"The past three days," he said.
They continued to wait. Dunworthy drank another cup of tea. Montoya rang up the NHS and tried to persuade them to give her a quarantine exemption so she could go back to the dig. The female medic went back to sleep.
The nurse wheeled in a trolley with supper on it. "'Greet chere made our hoste us everichon, And to the soper sette us anon,'" Latimer said, the only remark he had made all afternoon.
While they ate, Gilchrist regaled Latimer with his plans for sending Kivrin to the aftermath of the Black Death. "The accepted historical view is that it completely destroyed mediaeval society," he told Latimer as he cut his roast beef, "but my research indicates it was purgative rather than catastrophic."
From whose point of view? Dunworthy thought, wondering what was taking so long. He wondered if they were truly processing the blood tests or if they were simply waiting for one or all of them to collapse across the tea trolley so they could get a fix on the incubation period.
Gilchrist rang up New College again and asked for Basingame's secretary.
"She's not there," Dunworthy said. "She's in Devonshire with her daughter for Christmas."
Gilchrist ignored him. "Yes. I need to get a message through to her. I'm trying to reach Mr. Basingame. It's an emergency. We've just sent an historian to the 1300's, and Balliol failed to properly screen the tech who ran the net. As a result, he's contracted a contagious virus." He put the phone down. "If Mr. Chaudhuri failed to have any of the necessary antivirals, I'm holding you personally responsible, Mr. Dunworthy."
"He had the full course in September," Dunworthy said.
"Have you proof of that?" Gilchrist said.
"Did it come through?" the medic asked.
They all, even Latimer, turned to look at her in surprise. Until she'd spoken, she'd seemed fast asleep, her head far forward on her chest and her arms folded, holding the contacts lists.
"You said you sent somebody back to the Middle Ages," she said belligerently. "Did it?"
"I'm afraid I don't -- " Gilchrist said.
"This virus," she said. "Could it have come through the time machine?"
Gilchrist looked nervously at Dunworthy. "That isn't possible, is it?"
"No," Dunworthy said. It was obvious Gilchrist knew nothing about the continuum paradoxes or string theory. The man had no business being Acting Head. He didn't even know how the net he had so blithely sent Kivrin through worked. "The virus couldn't have come through the net."
"Dr. Ahrens said the Indian was the only case," the medic said. "And you said," she pointed at Dunworthy, "that he'd had the full course. If he's had his antivirals, he couldn't catch a virus unless it was a disease from somewhere else. And the Middle Ages was full of diseases, wasn't it? Smallpox and the plague?"
Gilchrist said, "I'm certain that Mediaeval has taken steps to protect against that possibility -- "
"There is no possibility of a virus coming through the net," Dunworthy said angrily. "The space-time continuum does not allow it to happen."
"You send people through," she persisted, "and a virus is smaller than a person."
Dunworthy hadn't heard that argument since the early years of the nets, when the theory was only partially understood.
"I assure you we've taken every precaution," Gilchrist said.
"Nothing that would affect the course of history can go through a net," Dunworthy explained, glaring at Gilchrist. The man was simply encouraging her with this talk of precautions and probabilities. "Radiation, toxins, microbes, none of them has ever passed through a net. If they're present the net simply won't open."
The medic looked unconvinced.
"I assure you -- " Gilchrist said, and Mary came in.
She was carrying a sheaf of variously-colored papers. Gilchrist stood up immediately. "Dr. Ahrens, is there a possibility that this viral infection Mr. Chaudhuri has contracted might have come through the net?"
"Of course not," she said, frowning as if the whole idea were ridiculous. "In the first place, diseases can't come through the net. It would violate the paradoxes. In the second place, if it had, which it can't, Badri would have caught it less than an hour after it came through, which would mean the virus had an incubation period of an hour, an utter impossibility. But if it did, which it can't, you all would be down ill already," she looked at her digital, "since it's been over three hours since you were exposed to it." She began collecting the contacts lists.
Gilchrist looked irritated. "As Acting Head of the History Faculty I have responsibilities I must attend to," he said. "How long do you intend to keep us here?"
