4

Badri’s hand came away from his forehead as he fell, and his elbow hit the console and broke his fall for a second, and Dunworthy glanced anxiously at the screen, afraid he might have hit one of the keys and scrambled the display. Badri crumpled to the floor.

Latimer and Gilchrist didn’t try to grab him either. Latimer didn’t even seem to realize anything had gone wrong. Mary grabbed for Badri immediately, but she was standing behind the others and only caught a fold of his sleeve. She was instantly on her knees beside him, straightening him out onto his back and jamming an earphone into her ear.

She rummaged in her shopping bag, came up with a bleeper, and held the call button down for a full five seconds. “Badri?” she said loudly, and it was only then that Dunworthy realized how deathly silent it was in the room. Gilchrist was standing where he had been when Badri fell. He looked furious. I assure you we’ve considered every possible contingency. He obviously hadn’t considered this one.

Mary let go of the bleeper button and shook Badri’s shoulders gently. There was no response. She tilted his head far back and bent over his face, her ear practically in his open mouth and her head turned so she could see his chest. He hadn’t stopped breathing. Dunworthy could see his chest rising and falling, and Mary obviously could, too. She raised her head immediately, already pressing on the bleeper, and pressed two fingers against the side of his neck, held them there for what seemed an endless time, and then raised the bleeper to her mouth.

“We’re at Brasenose. In the history laboratory,” she said into the bleeper. “Five-two. Collapse. Syncope. No evidence of seizure.” She took her hand off the call button and pulled Badri’s eyelids up.

“Syncope?” Gilchrist said. “What’s that? What’s happened?”

She glanced irritably at him. “He’s fainted,” she said. “Get me my kit,” she said to Dunworthy. “In the shopping bag.”

She had knocked the bag over getting the bleeper out. It lay on its side. Dunworthy fumbled through the boxes and parcels, found a hard plastic box that looked the right size, and snapped it open. It was full of red and green foil Christmas crackers. He jammed it back in the bag.

“Come along,” Mary said, unbuttoning Badri’s lab shirt. “I haven’t got all day.”

“I can’t find—” Dunworthy began.

She snatched the bag away and upended it. The crackers rolled everywhere. The box with the muffler came open, and the muffler fell out. Mary grabbed up her handbag, zipped it open, and pulled out a large flat kit. She opened it and took out a tach bracelet. She fastened the bracelet around Badri’s wrist and turned to look at the blood pressure reads on the kit’s monitor.

The wave form didn’t tell Dunworthy anything, and he couldn’t tell from Mary’s reaction what she thought it meant. Badri hadn’t stopped breathing, his heart hadn’t stopped beating, and he wasn’t bleeding anywhere that Dunworthy could see. Perhaps he had only fainted. But people didn’t simply fall over, except in books or the vids. He must be injured or ill. He had seemed to be almost in shock when he came into the pub. Could he have been struck by a bicycle like the one that had just missed hitting Dunworthy, and not realized at first that he was injured? That would account for his disconnected manner, his peculiar agitation.

But not for the fact that he had come away without his coat, that he had said, “I need you to come,” that he had said, “There’s something wrong.”

Dunworthy turned and looked at the console screen. It still showed the matrices it had when the tech collapsed. He couldn’t read them, but it looked like a normal fix, and Badri had said Kivrin had gone through all right. There’s something wrong.

With her hands flat, Mary was patting Badri’s arms, the sides of his chest, down his legs. Badri’s eyelids fluttered, and then his eyes closed again.

“Do you know if Badri had any health problems?”

“He’s Mr. Dunworthy’s tech,” Gilchrist said accusingly. “From Balliol. He was on loan to us,” he added, making it sound like Dunworthy was somehow responsible for this, had arranged the tech’s collapse to sabotage the project.

“I don’t know of any health problems,” Dunworthy said. “He’d have had a full screen and seasonals at the start of term.”

Mary looked dissatisfied. She put on her stethoscope and listened to his heart for a long minute, rechecked the blood pressure reads, took his pulse again. “And you don’t know anything of a history of epilepsy? Diabetes?”

“No,” Dunworthy said.

“Has he ever used drugs or illegal endorphins?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. She pressed the button on her bleeper again. “Ahrens here. Pulse 110. BP 100 over 60. I’m doing a blood screen.” She tore open a gauze wipe, swabbed at the arm without the bracelet, tore open another packet.

