Sounds. I decided on a frontal attack.

“I don’t think you understand the seriousness of the situation,” I said. “The cathedral’s consecration is seventeen days from now, and Lady Schrapnell—”

The nurse handed me a stiff card and went back to making incriminating remarks into the handheld. I looked at the card, hoping it wasn’t something I was supposed to read as a further test of Blurring. Especially as it appeared to be blank.

“It’s essential that the bishop’s bird stump—” I said.

The nurse flipped the card over. “Tell me what you see.”

It appeared to be a postal card of Oxford. Seen from Headington Hill, her dear old dreaming spires and mossy stones, her hushed, elm-shaded quads where the last echoes of the Middle Ages can still be heard, murmuring of ancient learning and scholarly tradition, of—

“That’s about enough of that,” she said, and wrenched the card out of my hand. “You have an advanced case of time-lag, Mr. Henry. I’m prescribing two weeks’ bed rest. And no time travel.”

“Two weeks?” I said. “But the consecration’s in seventeen days—”

“Let other people worry about the consecration. You need to focus on getting rest.”

“You don’t understand—”

She folded her arms. “I certainly don’t. I suppose your devotion to duty is admirable, but why you should want to risk your health to rebuild an archaic symbol of an outmoded religion is beyond me.”

I don’t want to, I thought. Lady Schrapnell wants to, and what Lady Schrapnell wants, Lady Schrapnell gets. She had already overcome the Church of England, Oxford University, a construction crew of four thousand who informed her daily it was impossible to build a cathedral in six months, and the objections of everyone from Parliament to the Coventry City Council, to rebuild her “archaic symbol.” I didn’t stand a chance.

“Do you know what fifty billion pounds could do for medicine?” the nurse said, typing things into the handheld. “We could find a cure for Ebola II, we could vaccinate children all over the world against HIV, we could purchase some decent equipment. With what Lady Schrapnell is spending on the stained-glass windows alone, Radcliffe Infirmary could build an entire new facility with the latest in equipment.” The handheld spit out a strip of paper.

“It isn’t devotion to duty, it’s—”

“It’s criminal carelessness, Mr. Henry.” She tore off the strip and handed it to me. “I want you to follow these instructions to the letter.”

I looked bleakly at the list. The first line read, “Fourteen days’ uninterrupted bed rest.”

There was nowhere in Oxford I could get uninterrupted bed rest, or in England, for that matter. When Lady Schrapnell found out I was back, she’d track me down and interrupt me with a vengeance. I could see her storming in, flinging the covers off, and leading me by the ear over to the net.

“I want you to eat a high-protein diet and drink at least eight glasses of fluid daily,” the nurse said. “No caffeine, no alcohol, no stimulants.”

A thought struck me. “Could I be admitted to Infirmary?” I said hopefully. If anyone could keep Lady Schrapnell out, it would be those Grand Inquisitors, the ward nurses. “Put in isolation or something?”

“Isolation?” she said. “Certainly not. Time-lag isn’t a disease, Mr. Henry. It’s a biochemical imbalance brought about by disruption of the internal clock and the inner ear. You don’t need medical treatment. All you need is rest and the present.”

“But I won’t be able to sleep—”

Her handheld began to bleep. I jumped.

“Exaggerated Nervousness,” she said, typing it into the handheld, and to me, “I want to run a few tests. Take off your clothes and put this on,” she said, taking a paper gown out of a drawer and dumping it on my legs. “I’ll be back directly. The fastening tapes go in the back. And wash up. You’re covered in soot.”

She went out and shut the door. I got off the examining table, leaving a long black smear where I’d been sitting, and went over to the door.

“Worst case of time-lag I’ve ever seen,” she was saying to someone. I hoped it wasn’t Lady Schrapnell. “He could write rhymed verse for the dailies.”

It wasn’t Lady Schrapnell. I knew because I couldn’t hear whoever it was answer.

The nurse said, “He’s showing undue anxiety, which isn’t a usual symptom. I want to run a scan to see if I can find out the source of the anxiety.”

I could tell her right now the source of my anxiety, which was not undue, if she’d only listen, which wasn’t likely. And fierce though she was, she was no match for Lady Schrapnell.

I couldn’t stay here. When you have a scan, they strap you into a long enclosed tube for an hour and a half and communicate with you by microphone. I could hear Lady Schrapnell’s voice booming at me through the earphones, “There you are. Come out of that contraption immediately!”

I couldn’t stay here, and I couldn’t go back to my rooms. They were the first place she’d look. Perhaps I could find somewhere in the infirmary and sleep long enough to be able to think clearly what to do.

Mr. Dunworthy, I thought. If anyone could find me somewhere quiet and unlikely to hide, it would be Mr. Dunworthy. I put the paper gown, somewhat soot-smudged, back in the drawer, tugged on my boots, and climbed out the window.

Balliol was just down the Woodstock Road from Infirmary, but I didn’t dare risk it. I went round to the ambulance entrance, up to Adelaide and through a yard to Walton Street. If Somerville was open, I could cut through its quad to Little Clarendon and down Worcester to the Broad, and come in through Balliol’s back gate.

Somerville was open, but the journey took a good deal longer than I thought it would, and when I did reach the gate, something had happened to it. It had been twisted in on itself, and the ironwork scrolls had been bent into prongs and hooks and points, which kept catching on my coveralls.

At first I thought it was bomb damage, but that couldn’t be right. The Luftwaffe was supposed to hit London tonight. And the gate, including prongs and points, had been painted a bright green.

I tried sidling through crabwise, but the epaulet on my non-AFS uniform caught on one of the hooks, and when I tried to back out, I got even more entangled. I flailed about wildly, trying to free myself.

“Let me help you there, sir,” a polite voice said, and I turned around, as much as I was able, and saw Mr. Dunworthy’s secretary.

“Finch,” I said. “Thank God you’re here. I was just coming to see Mr. Dunworthy.”

He unhooked the epaulet and took hold of my sleeve. “This way, sir,” he said, “no, not that way, through here, that’s it. No, no, this ways,” and led me, finally, to freedom.

But on the same side I’d been when I started. “This is no good, Finch,” I said. “We’ve still got to get through that gate into Balliol.”

“That’s Merton, sir,” he said. “You’re on their playing fields.”

I turned and looked where he was pointing. Finch was right. There was the soccer field, and beyond it the cricket ground, and beyond that, in Christ Church Meadow, the scaffolding-and-blue-plastic-covered spire of Coventry Cathedral.

“How did Balliol’s gate get here?” I said.

“This is Merton’s pedestrian gate.”