"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 student in the first place.

He put a call through to Magdalen anyway, but got no answer. He hung up, thought a minute, and then rang up Balliol. There was no answer there either. Finch must still be out showing the American bellringers 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 l20, temp 39.5. The only other tech in Oxford off in Wales and the bursar 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 drops usually had only a few minutes, Eighteenth-Century 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 in the casualties ward," 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," he 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 travelled 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 1300's 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 Mediaeval," 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."