Drugs or illegal endorphins. That would account for his agitated manner, his disconnected speech. But if he used, it would have shown up on the beginning-of-term screen, and he couldn’t possibly have worked the elaborate calculations of the net if he was using. There’s something wrong.

Mary swabbed at the arm again and slid a cannula under the skin. Badri’s eyes fluttered open.

“Badri,” Mary said. “Can you hear me?” She reached in her coat pocket and produced a bright red capsule. “I need to give you your temp,” she said and held it to his lips, but he didn’t give any indication he’d heard.

She put the capsule back in her pocket and began rummaging in the kit. “Tell me when the reads come up on that cannula,” she said to Dunworthy, taking everything out of the kit and then putting it back in. She laid the kit down and started through her handbag. “I thought I had a skin-temp thermometer with me,” she said.

“The reads are up,” Dunworthy said.

Mary picked her bleeper up and began reading the numbers into it.

Badri opened his eyes. “You have to …”he said, and closed them again. “So cold,” he murmured.

Dunworthy took off his overcoat, but it was too wet to lay over him. He looked helplessly around the room for something to cover him with. If this had happened before Kivrin left, they could have used that blanket of a cloak she’d been wearing. Badri’s jacket was wadded underneath the console. Dunworthy laid it sideways over him.

“Freezing,” Badri murmured, and began to shiver.

Mary, still reciting reads into the bleeper, looked sharply across at him. “What did he say?”

Badri murmured something else and then said clearly, “Headache.”

“Headache,” Mary said. “Do you feel nauseated?”

He moved his head a little to indicate no. “When was—” he said and clutched at her arm.

She put her hand over his, frowned, and pressed her other hand to his forehead.

“He’s got a fever,” she said.

“There’s something wrong,” Badri said, and closed his eyes. His hand let go of her arm and dropped back to the floor.

Mary picked his limp arm up, looked at the reads, and felt his forehead again. “Where is that damned skin-temp?” she said, and began rummaging through the kit again.

The bleeper chimed. “They’re here,” she said. “Somebody go show them the way in.” She patted Badri’s chest. “Just lie still.”

They were already at the door when Dunworthy opened it. Two medics from Infirmary pushed through carrying kits the size of steamer trunks.

“Immediate transport,” Mary said before they could get the trunks open. She got up off her knees. “Fetch the stretcher,” she said to the female medic. “And get me a skin-temp and a sucrose drip.”

“I assumed Twentieth Century’s personnel had been screened for dorphs and drugs,” Gilchrist said.

One of the medics knocked past him with a pump feed.

“Mediaeval would never allow—” He stepped out of the way as the other one came in with the stretcher.

“Is this a drugover?” the male medic said, glancing at Gilchrist.

“No,” Mary said. “Did you bring the skin-temp?”

“We don’t have one,” he said, plugging the feed into the shunt. “Just a thermistor and temps. We’ll have to wait till we get him in.” He held the plastic bag over his head for a minute till the grav feed kicked the motor on and then taped the bag to Badri’s chest.

The female medic took the jacket off Badri and covered him with a gray blanket. “Cold,” Badri said. “You have to—”

“What do I have to do?” Dunworthy said.

“The fix—”

“One, two,” the medics said in unison, and rolled him onto the stretcher.

“James, Mr. Gilchrist, I’ll need you to come to hospital with me to fill out his admission forms,” Mary said. “And I’ll need his medical history. One of you can come in the ambulance, and the other follow.”

Dunworthy didn’t wait to argue with Gilchrist over which of them should ride in the ambulance. He clambered in and up next to Badri, who was breathing hard, as if being carried on the stretcher had been too much exertion.

“Badri,” he said urgently, “you said something was wrong. Did you mean something went wrong with the fix?”

“I got the fix,” Badri said, frowning.

The male medic, attaching Badri to a daunting array of displays, looked irritated.

“Did the apprentice get the coordinates wrong? It’s important, Badri. Did he make an error in the remote coordinates?”

Mary climbed into the ambulance.

“As Acting Head, I feel I should be the one to accompany the patient in the ambulance,” Dunworthy heard Gilchrist say.

“Meet us in Casualties at Infirmary,” Mary said and pulled the doors to. “Have you got a temp yet?” she asked the medic.

“Yes,” he said, “39.5 C. BP 90 over 55, pulse 115.”

