From Library Journal
A time-traveling history student is trapped in the Middle Ages, dangerously close to the onset of the Black Plague. Her rescuers in 21st-century Oxford battle their own deadly epidemic to reach her in time. The author of Lincoln's Dreams ( LJ 4/15/87) balances two storylines with exquisite skill as she depicts a pair of closely knit communities--each facing an unknown and frightening enemy. Willis uses the language of time travel and advanced technologies to speak of human concerns, finding parallels that transcend time in the hopes, struggles, and fears of her modern and medieval characters. The clarity and consistency of her writing, as well as her deft storytelling ability, place her among this decade's most promising writers. A priority purchase.
Copyright 1992 Reed Business Information, Inc.
From Kirkus Reviews
Second solo novel (following Lincoln's Dreams, 1987) from an author best known for her strong stories (the collection Fire Watch, etc.). In the Oxford of Christmas, 2054, time travel is a well- established tool of historical research. Kivrin Engles has labored diligently to acquire the language and practical skills necessary to survive in the 14th century--for her destination is Christmas, 1320. Nearby, an archeological dig is uncovering artifacts from the same period. But problems beset the ``drop'': Kivrin's schedule is advanced by Gilchrist, the professor in charge (he's more concerned with his reputation than the safety of his researchers) before her immunizations (irritatingly called ``inoculations'' by Willis) can take full effect; and the technician in charge of the time- calculations, Badri, falls mysteriously ill just as the drop goes ahead. Dunworthy, Kivrin's academic mentor and friend, his place usurped by Gilchrist, suspects something has gone wrong--but the delirious Badri can provide only forbidding hints. Soon a full- blown influenza epidemic is raging. Meanwhile, in the 14th century, Kivrin overcomes initial obstacles (she comes down with the flu; her mental translator doesn't work) to become absorbed in the life and people of a tiny village--in particular she admires Roche, the priest, a simple and illiterate Anglo-Saxon despised by the local Norman aristocracy. But as an enigmatic ``blue sickness'' takes hold in the village, Kivrin realizes that she's not in 1320 but 1348--the year bubonic plague ravaged England. Soon, the entire village lies dying, nursed only by Kivrin and the saintly Roche, who, ironically, thinks she's a saint sent by God to restore the faith. Meantime, up in the 21st century, Badri hovers near death; Dunworthy, desperately worried about Kivrin, himself succumbs; plague dominates both centuries. Solid characters, crisp, almost perfect detail, and excellent subplots that maintain the tension at an almost unendurable level. Splendid work--brutal, gripping, and genuinely harrowing, the product of diligent research, fine writing, and well-honed instincts, that should appeal far beyond the usual science-fiction constituency. -- Copyright ©1992, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved.
Review
“A stunning novel that encompasses both suffering and hope. . . . The best work yet from one of science fiction’s best writers.”—The Denver Post
“Splendid work—brutal, gripping and genuinely harrowing, the product of diligent research, fine writing and well-honed instincts, that should appeal far beyond the normal science-fiction constituency.”—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“The world of 1348 burns in the mind’s eye, and every character alive that year is a fully recognized being. . . . It becomes possible to feel . . . that Connie Willis did, in fact, over the five years Doomsday Book took her to write, open a window to another world, and that she saw something there.”—The Washington Post Book World
From the Publisher
Winner of the Hugo and Nebula Awards.
About the Author
Connie Willis has won six Nebula Awards (more than any other science fiction writer), six Hugo Awards, and for her first novel, Lincoln's Dreams, John W. Campbell Memorial Award. Her novel Doomsday Book won both the Nebula and Hugo Awards, and her first short-story collection, Fire Watch, was a New York Times Notable Book. Her other works include To Say Nothing of the Dog, Bellwether, Impossible Things, Remake, Uncharted Territory and Miracle and Other Christmas Stories. Ms. Willis lives in Greeley, Colorado, with her family and is hard at work on her next novel, Passage.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Mr. Dunworthy opened the door to the laboratory and his spectacles promptly steamed up.
"Am I too late?" he said, yanking them off and squinting at Mary.
"Shut the door," she said. "I can't hear you over the sound of those ghastly carols."
