Timeline - Michael Crichton [101]
“Nine hours.”
“And then we can mount a rescue operation? Send another team back?”
Kramer coughed. “Well . . .”
“Are you sick? Or does that mean no?”
“All the machines were destroyed in the explosion, Bob,” she said.
“All of them?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Then all we can do is rebuild the pad, and sit on our asses to see if they come back in one piece?”
“Yes. That’s right. We have no way to rescue them.”
“Then let’s hope they know their stuff,” Doniger said, “because they’re on their own. Good fucking luck to them.”
31:40:44
Through the narrow slit of his helmet visor, Chris Hughes could see that the tournament stands were filled—almost entirely with ladies—and the railings crowded with commoners ten deep. Everyone was shouting for the tournament to begin. Chris was now at the east end of the field, surrounded by his pages, trying to control the horse, which seemed upset by the shouting crowd and had begun to buck and rear. The pages tried to hand him a striped lance, which was absurdly long and ungainly in his hand. Chris took it, then fumbled it as the horse snorted and stomped beneath him.
Beyond the barrier, he saw Kate standing among the commoners. She was smiling encouragement at him, but the horse kept twisting and turning, so he could not return her gaze.
And not far off, he saw the armored figure of Marek, surrounded by pages.
As Chris’s horse turned again—why didn’t the pages grab the reins?—he saw the far end of the field, where Sir Guy de Malegant sat calmly on his mount. He was pulling on his black-plumed helmet.
Chris’s horse bucked once more and turned him in circles. He heard more trumpets, and the spectators all looked toward the stands. He was dimly aware that Lord Oliver was taking his seat, to scattered applause.
Then the trumpets blared again.
“Squire, it is your signal,” a page said, handing him the lance once more. This time, he managed to hold it long enough to rest it in a notch on his pommel, so that it crossed the horse’s back and pointed ahead to his left. Then the horse spun, and the pages yelled and scattered as the lance swung in an arc over their heads.
More trumpets.
Hardly able to see, Chris tugged at his reins, trying to get the horse under control. He glimpsed Sir Guy at the far end of the field, just watching, his horse perfectly still. Chris wanted to get it over with, but his horse was wild. Angry and frustrated, he yanked hard at the reins one final time. “Goddamn it, go, will you?”
At this, the horse snapped his head up and down in two swift motions. The ears went flat.
And he charged.
:
Marek watched the charge tensely. He had not told Chris everything; there was no point in frightening him any more than necessary. But certainly Sir Guy would try to kill Chris, which meant he would aim his lance for the head. Chris was bouncing wildly in the saddle, his lance jerking up and down, his body swaying from side to side. He made a poor target, but if Guy was skilled—and Marek had no doubt that he was—then he would still aim for the head, risking a miss on the first pass in order to make the fatal hit.
He watched Chris jolt down the field, precariously hanging in the saddle. And he watched Sir Guy charging toward him, in perfect control, body leaning forward, lance couched in the crook of the arm.
Well, Marek thought, there was at least a chance that Chris would survive.
:
Chris could not see much of anything. Lurching wildly in the saddle, he had only blurred views of the stands, the ground, the other rider coming toward him. From his brief glimpses, he could not estimate how far away Guy was, or how long until the impact. He heard the thundering hoofbeats of his horse, the rhythmic snorting breath. He bounced in the saddle and tried to hold on to his lance. Everything was taking much longer than he expected. He felt as if he had been riding this horse for an hour.
At the last moment, he saw Guy very close, rushing up to him at frightful speed, and then his own lance recoiled in his hand, slamming painfully into his right side, and simultaneously