“Was there an error in the coordinates?” Dunworthy said to Badri.

“Are you set back there?” the driver said over the intercom.

“Yes,” Mary said. “Code one.”

“Did Puhalski make an error in the locational coordinates for the remote?”

“No,” Badri said. He grabbed at the lapel of Dunworthy’s coat.

“Is it the slippage then?”

“I must have—” Badri said. “So worried.”

The sirens blared, drowning out the rest of what he said. “You must have what?” Dunworthy shouted over their up-and-down klaxon.

“Something wrong,” Badri said, and fainted again.

Something wrong. It had to be the slippage. Except for the coordinates, it was the only thing that could go wrong with a drop that wouldn’t abort it, and he had said the locational coordinates were right. How much slippage, though? Badri had told him it might be as much as two weeks, and he wouldn’t have run all the way to the pub in the pouring rain without his coat unless it were much more than that. How much more? A month? Three months? But he’d told Gilchrist the preliminaries showed minimal slippage.

Mary elbowed past him and put her hand on Badri’s forehead again. “Add sodium thiosalicylate to the drip,” she said. “And start a WBC screen. James, get out of the way.”

Dunworthy edged past Mary and sat down on the bench, near the back of the ambulance.

Mary picked up her bleeper again. “Stand by for a full CBC and serotyping.”

“Pyelonephritis?” the medic said, watching the reads change. BP 96 over 60, pulse 120, temp 39.5.

“I don’t think so,” Mary said. “There’s no apparent abdominal pain, but it’s obviously an infection of some sort, with that temp.”

The sirens dived suddenly down in frequency and stopped. The medic began pulling wires out of the wall hookups.

“We’re here, Badri,” Mary said, patting his chest again. “We’ll soon have you right as rain.”

He gave no indication he had heard. Mary pulled the blanket up to his neck and arranged the dangling wires on top of it. The driver yanked the door open, and they slid the stretcher out. “I want a full blood workup,” Mary said, holding on to the door as she climbed down. “CF, HI, and antigenic ID.” Dunworthy clambered down after her and followed her into the Casualties Department.

“I need a med hist,” she was already telling the registrar. “On Badri—what’s his last name, James?”

“Chaudhuri,” he said.

“National Health Service number?” the registrar asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “He works at Balliol.”

“Would you be so good as to spell the name for me, please?”

“C-H-A-” he said. Mary was disappearing into Casualties. He started after her.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the registrar said, darting up from her console to block his way. “If you’ll just be seated—”

“I must talk to the patient you just admitted,” he said.

“Are you a relative?”

“No,” he said. “I’m his employer. It’s very important.”

“He’s in an examining cubicle just now,” she said. “I’ll ask for permission for you to see him as soon as the examination is completed.” She sat gingerly back down at the console, as if ready to leap up again at the slightest movement on his part.

Dunworthy thought of simply barging in on the examination, but he didn’t want to risk being barred from hospital altogether, and at any rate, Badri was in no condition to talk. He had been clearly unconscious when they took him out of the ambulance. Unconscious and with a fever of 39.5. Something wrong.

The registrar was looking suspiciously up at him. “Would you mind terribly giving me that spelling again?”

He spelled Chaudhuri for her and then asked where he could find a telephone.

“Just down the corridor,” she said. “Age?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Twenty-five? He’s been at Balliol for four years.”

He answered the rest of her questions as best he could and then looked out the door to see if Gilchrist had come and went down the corridor to the telephones and rang up Brasenose. He got the porter, who was decorating an artificial Christmas tree that stood on the lodge counter.

“I need to speak to Puhalski,” Dunworthy said, hoping that was the name of the first-year tech.

“He’s not here,” the porter said, draping a silver garland over the branches with his free hand.

“Well, as soon as he returns, please tell him I need to speak with him. It’s very important. I need him to read a fix for me. I’m at—” Dunworthy waited pointedly for the porter to finish arranging the garland and write the number of the call box down, which he finally did, scribbling it on the lid of a box of ornaments. “If he can’t reach me at this number, have him ring the Casualties Department at Infirmary. How soon will he return, do you think?”

“That’s difficult to say,” the porter said, unwrapping an angel. “Some of them come back a few days early, but most of them don’t show up until the first day of term.”

“What do you mean? Isn’t he staying in college?”