Dunworthy closed the door, but it didn't completely shut out the sound of "O Come, All Ye Faithful" wafting in from the quad. "Am I too late?" he said again.
Mary shook her head. "All you've missed is Gilchrist's speech." She leaned back in her chair to let Dunworthy squeeze past her into the narrow observation area. She had taken off her coat and wool hat and set them on the only other chair, along with a large shopping bag full of parcels. Her gray hair was in disarray, as if she had tried to fluff it up after taking her hat off. "A very long speech about Mediaeval's maiden voyage in time," she said, "and the college of Brasenose taking its rightful place as the jewel in history's crown. Is it still raining?"
"Yes," he said, wiping his spectacles on his muffler. He hooked the wire rims over his ears and went up to the thin-glass partition to look at the net. In the center of the laboratory was a smashed-up wagon surrounded by overturned trunks and wooden boxes. Above them hung the protective shields of the net, draped like a gauzy parachute.
Kivrin's tutor Latimer, looking older and even more infirm than usual, was standing next to one of the trunks. Montoya was standing over by the console wearing jeans and a terrorist jacket and looking impatiently at the digital on her wrist. Badri was sitting in front of the console, typing something in and frowning at the display screens.
"Where's Kivrin?" Dunworthy said.
"I haven't seen her," Mary said. "Do come and sit down. The drop isn't scheduled till noon, and I doubt very much that they'll get her off by then. Particularly if Gilchrist makes another speech."
She draped her coat over the back of her own chair and set the shopping bag full of parcels on the floor by her feet. "I do hope this doesn't go all day. I must pick up my great-nephew Colin at the Underground station at three. He's coming in on the tube."
She rummaged in her shopping bag. "My niece Deirdre is off to Kent for the holidays and asked me to look after him. I do hope it doesn't rain the entire time he's here," she said, still rummaging. "He's twelve, a nice boy, very bright, though he has the most wretched vocabulary. Everything is either necrotic or apocalyptic. And Deirdre allows him entirely too many sweets."
She continued to dig through the contents of the shopping bag. "I got this for him for Christmas." She hauled up a narrow red-and-green-striped box. "I'd hoped to get the rest of my shopping done before I came here, but it was pouring rain and I can only tolerate that ghastly digital carillon music on the High Street for brief intervals."
She opened the box and folded back the tissue. "I've no idea what twelve-year-old boys are wearing these days, but mufflers are timeless, don't you think, James? James?"
He turned from where he had been staring blindly at the display screens. "What?"
"I said, mufflers are always an appropriate Christmas gift for boys, don't you think?"
He looked at the muffler she was holding up for his inspection. It was of dark gray plaid wool. He would not have been caught dead in it when he was a boy, and that had been fifty years ago. "Yes," he said, and turned back to the thin-glass.
"What is it, James? Is something wrong?"
Latimer picked up a small brass-bound casket, and then looked vaguely around, as if he had forgotten what he intended to do with it. Montoya glanced impatiently at her digital.
"Where's Gilchrist?" Dunworthy said.
"He went through there," Mary said, pointing at a door on the far side of the net. "He orated on Mediaeval's place in history, talked to Kivrin for a bit, the tech ran some tests, and then Gilchrist and Kivrin went through that door. I assume he's still in there with her, getting her ready."
"Getting her ready," Dunworthy muttered.
"James, do come and sit down, and tell me what's wrong," she said, jamming the muffler back in its box and stuffing it into the shopping bag, "and where you've been? I expected you to be here when I arrived. After all, Kivrin's your favorite pupil."
"I was trying to reach the Head of the History Faculty," Dunworthy said, looking at the display screens.
"Basingame? I thought he was off somewhere on Christmas vac."
"He is, and Gilchrist maneuvered to be appointed Acting Head in his absence so he could get the Middle Ages opened to time travel. He rescinded the blanket ranking of ten and arbitrarily assigned rankings to each century. Do you know what he assigned the 1300s? A six. A six! If Basingame had been here, he'd never have allowed it. But the man's nowhere to be found." He looked hopefully at Mary. "You don't know where he is, do you?"
"No," she said. "Somewhere in Scotland, I think."