"Only long enough to collect your contacts lists," she said. "And to give you your instructions. Perhaps five minutes."
She took Latimer's list from him. Montoya grabbed hers up from the end table and began writing hastily.
"Five minutes?" the medic who had asked about the virus coming through the net said. "Do you mean we're free to go?"
"On medical probation," she said. She put the lists at the bottom of her sheaf of papers and began passing the top sheets, which were a virulent pink, around to everyone. They appeared to be a release form of some sort, absolving the infirmary of any and all responsibility.
"We've completed your blood tests," she went on, "and none of them show an increased level of antibodies."
She handed Dunworthy a blue sheet which absolved the NHS of any and all responsibility and confirmed willingness to pay any and all charges not covered by the NHS in full and within thirty days.
"I've been in touch with the WIC, and their recommendation is controlled observation, with continuous febrile monitoring and blood samples at twelve-hour intervals."
The sheet she was distributing now was green and headed, "Instructions for Primary Contacts." Number one was, "Avoid contact with others."
Dunworthy thought of Finch and the bellringers waiting, no doubt, at the gate of Balliol with summons and Scriptures, and of all those Christmas shoppers and detainees between here and there.
"Record your temp at one-half hour intervals," she said, passing round a yellow form. "Come in immediately if your monitor," she tapped at her own, "shows a marked increase in temp. Some fluctuation is normal. Temps tend to rise in the late afternoon and evening. Any temp between 36 and 37.4 is normal. Come in immediately if your temp exceeds 37.4 or rises suddenly, or if you begin to feel any symptoms -- headache, tightness in the chest, mental confusion, or dizziness."
Everyone looked at his or her monitor, and, no doubt, began to feel a headache coming on. Dunworthy had had a headache all afternoon.
"Avoid contact with others as much as possible," Mary said. "Keep careful track of any contacts you do have. We're still uncertain of the mode of transmission, but most myxoviruses spread by droplet and direct contact. Wash your hands with soap and water frequently."
She handed Dunworthy another pink sheet. She was running out of colours. This one was a log, headed "Contacts," and under it, "Name, Address, Type of contact, Time."
It was unfortunate that Badri's virus had not had to deal with the CDC, the NHS and the WIC. It would never have got in the door.
"You must report back here at seven tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I'd recommend a good supper and then to bed. Rest is the best defense against any virus. You are off-duty," she said, looking at the medics, "for the duration of the temp quarantine." She passed out several more rainbow-hued papers and then asked brightly, "Any questions?"
Dunworthy looked at the medic, waiting for her to ask Mary if smallpox had come through the net, but she was looking uninterestedly at her clutch of papers.
"Can I go back to my dig?" Montoya asked.
"Not unless it's inside the quarantine perimeter," Mary said.
"Well, great," she said, jamming her papers angrily into the pockets of her terrorist jacket. "The whole village will have washed away while I'm stuck here." She stomped out.
"Are there any other questions?" Mary said imperturbabl
y. "Very well, then, I'll see you all at seven o'clock."
The medics ambled out, the one who had asked about the virus yawning and stretching as if she were preparing for another nap. Latimer was still sitting down, watching his temp monitor. Gilchrist said something snappish to him, and he got up and put his coat on and collected his umbrella and his stack of papers.
"I expect to be kept informed of every development," Gilchrist said. "I am contacting Basingame and telling him it's essential that he return and take charge of this matter." He swept out and then had to wait, holding the door open, for Latimer to pick up two papers he had dropped.
"Go round in the morning and collect Latimer, won't you?" Mary said, looking through the contacts lists. "He'll never remember he's to be here at seven."
"I want to see Badri," Dunworthy said.
"'Laboratory, Brasenose,'" she said, reading from the sheets. "'Dean's office, Brasenose. Laboratory, Brasenose.' Didn't anyone see Badri except in the net?"
"In the ambulance on the way here he said, 'Something wrong.' There could have been slippage. If she's more than a week off, she'll have no idea when to rendezvous."