“He was. He was going to run the net for Mediaeval, but when he found he wasn’t needed, he went home.”

“I need his home address then and his telephone number.”

“It’s somewhere in Wales, I believe, but you’d have to talk to the college secretary for that, and she’s not here just now either.”

“When will she be back?”

“I can’t say, sir. She went to London to do a bit of Christmas shopping.”

Dunworthy gave another message while the porter straightened the angel’s wings, and then rang off and tried to think if there were any other techs in Oxford for Christmas. Clearly not, or Gilchrist wouldn’t have used a first-year apprentice in the first place.

He put a call through to Magdalen anyway, but got no answer. He rang off, thought a minute, and then rang up Balliol. There was no answer there either. Finch must still be out showing the American bell ringers the bells at Great Tom. He looked at his digital. It was only half past two. It seemed much later. They might only be at lunch.

He rang up the phone in Balliol’s hall, but still got no answer. He went back into the waiting area, expecting Gilchrist to be there. He wasn’t, but the two medics were, talking to a staff nurse. Gilchrist had probably gone back to Brasenose to plot his next drop or the one after that. Perhaps he’d send Kivrin straight into the Black Death the third time round for direct observation.

“There you are,” the staff nurse said. “I was afraid you’d left. If you’ll just come with me.”

Dunworthy had assumed she was speaking to him, but the medics followed her out the door, too, and down a corridor.

“Here we are, then,” she said, holding a door open for them. The medics filed through. “There’s tea on the trolley, and a WC just through there.”

“When will I be able to see Badri Chaudhuri?” Dunworthy asked, holding the door so she couldn’t shut it.

“Dr. Ahrens will be with you directly,” she said and shut the door in spite of him.

The female medic had already slouched down in a chair, her hands in her pockets. The man was over by the tea trolley, plugging in the electric kettle. Neither of them had asked the registrar any questions on the way down the corridor, so perhaps this was routine, though Dunworthy couldn’t imagine why they would want to see Badri. Or why they had all been brought here.

This waiting room was in an entirely different wing from the Casualties Ward. It had the same spine-destroying chairs of the waiting room in Casualties, the same tables with inspirational pamphlets fanned out on them, the same foil garland draped over the tea trolley and secured with bunches of plastene holly. There were no windows, though, not even in the door. It was self-contained and private, the sort of room where people waited for bad news.

Dunworthy sat down, suddenly tired. Bad news. An infection of some sort. BP 96, pulse 120, temp 39.5. The only other tech in Oxford off in Wales and Basingame’s secretary out doing her Christmas shopping. And Kivrin somewhere in 1320, days or even weeks from where she was supposed to be. Or months.

The male medic poured milk and sugar into a cup and stirred it, waiting for the electric kettle to heat. The woman appeared to have gone to sleep.

Dunworthy stared at her, thinking about the slippage. Badri had said the preliminary calculations indicated minimal slippage, but they were only preliminary. Badri had told him he thought two weeks’ slippage was likely, and that made sense.

The farther back the historian was sent, the greater the average slippage. Twentieth Century’s drops usually had only a few minutes, Eighteenth Century’s a few hours. Magdalen, which was still running unmanneds to the Renaissance, was getting slippage of from three to six days.

But those were only averages. The slippage varied from person to person, and it was impossible to predict for any given drop. Nineteenth Century had had one off by forty-eight days, and in uninhabited areas there was often no slippage at all.

And often the amount seemed arbitrary, whimsical. When they’d run the first slippage checks for Twentieth Century back in the twenties, he’d stood in Balliol’s empty quad and been sent through to two a.m. on the fourteenth of September, 1956, with only three minutes’ slippage. But when they sent him through again at 2:08, there had been nearly two hours’, and he’d come through nearly on top of an undergraduate sneaking in after a night out.

Kivrin might be six months from where she was supposed to be, with no idea of when the rendezvous was. And Badri had come running to the pub to tell him to pull her out.

Mary came in, still wearing her coat. Dunworthy stood up. “Is it Badri?” he asked, afraid of the answer.

“He’s still in Casualties,” she said. “We need his NHS number, and we can’t find his records in Balliol’s file.”

Her gray hair was mussed again, but otherwise she seemed as businesslike as she was when she discussed Dunworthy’s students with him.

“He’s not a member of the college,” Dunworthy said, feeling relieved. “Techs are assigned to the individual colleges, but they’re officially employed by the University.”

