Timeline - Michael Crichton [132]
“And that’s happened?”
“Yes. To some lab animals. And to several people. The pioneers—the ones who used this prototype machine.”
Stern hesitated. “Where are those people now?”
“Most of them are still here. Still working for us. But they don’t travel anymore. They can’t.”
“Okay,” Stern said, “but I’m only talking about one trip.”
“And we haven’t used or calibrated this machine for a long time,” Gordon said. “It may be okay, and it may not be. Look: suppose I let you go back, and after you arrive in 1357, you discover you have errors so serious, you don’t dare return. Because you couldn’t risk more accumulation.”
“You’re saying I’d have to stay back there.”
“Yes.”
Stern said, “Has that ever happened to anybody?”
Gordon paused. “Possibly.”
“You mean there’s somebody back there now?”
“Possibly,” Gordon said. “We’re not sure.”
“But this is very important to know,” Stern said, suddenly excited. “You’re telling me there might be somebody already back there who could help them.”
“I don’t know,” Gordon said, “if this particular person would help.”
“But shouldn’t we tell them? Advise them?”
“There’s no way to make contact with them.”
“Actually,” Stern said, “I think there is.”
16:12:23
Shivering and cold, Chris awoke before dawn. The sky was pale gray, the ground covered by thin mist. He was sitting under the lean-to, his knees pulled up to his chin, his back against the wall. Kate sat beside him, still asleep. He shifted his body to look out, and winced with sudden pain. All his muscles were cramped and sore—his arms, his legs, his chest, everywhere. His neck hurt when he turned his head.
He was surprised to find the shoulder of his tunic stiff with dried blood. Apparently, the arrow the night before had cut him enough to cause bleeding. Chris moved his arm experimentally, sucking in his breath with pain, but he decided that he was all right.
He shivered in the morning damp. What he wanted now was a warm fire and something to eat. His stomach was growling. He hadn’t eaten for more than twenty-four hours. And he was thirsty. Where were they going to find water? Could you drink water from the Dordogne? Or did they need to find a spring? And where were they going to find food?
He turned to ask Marek, but Marek wasn’t there. He twisted to look around the farmhouse—sharp pain, lots of pain—but Marek was gone.
He had just begun to get to his feet when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Marek? No, he decided: he was hearing the footsteps of more than one person. And he heard the soft clink of chain mail.
The footsteps came close, then stopped. He held his breath. To the right, barely three feet from his head, a chain-mail gauntlet appeared through the open window and rested on the windowsill. The sleeve above the gauntlet was green, trimmed in black.
Arnaut’s men.
“Hic nemo habitavit nuper,” a male voice said.
A reply came from the doorway. “Et intellego quare. Specta, porta habet signum rubrum. Estne pestilentiae?”
“Pestilentia? Certo scisne? Abeamus!”
The hand hastily withdrew, and the footsteps hurried away. His earpiece had translated none of it, because it was turned off. He had to rely on his Latin. What was pestilentia? Probably “plague.” The soldiers had seen the mark on the door and had quickly moved away.
Jesus, he thought, was this a plague house? Is that why it had been burned down? Could you still catch the plague? He was wondering about this when to his horror a black rat scuttled out of the deep grass, and away through the door. Chris shivered. Kate awoke, and yawned. “What time is—”
He pressed his finger to her lips and shook his head.
He heard the men still moving away, their voices faint in the gray morning. Chris slid out from under the lean-to, crept to the window, and looked out cautiously.
He saw at least a dozen soldiers, all around them, wearing the green and black colors of Arnaut. The soldiers were methodically checking all the thatched cottages near the monastery walls. As Chris watched, he saw Marek walking toward the soldiers. Marek was hunched over, dragging one