Timescape

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

PETERSON WOKE SLOWLY. HE KEPT HIS EYES CLOSED. His body told him not to move but he couldn’t remember why. There was a murmur of movement around him, subdued voices, somewhere in the distance a metallic clash. He opened his eyes briefly, saw white walls, a chrome rail. A whirling dizziness. He remembered where he was now. Gingerly he tested his body. A dull, cottony feel. Seeping, cold ache. The rail down the side of a bed came into fuzzy focus. He rolled his head, wincing, and saw a bottle suspended above him. He tried to follow the tubes with his eyes but couldn’t. Something was plugged into his nose. A tube taped to his arm pricked him as he moved. He tried to call the nurse. It came out a rattling croak.

She had heard him anyway. A round face with glasses and a white cap leaped into his field of vision.

“Waking up, are we? That’s right. You’ll be all right now.”

“Cold…” He closed his eyes. Felt blankets being tucked in around him. The plug was removed from his nose.

“Can you hold a thermometer in your mouth?” the bright brisk voice asked. “Or should we try the other end?”

He squinted at her, loathing her.

“Mouth…” His tongue felt furry and enormous. Something cold slipped into his mouth. Cool fingers clamped his wrist.

“Well, coming down nicely. You’re one of the lucky ones, you are. Got you some Infalaithin-G before it got to you.”

He frowned. “Others?”

“Oh, yes,” she said cheerfully. “We’re overrun with them. No more beds at all. They’re putting them in Emergency now. That’ll be full soon, I’ll warrant. You’ve got a private room, but you should hear them moanin’ and groanin’ in Ward E. Sixty beds, they’ve got in there. All this funny food thing, like you. Though mostly worse cases. Like I said, you’re one of the lucky ones. Now, time to get some food into you.”

“Food?” he said in horror. The memory of his last dinner with Laura engulfed him in nausea. “Nurse!”

“Going to upchuck, are you?” She sounded as cheerful as ever. Deftly she fitted a kidney-shaped basin under his chin and supported his head. He retched miserably. Greenish slime trailed down his chin and left a bitter taste in his mouth. His stomach hurt like hell.

“Nothing in you, see. Just lie still now and don’t go getting excited again.”

“You said food,” he rasped accusingly.

She laughed merrily. “Well, so I did, but I didn’t mean food. Time to change your IV bottle, that’s all.”

He closed his eyes again. His head throbbed. He heard her bustling around. Presently the door closed. Distantly, through double windows, he heard the hum of London’s traffic. Where was he, anyway? Guy’s Hospital, perhaps? He remembered more clearly now. It had come on him very suddenly. He had felt fine going home. He had waked after an hour’s sleep, feeling vaguely nauseated, and had got out of bed. The clenching paralysis seized him after a few steps. He remembered lying curled on the bedroom floor, unable to call out, hardly daring to breathe. Sarah, of course, was out. He supposed he might have died if it had been the housekeeper’s night off, too.

When he woke, he felt more lucid. His head pulsed with a slow ache. He rang for the nurse. It was a different one, an Indian girl this time. He knew he was better when he found himself trying to gauge the size of her breasts under the starched uniform.

“How are you feeling now, Mr. Peterson?” she asked in a sing-song voice, bending over him.

“Better. What time is it?”

“It’s half-past five now.”

“I’d like my watch back. And I’m hungry. I could manage something very light.”

“I’ll see what’s allowed,” she said and left the room silently.

He struggled into a sitting position. The nurse trotted in again with a radio and a note.

“You had a visitor, Mr. Peterson,” she said, smiling. “She wouldn’t stay, but she left this. And you can have some broth. It’ll be up presently.”

He recognized Sarah’s large graceful loops and flourishes on the envelope and opened the note.

Ian—What a terrible bore for you: Can’t stand hospitals so I won’t visit, but I thought you could use this radio. I’m leaving for Cannes Friday. Hope to see you before then. If not, give me a ring. I’ll probably be home. Wednesday evening. Bye bye. Sarah.

He screwed it up and dropped it in the wastepaper basket. He turned on the radio, a neat little battery one. There seemed to be nothing but music anywhere. He looked automatically at his watch and realized he wasn’t wearing it. What time had the nurse said it was? His stomach gurgled loudly. Three pips suddenly interrupted the music.

“This is the BBC Radio Four,” a woman’s voice announced, “and here is the 6 o’clock news. First, the headlines: Fifty people are dead tonight after violent rioting in the streets of Paris. A United Airlines flight from London to Washington crashed early this morning, killing everyone on board. The bloom spreading across the Atlantic Ocean has advanced miles in a day. The World Council has approved an Energy Plan despite a veto by the OPEC countries. Power failures lasting over six hours caused factories to shut down in the Midlands today. The Test match at Lord’s cricket ground was canceled today as ten members of the Australian team have been hospitalized with food poisoning. Tomorrow’s weather: sunny in patches, increased chance of storms.” A pause. “Rioting French students were joined by workers today in Paris…”

Peterson did not listen. He felt light and unsteady. The nurse came in with a tray. He signaled her to leave it on the bedside table. Something in the news had disturbed him and he wasn’t quite sure what it was. It must be the news of the bloom. And yet he felt no reaction as he ran that past again.

“United Airlines flight 347, London to Washington, D.C., encountered turbulence on its approach to Dulles airport and crashed in late afternoon. Transmissions from the pilot were garbled. There seem to have been seizures of both pilot and copilot in the moments before the crash. Witnesses said the plane appeared to explode as it struck the trees. There were no survivors. This latest in a series of airline disasters has—”

Jesus! His palms were sweating. He pressed the buzzer for the nurse. She did not come at once. He held the button down and shouted “Nurse!”

She came in hurriedly, leaving the door open.

“What’s the matter now? Why, you haven’t even touched your broth.”

“Damn the broth. What day is this? Is it Wednesday?”

“Yes, it is. But are you—”

“I want a phone. Why isn’t there a phone in here?”

“It was taken out so you wouldn’t be disturbed.”

“Well, get it back.”

“I don’t know if I’m supposed to do that…”

“What’s going on here?” The first nurse bustled in again.

“Sister, Mr. Peterson is asking for a phone in here.”

“Oh no, we don’t need that. Don’t want you to be disturbed, do we?”

“I’m being disturbed now,” he shouted. “Get me a phone!”

“Now, now, Mr. Peterson, we can’t have that…”

“Listen, you stupid cunt,” he said clearly and tensely, “I want a phone in here right now or I’ll have you fired!”

There was a shocked silence and the two women backed from the room, eyeing him warily. He lay back, shaking. Through the door, which they had left open, he could hear moaning.

Presently an orderly brought in a phone and plugged it in. Peterson took a sip of water and fought the rising nausea. He dialed his secretary’s number.