“Then his records would be in the Registrar’s Office. Good. Do you know if he’s traveled outside England in the past month?”

“He did an on-site for Nineteenth Century in Hungary two weeks ago. He’s been in England since then.”

“Has he had any relations visit him from Pakistan?”

“He hasn’t any. He’s third-generation. Have you found out what he’s got?”

She wasn’t listening. “Where are Gilchrist and Montoya?” she said.

“You told Gilchrist to meet us here, but he hadn’t come in yet when I was brought in here.”

“And Montoya?”

“She left as soon as the drop was completed,” Dunworthy said.

“Have you any idea where she might have gone?”

No more than you have, Dunworthy thought. You watched her leave, too. “I assume she went back to Witney to her dig. She spends the majority of her time there.”

“Her dig?” Mary said, as if she’d never heard of it.

What is it? he thought. What’s wrong? “In Witney,” he said. “The National Trust farm. She’s excavating a mediaeval village.”

“Witney?” she said, looking unhappy. “She’ll have to come in immediately.”

“Shall I try to ring her up?” Dunworthy said, but Mary had already gone over to the medic standing by the tea trolley.

“I need you to fetch someone in from Witney,” she said to him. He put down his cup and saucer and shrugged on his jacket. “From the National Trust site. Lupe Montoya.” She went out the door with him.

He expected her to come back as soon as she’d finished giving him the directions to Witney. When she didn’t, he started after her. She wasn’t in the corridor. Neither was the medic, but the nurse from Casualties was.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, barring his path the way the registrar in Casualties had. “Dr. Ahrens asked that you wait for her here.”

“I’m not leaving the Infirmary. I need to put a call through to my secretary.”

“I’ll be glad to fetch you a phone, sir,” she said firmly. She turned and looked down the corridor.

Gilchrist and Latimer were coming. “…  hope Ms. Engle has the opportunity to observe a death,” Gilchrist was saying. “Attitudes toward death in the 1300s differed greatly from ours. Death was a common and accepted part of life, and the contemps were incapable of feeling loss or grief.”

“Mr. Dunworthy,” the nurse said, tugging at his arm, “if you’ll just wait inside, I’ll bring you a telephone.”

She went to meet Gilchrist and Latimer. “If you’ll come with me, please,” she said, and ushered them into the waiting room.

“I’m Acting Head of the History Faculty,” Gilchrist said, glaring at Dunworthy. “Badri Chaudhuri is my responsibility.”

“Yes, sir,” the nurse said, shutting the door. “Dr. Ahrens will be with you directly.”

Latimer set his umbrella on one of the chairs and Mary’s shopping bag on the one next to it. He had apparently retrieved all the parcels Mary had dumped on the floor. Dunworthy could see the muffler box and one of the Christmas crackers sticking out of the top. “We couldn’t find a taxi,” he said, breathing hard. He sat down next to his burdens. “We had to take the tube.”

“Where is the apprentice tech you were going to use on the drop—Puhalski—from?” Dunworthy said. “I need to speak with him.”

“Concerning what, if I may ask? Or have you taken over Mediaeval entirely in my absence?”

“It’s essential that someone read the fix and make sure it’s all right.”

“You’d be delighted if something were to go wrong, wouldn’t you? You’ve been attempting to obstruct this drop from the beginning.”

“Were to go wrong?” Dunworthy said disbelievingly. “It’s already gone wrong. Badri is lying in hospital unconscious and we don’t have any idea if Kivrin is when or where she’s supposed to be. You heard Badri. He said something was wrong with the fix. We’ve got to get a tech here to find out what it is.”

“I should hardly put any credence in what someone says under the influence of drugs or dorphs or whatever it is he’s been taking,” Gilchrist said. “And may I remind you, Mr. Dunworthy, that the only thing to have gone wrong on this drop is Twentieth Century’s part in it. Mr. Puhalski was doing a perfectly adequate job. However, at your insistence, I allowed your tech to replace him. It’s obvious I shouldn’t have.”

The door opened, and they all turned and looked at it. The sister brought in a portable telephone, handed it to Dunworthy, and ducked out again.

“I must ring up Brasenose and tell them where I am,” Gilchrist said.

