“It doesn’t matter,” Andrews had said. “The locational coordinates aren’t as critical as the temporals. I’ll get an L and L on the dig from Jesus. I’ve already talked to them about doing the parameter checks, and they said it’s all right.”
The visuals had been off again, but he had sounded nervous, as if he was afraid Dunworthy would broach the subject again of his coming to Oxford. “I’ve done some research on slippage,” he said. “There are no theoretical limits, but in practice, the minimal slippage is always greater than zero, even in uninhabited areas. Maximal slippage has never gone above five years, and those were all unmanneds. The greatest slippage on a manned drop was a Seventeenth Century remote—two hundred and twenty-six days.”
“Is there anything else it could be?” Dunworthy had asked, “Anything besides the slippage that could go wrong?”
“If the coordinates are correct, nothing,” Andrews had said and promised to report as soon as he’d done the parameter checks.
Five years was 1325. The plague had not even begun in China then, and Badri had told Gilchrist there was minimal slippage. And it couldn’t be the coordinates. Badri had checked them before he fell ill. But the fear continued to nag at him, and he spent the few free moments he could snatch telephoning techs, trying to find someone willing to come read the fix when the sequencing arrived and Gilchrist opened the laboratory again. It was supposed to have arrived yesterday, but when Mary phoned, she had still been waiting for it.
She phoned again in the late afternoon. “Can you set up a ward?” she asked. The visual was back on. Her SPG’s looked like she’d slept in them, and her mask dangled from her neck by one tie.
“I’ve already set up a ward,” he said. “It’s full of detainees. We’ve got thirty-one cases as of this afternoon.”
“Do you have space to set up another one? I don’t need it yet,” she said tiredly, “but at this rate I will. We’re nearly at capacity here, and several of the staff are either down with it or are refusing to come in.”
“And the sequencing hasn’t come yet?” he asked.
“No. The WIC just phoned. They got a faulty result the first time through and had to run it again. It’s supposed to be here tomorrow. Now they think it’s a Uruguayan virus.” She smiled wanly. “Badri hasn’t been in contact with anyone from Uruguay, has he? How soon can you have the beds ready?”
“By this evening,” Dunworthy said, but Finch informed him they were nearly out of folding cots, and he had to go to the NHS and argue them out of a dozen. They didn’t get the ward set up, in two of the Fellows’ teaching rooms, until morning.
Finch, helping assemble the cots and make beds, announced that they were nearly out of clean linens, face masks, and lavatory paper. “We haven’t enough for the detainees,” he said, tucking in a sheet, “let alone all these patients. And we have no bandages at all.”
“It’s not a war,” Dunworthy said. “I doubt if there will be any wounded. Did you find out if any of the other colleges has a tech here in Oxford?”
“Yes, sir, I telephoned all of them, but none of them did.” He tucked a pillow beneath his chin. “I’ve posted notices asking that everyone conserve lavatory paper, but it’s done no good at all. The Americans are particularly wasteful.” He tugged the pillow slip up over the pillow. “I do feel rather sorry for them, though. Helen came down with it last night, you know, and they haven’t any alternates.”
“Helen?”
“Ms. Piantini. The tenor. She has a fever of 39.7. The Americans won’t be able to do their Chicago Surprise.”
Which is probably a blessing, Dunworthy thought. “Ask them if they’ll continue to keep watch on my telephone, even though they’re no longer practicing,” he said. “I’m expecting several important calls. Did Andrews ring back?”
“No, sir, not yet. And the visual is off.” He plumped the pillow. “It is too bad about the peal. They can do Stedmans, of course, but that’s old hat. It does seem a pity there’s no alternative solution.”
“Did you get the list of techs?”
“Yes, sir,” Finch said, struggling with a reluctant cot. He motioned with his head. “It’s there by the chalkboard.”
Dunworthy picked up the sheets of paper and looked at the one on top. It was filled with columns of numbers, all of them with the digits one through six, in varying order.
“That’s not it,” Finch said, snatching the papers away. “Those are the changes for the Chicago Surprise.” He handed Dunworthy a single sheet. “Here it is. I’ve listed the techs by college with addresses and telephone numbers.”
Colin came in, wearing his wet jacket and carrying a roll of tape and a plastene-covered bundle. “The vicar said I’m to put these up in all the wards,” he said, taking out a placard that read, “Feeling Disoriented? Muddled? Mental Confusion Can Be a Warning Sign of the Flu.”