She didn't answer. She sorted through the sheets again, frowning.
"I need to make certain there weren't any problems with the fix," he said insistently.
She looked up. "Very well," she said. "These contact sheets are hopeless. There are great gaps in Badri's whereabouts for the past three days. He's the only person who can tell us where he was and with whom he came in contact." She led the way back down the corridor. "I've had a nurse with him, asking him questions, but he's very disoriented and fearful of her. Perhaps he won't be as frightened of you."
She led the way down the corridor to the lift and said, "Ground floor, please," into its ear. "Badri's only conscious for a few moments at a time," she said to Dunworthy. "It may be most of the night."
"That's all right," Dunworthy said. "I won't be able to rest till I'm sure Kivrin is safely through."
They went up two flights in the lift, down another corridor, and through a door marked, "NO ENTRANCE. ISOLATION WARD." Inside the door, a grim-looking ward sister was sitting at a desk watching a monitor.
"I'm taking Mr. Dunworthy in to see Mr. Chaudhuri," Mary said. "We'll need SPG's. How is he?"
"His fever's up again. 39.5," the sister said, handing them the SPG's, which were plastene-sealed bundles of paper clothing gowns that stripped up the back, caps, imperm masks that were impossible to get on over the caps, bootie-like snugs that went on over their shoes, and imperm gloves. Dunworthy made the mistake of putting his gloves on first and took what seemed like hours attempting to unfold the gown and affix the mask.
"You'll need to ask very specific questions," Mary said. "Ask him what he did when he got up this morning, if he'd stayed the night with anyone, where he ate breakfast, who was there, that sort of thing. His high fever means that he's very disoriented. You may have to ask your questions several times." She opened the door to the room.
It wasn't really a room -- there was only space for the bed and a narrow camp stool, not even a chair. The wall behind the bed was covered with displays and equipment. The far wall had a curtained window and more equipment. Mary glanced briefly at Badri and then began scanning the displays.
Dunworthy looked at the screens. The one nearest him was full of numbers and letters. The bottom line read: "ICU 14320691-22-12-54 1803 200/RPT 1800CRS IMJPCLN 200MG/q6h NHS40- 211-7 M AHRENS." Apparently the doctor's orders.
The other screens showed spiking lines and columns of figures. None of them made any sense except for a number in the middle of the small display second from the right. It read, "Temp: 39.9." Dear God.
He looked at Badri. He was lying with his arms outside the bedclothes, his arms both connected to drips that hung from stanchions. One of the drips had at least five bags feeding into the main tube. His eyes were closed, and his face looked thin and drawn, as if he had lost weight since this morning. His dark skin had a strange purplish cast to it.
"Badri," Mary said, leaning over him, "Can you hear us?"
He opened his eyes and looked at them without recognition, which was probably due less to the virus than to the fact that they were covered from head to foot in paper.
"It's Mr. Dunworthy," Mary said helpfully. "He's come to see you." Her bleeper started up.
"Mr. Dunworthy?" he said hoarsely and tried to sit up.
Mary pushed him gently down into the pillow. "Mr. Dunworthy has some questions for you," she said, patting his chest gently the way she had in the net at Brasenose. She straightened up, watching the displays on the wall behind him. "Lie still. I need to leave now, but Mr. Dunworthy will stay with you. Rest and try to answer Mr. Dunworthy's questions." She left.
"Mr. Dunworthy?" Badri said again as if he were trying to make sense of the words.
"Yes," Dunworthy said. He sat down on the campstool. "How are you feeling?"
"When do you expect him back?" he said, and his voice sounded weak and strained. He tried to sit up again. Dunworthy put out his hand to stop him.
"Have to find him," he said. "There's something wrong."
CHAPTER EIGHT
They were burning her at the stake. She could feel the flames. They must already have tied her to the stake, though she could not remember that. She remembered them lighting the fire. She had fallen off the white horse, and the cutthroat had picked her up and carried her over to it.
"We must go back to the drop,' she had told him.
He had leaned over her, and she could see his cruel face in the flickering firelight.
