“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 peeking 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
“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?”
“He kept calling your name and saying he had to find you, that he had to tell you something important.”
“Did he say anything about a rats?” he said.
“No. Once he said he had to find Karen—or Katherine—”
“Kivrin.”
She nodded. “Yes. He said, ‘I must find Kivrin. Is the laboratory open?’ And then he said something about a lamb, but nothing about rats, I don’t think. A good deal of the time I can’t make it out.”
He threw the imperm gloves into the bag. “I want you to write down everything he says. Not the unintelligible parts,” he added before she could object. “But everything else. I’ll be back this afternoon.”
“I’ll try,” she said. “It’s mostly nonsense.”
He went downstairs. It was mostly nonsense, feverish ramblings that meant nothing, but he went outside to get a taxi. He wanted to get back to Balliol quickly, to speak to Andrews, to get him up here to read the fix.
“That can’t be right,” Badri had said, and it had to be the slippage. Could he have somehow misread the figure, thought it was only four hours and then discovered, what? That it was four years? Or twenty-eight?
“You’ll get there faster walking,” someone said. It was the boy with the black face plasters. “If you’re waiting for a taxi, you’ll stand there forever. They’ve all been commandeered by the bloody government.”