Dunworthy ignored him, flipped up the phone’s visual screen, and rang up Jesus. “I need the names and home telephone numbers of your techs,” he told the Acting Principal’s secretary when she appeared on the screen. “None of them are here over vac, are they?”

None of them were there. He wrote down the names and numbers on one of the inspirational pamphlets, thanked the senior tutor, hung up, and started on the list of numbers.

The first number he punched was engaged. The others got him an engaged tone before he’d even finished punching in the town exchanges, and on the last a computer voice broke in and said, “All lines are engaged. Please attempt your call later.”

He rang Balliol, both the hall and his own office. He didn’t get an answer at either number. Finch must have taken the Americans to London to hear Big Ben.

Gilchrist was still standing next to him, waiting to use the phone. Latimer had wandered over to the tea cart and was trying to plug in the electric kettle. The medic came out of her drowse to assist him. “Have you finished with the telephone?” Gilchrist said stiffly.

“No,” Dunworthy said and tried Finch again. There was still no answer.

He rang off. “I want you to get your tech back to Oxford and pull Kivrin out. Now. Before she’s left the drop site.”

“You want?” Gilchrist said. “Might I remind you that this is Mediaeval’s drop, not yours.”

“It doesn’t matter whose it is,” Dunworthy said, trying to keep his temper. “It’s University policy to abort a drop if there’s any sort of problem.”

“May I also remind you that the only problem we’ve encountered on this drop is that you failed to screen your tech for dorphs.” He reached for the phone. “I will decide if and when this drop needs to be aborted.”

The phone rang.

“Gilchrist here,” Gilchrist said. “Just a moment, please.” He handed the telephone to Dunworthy.

“Mr. Dunworthy,” Finch said, looking harried. “Thank goodness. I’ve been calling round everywhere. You won’t believe the difficulties I’ve had.”

“I’ve been detained,” Dunworthy said before Finch could launch into an account of his difficulties. “Now listen carefully. I need you to go and fetch Badri Chaudhuri’s employment file from the bursar’s office. Dr. Ahrens needs it. Ring her up. She’s here at Infirmary. Insist on speaking directly to her. She’ll tell you what information she wants from the file.”

“Yes, sir,” Finch said, taking up a pad and pencil and taking rapid notes.

“As soon as you’ve done that, I want you to go straight to New College and see the Senior Tutor. Tell him I must speak with him immediately and give him this telephone number. Tell him it’s an emergency, that it’s essential that we locate Basingame. He must come back to Oxford immediately.”

“Do you think he’ll be able to, sir?”

“What do you mean? Has there been a message from Basingame? Has something happened to him?”

“Not that I know of, sir.”

“Well, then, of course he’ll be able to come back. He’s only on a fishing trip. It’s not as if he’s on a schedule. After you’ve spoken to the Senior Tutor, ask any staff and students you can find. Perhaps one of them has an idea as to where Basingame is. And while you’re there, find out whether any of their techs are here in Oxford.”

“Yes, sir,” Finch said. “But what should I do with the Americans?”

“You’ll have to tell them I’m sorry to have missed them, but that I was unavoidably detained. They’re supposed to leave for Ely at four, aren’t they?”

“They were, but—”

“But what?”

“Well, sir, I took them round to see Great Tom and Old Marston Church and all, but when I tried to take them out to Iffley, we were stopped.”

“Stopped?” Dunworthy said. “By whom?”

“The police, sir. They had barricades up. The thing is, the Americans are very upset about their handbell concert.”

“Barricades?” Dunworthy said.

“Yes, sir. On the A4158. Should I put the Americans up in Salvin, sir? William Gaddson and Tom Gailey are on the north staircase, but Basevi’s being painted.”

“I don’t understand,” Dunworthy said. “Why were you stopped?”

“The quarantine,” Finch said, looking surprised. “I could put them in Fisher’s. The heat’s been turned off for vac, but they could use the fireplaces.”

TRANSCRIPT FROM THE DOMESDAY BOOK

(000618–000735)

I’m back at the drop site. It’s some distance from the road. I’m going to drag the wagon out onto the road so that my chances of being seen are better, but if no one happens along in the next half hour, I intend to walk to Skendgate, which I have located thanks to the bells of evening vespers.

I am experiencing considerable time lag. My head aches pretty badly, and I keep having chills. The symptoms are worse than I understood them to be from Badri and Dr. Ahrens. The headache particularly. I’m glad the village isn’t far.