"Mr. Dunworthy will open the net as soon as he realizes something's wrong," she had told him. She shouldn't have told him that. He had thought she was a witch and had brought her here to be burned.
"I'm not a witch," she said, and immediately a hand came out of nowhere and rested coolly on her forehead.
"Shh," a voice said.
"I am not a witch," she said, trying to speak slowly so they would understand her. The cutthroat hadn't understood her. She had tried to tell him they shouldn't leave the drop, but he had paid no attention to her. He had put her on his white horse and led it out of the clearing and through the stand of white-trunked birches, into the thickest part of the forest.
She had tried to pay attention to which way they were going so she could find her way back, but the man's swinging lantern had lit only a few inches of ground at their feet, and the light had hurt her eyes. She had closed them, and that was a mistake because the horse's awkward gait made her dizzy, and she had fallen off the horse onto the ground.
"I am not a witch," she said. "I'm an historian."
"Hawey fond enyowuh thissla dey?" the woman's voice said, far away. She must have come forward to put a faggot on the fire and then stepped back again, away from the heat.
"Enwodes fillenun gleydund sore destrayste." a man's voice said, and the voice sounded like Mr. Dunworthy's. "Ayeen mynarmehs hoor alle op hider ybar."
"Sweltes shay dumorte blauen?" the woman said.
"Mr. Dunworthy," Kivrin said, holding out her arms to him, "I've fallen among cutthroats!" but she couldn't see him through the smothering smoke.
"Shh," the woman said, and Kivrin knew that it was later, that she had, impossibly, slept. How long does it take to burn, she wondered. The fire was so hot she should be ashes by now, but when she held her hand up, it looked untouched, though little red flames flickered along the edges of the fingers. The light from the flames hurt her eyes. She closed them.
I hope I don't fall off the horse again, she thought. She had been clinging to the horse, both arms around its neck, though its uneven walk made her head ache even worse, and she had not let go, but she had fallen off, even though Mr. Dunworthy had insisted she learn how to ride, had arranged for her to have lessons at a riding stable near Woodstock. Mr. Dunworthy had told her this would happen. He had told her they would burn her at the stake.
The woman put a cup to her
lips. It must be vinegar in a sponge, Kivrin thought, they gave that to martyrs. But it wasn't. It was a warm, sour liquid. The woman had to tilt Kivrin's head forward to drink it, and it came to Kivrin for the first time that she was lying down.
I'll have to tell Mr. Dunworthy, she thought, they burned people at the stake lying down. She tried to bring her hands up to her lips in the position of prayer to activate the corder, but the weight of the flames dragged them down again.
I'm ill, Kivrin thought, and knew that the warm liquid had been a medicinal potion of some kind, and that it had brought her fever down a little. She was not lying on the ground after all, but in a bed in a dark room, and the woman who had hushed her and given her the liquid was there beside her. She could hear her breathing. Kivrin tried to move her head to see her, but the effort made it hurt again. The woman must be asleep. Her breathing was even and loud, almost like snoring. It hurt Kivrin's head to listen to it.
I must be in the village, she thought. The redheaded man must have brought me here.
She had fallen off the horse, and the cutthroat had helped her back on, but when she looked into his face, he hadn't looked like a cutthroat at all. He was young, with red hair and a kind expression, and he had leaned over her where she was sitting against the wagon wheel, kneeling on one knee beside her and said, "Who are you?"
She had understood him perfectly.
"Canstawd ranken derwyn?" the woman said and tilted Kivrin's head forward for more of the bitter liquid. Kivrin could barely swallow. The fire was inside her throat now. She could feel the little orange flames, though the liquid should have put them out. She wondered if he had taken her to some foreign land, Spain or Greece, where the people spoke a language they hadn't put into the interpreter.
She had understood the redheaded man perfectly. "Who are you?" he had asked, and she had thought that the other man must be a slave he'd brought back from the Crusades, a slave who spoke Turkish or Arabic, and that was why she couldn't understand him.
Willis, Connie - Doomsday Book (v2.1) Page 11