"Somewhere in Scotland," he said bitterly. "And meanwhile, Gilchrist is sending Kivrin into a century which is clearly a ten, a century which had scrofula and the plague and burned Joan of Arc at the stake."
He looked at Badri, who was speaking into the console's ear now. "You said Badri ran tests. What were they? A coordinates check? A field projection?"
"I don't know." She waved vaguely at the screens, with their constantly changing matrices and columns of figures. "I'm only a doctor, not a net technician. I thought I recognized the technician. He's from Balliol, isn't he?"
Dunworthy nodded. "He's the best tech Balliol has," he said, watching Badri, who was tapping the console's keys one at a time, his eyes on the changing readouts. "All of New College's techs were gone for the vac. Gilchrist was planning to use a first-year apprentice who'd never run a manned drop. A first-year apprentice for a remote! I talked him into using Badri. If I can't stop this drop, at least I can see that it's run by a competent tech."
Badri frowned at the screen, pulled a meter out of his pocket, and started toward the wagon.
"Badri!" Dunworthy called.
Badri gave no indication he'd heard. He walked around the perimeter of the boxes and trunks, looking at the meter. He moved one of the boxes slightly to the left.
"He can't hear you," Mary said.
"Badri!" he shouted. "I need to speak to you."
Mary had stood up. "He can't hear you, James," she said. "The partition's soundproofed."
Badri said something to Latimer, who was still holding the brass-bound casket. Latimer looked bewildered. Badri took the casket from him and set it down on the chalked mark.
Dunworthy looked around for a microphone. He couldn't see one. "How were you able to hear Gilchrist's speech?" he asked Mary.
"Gilchrist pressed a button on the inside there," she said, pointing at a wall panel next to the net.
Badri had sat down in front of the console again and was speaking into the ear. The net shields began to lower into place. Badri said something else, and they rose to where they'd been.
"I told Badri to recheck everything, the net, the apprentice's calculations, everything," he said, "and to abort the drop immediately if he found any errors, no matter what Gilchrist said."
"But surely Gilchrist wouldn't jeopardize Kivrin's safety," Mary protested. "He told me he'd taken every precaution—"
"Every precaution! He hasn't run recon tests or parameter checks. We did two years of unmanneds in Twentieth Century before we sent anyone through. He hasn't done any. Badri told him he should delay the drop until he could do at least one, and instead he moved the drop up two days. The man's a complete incompetent."
"But he explained why the drop had to be today," Mary said. "In his speech. He said the contemps in the 1300s paid no attention to dates, except planting and harvesting times and church holy days. He said the concentration of holy days was greatest around Christmas, and that was why Mediaeval had decided to send Kivrin now, so she could use the Advent holy days to determine her temporal location and ensure her being at the drop site on the twenty-eighth of December."
"His sending her now has nothing to do with Advent or holy days," he said, watching Badri. He was back to tapping one key at a time and frowning. "He could send her next week and use Epiphany for the rendezvous date. He could run unmanneds for six months and then send her lapse-time. Gilchrist is sending her now because Basingame's off on holiday and isn't here to stop him."
"Oh, dear," Mary said. "I rather thought he was rushing it myself When I told him how long I needed Kivrin in Infirmary, he tried to talk me out of it. I had to explain that her inoculations needed time to take effect."
"A rendezvous on the twenty-eighth of December," Dunworthy said bitterly. "Do you realize what holy day that is? The Feast of the Slaughter of the Innocents. Which, in light of how this drop is being run, may be entirely appropriate."
"Why can't you stop it?" Mary said. "You can forbid Kivrin to go, can't you? You're her tutor."
"No," he said. "I'm not. She's a student at Brasenose. Latimer's her tutor." He waved his hand in the direction of Latimer, who had picked up the brass-bound casket again and was peering absentmindedly into it. "She came to Balliol and asked me to tutor her unofficially."
He turned and stared blindly at the thin-glass. "I told her then that she couldn't go."
Perhaps that’s what’s wrong with our time, Mr. Dunworthy, it was founded by Maisry and the bishop’s envoy and Sir Bloet. And all the people who stayed and tried to help, like Roche, caught the plague and died.Highlighted by 250 Kindle readers
