I can imagine, he thought, looking for William Gaddson or one of the other undergraduates he could get to listen for the phone.
"If we were Council, of course, it wouldn't matter. They let people substitute right and left. During a peal of Tittum Bob Maximus at York, they had nineteen ringers. Nineteen! I don't see how they can even call it a peal."
None of his undergraduates appeared to be in hall, Finch had no doubt barricaded himself in the buttery, and Colin was out collecting clothing. "Are you still in need of a practice room?" he asked Ms. Taylor.
"Yes, unless one of us comes down with this thing. Of course, we could do Stedmans, but that would hardly be the same thing, would it?"
"I'll let you use my sitting room if you will answer the telephone and take down any messages for me. I am expecting an important trunk — long distance call, so it's essential that someone be in the room at all times."
He led her back to his rooms.
"Oh, it's not very big, is it?" she said. "I'm not sure there's room to work on our raising. Can we move the furniture around?"
"You may do anything you like, so long as you answer the telephone and take down any messages. I'm expecting a call from Mr. Andrews. Tell him he doesn't need clearance to enter the quarantine area. Tell him to go straight to Brasenose and I'll meet him there."
"Well, all right, I guess," she said as if she were doing him a favor. "At least it's better than that drafty cafeteria."
He left her rearranging furniture, not at all convinced that it was a good idea to entrust her with this, and hurried off to see Badri. He had something to tell him. It killed them all. Half of Europe.
The rain had subsided to little more than a fine mist, and the anti-EC picketers were gathered in force in front of the Infirmary. They had been joined by a number of boys Colin's age wearing black face plasters and shouting, "Let my people go!"
One of them grabbed Dunworthy's arm. "The government's got no right to keep you here against your will," he said, thrusting his striped face up to Dunworthy's face mask.
"Don't be a fool," Dunworthy said. "Do you want to start another pandemic?"
The boy let go his arm, looking confused, and Dunworthy escaped inside.
Casualties was full of patients on stretcher trolleys, and there was one standing next to the elevator. An imposing looking nurse in voluminous SPG's was standing next to it, reading something to the patient from a polythene-wrapped book.
"'Whoever perished, being innocent?'" she said, and he realized with dismay that it wasn't a nurse. It was Mrs. Gaddson.
"'Or where were the righteous cut off?'" she recited.
She stopped and thumbed through the thin pages of the Bible, looking for another cheering passage, and he ducked down the side corridor and into a stairwell, eternally grateful to the NHS for issuing face masks.
"'The Lord shall smite thee with a consumption,'" she intoned, her voice resounding through the corridor as he fled, "'and with a fever, and with an inflammation.'"
And He shall smite thee with Mrs. Gaddson, he thought, and she shall read you Scriptures to keep your morale up.
He went up the stairs to Isolation, which had now apparently taken over most of the first floor.
"Here you are," the nurse said. It was the pretty blonde student nurse again. He wondered if he should warn her about Mrs. Gaddson.
"I'd nearly given you up," she said. "He's been calling for you all morning." She handed him a set of SPG's, and he put them on and followed her in.
"He was frantic for you half an hour ago," she whispered, "kept insisting he had something to tell you. He's a bit better now."
He looked, in fact, considerably better. He had lost the dark, frightening flush, and though he was still a bit pale under his brown skin, he looked almost like his old self. He was half- sitting against several pillows, his knees up, and his hands lying lightly on them, the fingers curved. His eyes were closed.
"Badri," the nurse said, putting her imperm-gloved hand on his chest and bending close to him. "Mr. Dunworthy's here."
He opened his eyes. "Mr. Dunworthy?"
"Yes." She nodded across the bed, indicating him. "I told you he'd come."
Badri sat up straighter against the pillows, but he didn't look at Dunworthy. He looked intently ahead.
"I'm here, Badri," he said, moving forward so he was in his line of vision. "What was it you wanted to tell me?"
Badri continued to look straight ahead and his hands began moving restlessly on his knees. Dunworthy glanced at the nurse.
"He's been doing that," she said. "I think he's typing." She looked at the screens and went out.
He was typing. His wrists rested on his knees, and his fingers tapped the blanket in a complex sequence. His eyes stared at something in front of him — a screen?-and after a moment he frowned. "That can't be right," he said and began typing rapidly.
"What is it, Badri?" Dunworthy said. "What's wrong?"
"There must be an error," Badri said. He leaned slightly sideways and said, "Give me a line-by-line on the TAA."
He was peaking into the console's ear, Dunworthy realized. He's reading the fix, he thought. "What can't be right, Badri?"
"The slippage," Badri said, his eyes fixed on the imaginary screen. "Readout check," he said into the ear. "That can't be right."
"What's wrong with the slippage?" Dunworthy asked. "Was there more slippage than you expected?"
Badri didn't answer. He typed for a moment, paused, watching the screen, and began typing frantically.
"How much slippage was there? Badri?" Dunworthy said.
He typed for a full minute and then stopped and looked up at Dunworthy. "So worried," he said thoughtfully.
"Worried over what, Badri?" Dunworthy said.
Badri suddenly flung the blanket back and grabbed for the bed rails. "I have to find Mr. Dunworthy," he said. He yanked at his shunt, pulling at the tape.
The screens behind him went wild, spiking crazily and beeping. Somewhere outside an alarm went off.
"You mustn't do that," Dunworthy said, reaching across the bed to stop him.
"He's at the pub," Badri said, ripping at the tape.
The screens went abruptly flatline. "Disconnect," a computer voice said. "Disconnect."
The nurse banged in. "Oh, dear, that's twice he's done that," she said. "Mr. Chaudhuri, you mustn't do that. You'll pull your shunt out."
"Go and get Mr. Dunworthy. Now," he said. "There's something wrong," but he lay back and let her cover him up. "Why doesn't he come?"
Dunworthy waited while the nurse retaped the shunt and reset the screens, watching Badri. He looked worn out and apathetic, almost bored. A new bruise was already forming above the shunt.
The nurse left with, "I think I'd best call down for a sedative."
As soon as she was gone, Dunworthy said, "Badri, it's Mr. Dunworthy. You wanted to tell me something. Look at me, Badri. What is it? What's wrong?"
Badri looked at him, but without interest.
"Was there too much slippage, Badri? Is Kivrin in the plague?"
"I don't have time," Badri said. "I was out there Saturday and Sunday." He began typing again, his fingers moving ceaselessly on the blanket. "That can't be right."
The nurse came back with a drip bottle. "Oh, good," he said, and his expression relaxed and softened, as if a great weight had been lifted. "I don't know what happened. I had such a terrific headache."
He closed his eyes before she had even hooked the drip to the shunt and began to snore softly.
The nurse led him out. "If he wakes and calls for you again, where can you be reached?" she asked.
He gave her the number. "What exactly did he say?" he asked, stripping off his gown. "Before I arrived?"