Timeline - Michael Crichton [195]
There was a hiss. Doniger smelled a sharp odor, like ether.
He awoke, hearing a loud humming, and what sounded like the scream of rending metal. He was inside the machine. He saw all of them staring at him from behind the shields. He knew not to step out, not once it had started. He said loudly, “This isn’t going to work,” and then the violet flash of laser light blinded him. The flashes came quickly now. He saw the transit room rise up around him as he shrank—then the hissing foam as he descended toward it—then the final shriek in his ears, and he closed his eyes, waiting for the impact.
Blackness.
He heard the chirp of birds, and he opened his eyes. The first thing he did was look up at the sky. It was clear. So it wasn’t Vesuvius. He was in a primeval forest with huge trees. So it wasn’t Tokyo. The twittering of the birds was pleasant, the air warm. It wasn’t Tunguska.
Where the hell was he?
The machine rested at a slight angle; the forest ground sloped downward to the left. He saw light between the tree trunks, some distance away. He got out of the machine and walked down the slope. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the slow beat of a solitary drum.
He came to a break in the trees and looked down over a fortified town. It was partially obscured by the smoke of many fires, but he recognized it at once. Oh hell, he thought, it’s just Castelgard. What was the big deal, forcing him to come here?
It was Gordon, of course, who was behind it. That bullshit line about how the academics were disappointed. It was Gordon. The son of a bitch had been running the technology, and now he thought he could run the company, as well. Gordon had sent him back, thinking he couldn’t return.
But Doniger could return, and he would. He wasn’t worried, because he carried a ceramic with him at all times. He kept it in a slot in the heel of his shoe. He pulled the shoe off, and looked at the slot. Yes, the white ceramic was there. But it was pushed deep in the slot, and it seemed to be stuck there. When he shook the shoe, it didn’t drop out. He tried a twig, poking in the slot, but the twig bent.
Next he tried to pull the heel off the shoe, but he couldn’t get enough leverage; the heel stayed on. What he needed was a metal tool of some kind, a wedge or a chisel. He could find one in the town, he felt sure.
He put the shoe back on, stripped off his jacket and tie, and walked down the slope. Looking at the town, he noticed some odd details. He was just above the east gate in the town wall, but the gate was wide open. And there were no soldiers along the walls. That was odd. Whatever year this was, it was obviously a time of peace—there were those times, between English invasions. But still, he’d have thought the gate would always be guarded. He looked at the fields and saw no one tending them. They seemed neglected, with large clumps of weeds.
What the hell? he thought.
He passed through the gate and walked into the town. He saw that the gate was unguarded because the soldier on guard lay dead on his back. Doniger leaned over to look at him. There were bright streaks of blood coming from around his eyes. He must have been struck on the head, he thought.
He turned to the town itself. The smoke, he now saw, was issuing from little pots that had been placed everywhere—on the ground, on walls, or on fence posts. And the town seemed to be deserted, empty in the bright, sunny day. He walked to the market, but nobody was there. He heard the sound of monks chanting; they were coming toward him. And he heard the drum.
He felt a chill.
A dozen monks, all dressed in black, rounded the corner in a kind of procession, chanting. Half of them were stripped to the waist, lashing themselves with leather whips studded with bits of metal. Their shoulders and backs were bleeding freely.
Flagellants.
That was what they were, flagellants. Doniger gave a low moan and backed away from