Dooms Day Book

“How are you going to pull her out?” Colin asked. “The laboratory’s locked.”

Dunworthy pulled out the pocket calendar and began turning pages. He’d written Andrews’ number in the back.

“Mr. Gilchrist won’t let you in. How are you going to get into the laboratory? He said he wouldn’t let you in.”

Andrews’ number was on the last page. He picked up the receiver.

“If he does let you in, who’s going to run the net? Mr. Chaudhuri?”

“Andrews,” Dunworthy said shortly and began punching in the number.

“I thought he wouldn’t come. Because of the virus.”

Dunworthy put the receiver to his ear. “I’m not leaving her there.”

A woman answered. “24837 here,” she said. “H.F. Shepherds’, Limited.”

Dunworthy looked blankly at the pocket calendar in his hand. “I’m trying to reach Ronald Andrews,” he said. “What number is this?”

“24837,” she said impatiently. “There’s no one here by that name.”

He slammed the phone down. “Idiot telephone service,” he said. He punched in the number again.

“Even if he agrees to come, how are you going to find her?” Colin asked, looking over his shoulder at the receiver. “She won’t be there, will she? The rendezvous isn’t for three days.”

Dunworthy listened to the telephone’s ringing, wondering what Kivrin had done when she realized where she was. Gone back to the rendezvous and waited there, no doubt. If she was able to. If she was not ill. If she had not been accused of bringing the plague to Skendgate.

“24837 here,” the same woman’s voice said. “H.F. Shepherds’, Limited.”

“What number is this?” Dunworthy shouted.

“24837,” she said, exasperated.

“24837,” Dunworthy repeated. “That’s the number I’m trying to reach.”

“No, it’s not,” Colin said, reaching across him to point to Andrews’ number on the page. “You’ve mixed the numbers.” He took the receiver away from Dunworthy. “Here, let me try it for you.” He punched in the number and handed the receiver back to Dunworthy.

The ringing sounded different, farther away. Dunworthy thought about Kivrin. The plague had not hit everywhere at once. It had been in Oxford at Christmas, but there was no way of knowing when it had reached Skendgate.

There was no answer. He let the phone ring ten times, eleven. He could not remember which way the plague had come from. It had come from France. Surely that meant from the east, across the Channel. And Skendgate was west of Oxford. It might not have reached there until after Christmas.

“Where’s the book?” he asked Colin.

“What book? Your appointment calendar, you mean? It’s right here.”

“The book I gave you for Christmas. Why don’t you have it?”

“Here?” Colin said bewilderedly. “It weighs at least five stone.”

There was still no answer. Dunworthy hung up the receiver, snatched up the calendar, and started toward the door. “I expect you to keep it with you at all times. Don’t you know there’s an epidemic on?”

“Are you all right, Mr. Dunworthy?”

“Go and get it,” Dunworthy said.

“What, right now?”

“Go back to Balliol and get it. I want to know when the plague reached Oxfordshire. Not the town. The villages. And which direction it came from.”

“Where are you going?” Colin asked, running alongside him.

“To make Gilchrist open the laboratory.”

“If he won’t open it because of the flu, he’ll never open it for the plague,” Colin said.

Dunworthy opened the door and went out. It was raining hard. The EC protesters were huddled under Infirmary’s overhand. One of them started toward him, proffering a flyer. Colin was right. Telling Gilchrist the source would have no effect. He would remain convinced the virus had come through the net. He would be afraid to open it for fear the plague would come through.

“Give me a sheet of paper,” he said, fumbling for his pen.

“A sheet of paper?” Colin said. “What for?”

Dunworthy snatched the flyer from the EC protester and began scribbling on the back. “Mr. Basingame is authorizing the opening of the net,” he said.

Colin peered at the writing. “He’ll never believe that, Mr. Dunworthy. On the back of a flyer?”

“Then fetch me a sheet of paper!” he shouted.

Colin’s eyes widened. “I will. You wait here, all right?” he said placatingly. “Don’t leave.”

He dashed back inside and reappeared immediately with several sheets of hardcopy paper. Dunworthy snatched it from him and scrawled the orders and Basingame’s name. “Go and fetch your book. I’ll meet you at Brasenose.”

“What about your coat?”

“There’s no time,” he said. He folded the paper in fourths and jammed it inside his jacket.

“It’s raining. Shouldn’t you take a taxi?” Colin said.

“There aren’t any taxis.” He started off down the street.

“Great-Aunt Mary’s going to kill me, you know,” Colin called after him. “She said it was my responsibility to see that you got your inoculation.”

He should have taken a taxi. It was pouring by the time he reached Brasenose, a hard slanting rain that would be sleet in another hour. Dunworthy felt chilled to the bone.