Doomsday Book (Oxford Time Travel, #1) - Connie Willis Page 0,234

on Dunworthy’s legs. “I’ll just go fetch Badri.” He dashed out.

“You’re looking a good deal better, sir,” Finch said. “I’m so glad. I’m afraid you’re badly needed at Balliol. It’s Mrs. Gaddson. She’s accused Balliol of undermining William’s health. She says the combined strain of the epidemic and reading Petrarch has broken his health. She’s threatening to go to the Head of the History Faculty with it.”

“Tell her she’s more than welcome to try. Basingame’s in Scotland somewhere,” Dunworthy said. “I need you to find how long in advance of exposure an inoculation against bubonic plague needs to be given, and I need the laboratory readied for a drop.”

“We’re using it for storage just now,” Finch said. “We’ve had several shipments of supplies from London, though none of lavatory paper, even though I specifically requested—”

“Move them into the hall,” Dunworthy said. “I want the net ready as soon as possible.”

Colin opened the door with his elbow and wheeled Badri in, using his other arm and a knee to hold it open. “I had to sneak him past the ward sister,” he said breathlessly. He pushed the wheelchair up to the bed.

“I want—” Dunworthy said, and stopped, looking at Badri. The thing was impossible. Badri was in no condition to run the net. He looked exhausted by the mere effort of having been brought from the ward, and he was fumbling at the pocket of his robe as he had at his sash.

“We’ll need two RTN’s, a light measure, and a gateway,” Badri said, and his voice sounded exhausted, too, but the despair had gone out of it. “And we’ll need authorizations for both drop and pickup.”

“What about the protesters who were at Brasenose?” Dunworthy asked. “Will they try to prevent the drop?”

“No,” Colin said. “They’re over at the National Trust Headquarters. They’re trying to shut down the dig.”

Good, Dunworthy thought. Montoya will be too occupied with trying to defend her churchyard against picketers to interfere. Too occupied to look for Kivrin’s corder.

“What else will you need?” he asked Badri.

“An insular memory and redundant for the backup.” He pulled a sheet of paper from the pocket and looked at it. “And a remote hookup so I can run parameter checks.”

He handed the list to Dunworthy, who handed it to Finch. “We’ll also need med support for Kivrin,” Dunworthy said, “and I want a telephone installed in this room.”

Finch was frowning at the list.

“And don’t tell me we’re out of any of these,” Dunworthy said before he could protest. “Beg, borrow, or steal them.” He turned back to Badri. “Will you need anything else?”

“To be discharged,” Badri said, “which, I’m afraid, will be the greatest obstacle.”

“He’s right,” Colin said. “Sister will never let him out. I had to sneak him in here.”

“Who’s your doctor?” Dunworthy asked.

“Dr. Gates,” Badri said, “but—”

“Surely we can explain the situation,” Dunworthy interrupted, “explain that it’s an emergency.”

Badri shook his head. “The last thing we can do is tell him the circumstances. I persuaded him to discharge me to open the net while you were ill. He didn’t think I was well enough, but he allowed it, and then when I had the relapse …”

Dunworthy looked anxiously at him. “Are you certain you’re capable of running the net? Perhaps I can get Andrews now that the epidemic’s under control.”

“There isn’t time,” Badri said. “And it was my fault. I want to run the net. Perhaps Mr. Finch can find another doctor.”

“Yes,” Dunworthy said. “And tell mine I need to speak with him.” He reached for Colin’s book.

“I’ll need a costume.” He flipped through the pages, looking for an illustration of mediaeval clothing. “No strips, no zippers, no buttons.” He found a picture of Boccaccio and showed it to Finch. “I doubt if Twentieth Century has anything. Telephone the Dramatic Society and see if they’ve got something.”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” Finch said, frowning doubtfully at the illustration.

The door crashed open, and the sister rattled in, enraged. “Mr. Dunworthy, this is utterly irresponsible,” she said in a tone that had no doubt caused casualties from the Second Falklands War terrors. “If you will not take care of your own health, you might at the least not endanger that of the other patients.” She fixed her gaze on Finch. “Mr. Dunworthy is to have no more visitors.”

She glared at Colin and then snatched the wheelchair handles from him. “What can you have been thinking of, Mr. Chaudhuri?” she said, whipping the wheelchair around so smartly Badri’s head snapped back. “You