Timeline - Michael Crichton [20]
Chris had been an undergraduate, in his junior year, when his parents were killed in an automobile accident. Chris, an only child, was devastated; he thought he would drop out of school. Johnston moved the young student into his house for three months, and served as a substitute father for many years afterward, advising him on everything from settling his parents’ estate to problems with his girlfriends. And there had been a lot of problems with girlfriends.
In the aftermath of his parents’ death, Chris had gotten involved with many women. The subsequent complexity of his life—dirty looks in a seminar from a jilted lover; frantic midnight calls to his room because of a missed period, while he was in bed with someone else; clandestine hotel-room meetings with an associate professor of philosophy who was in the midst of a nasty divorce—all this became a familiar texture to his life. Inevitably his grades suffered, and then Johnston took him aside, spending several evenings talking things through with him.
But Chris wasn’t inclined to listen; soon after, he was named in the divorce. Only the Professor’s personal intervention prevented him from being expelled from Yale. Chris’s response to this sudden jeopardy was to bury himself in his studies; his grades swiftly improved; he eventually graduated fifth in his class. But in the process he became conservative. Now, at twenty-four, he tended toward fussiness, and stomach trouble. He was reckless only with women.
:
“Finally,” Chris said. “It’s coming up.”
The liquid crystal display showed an outline in bright green. Through the transparent display, they could see the ruins of the mill, with the green outline superimposed. This was the latest method for modeling archaeological structures. Formerly, they had relied on ordinary architectural models, made of white foamcore, cut and assembled by hand. But the technique was slow, and modifications were difficult.
These days, all models were made in the computer. The models could be quickly assembled, and easily revised. In addition, they allowed this method for looking at models in the field. The computer was fed mapped coordinates from the ruin; using the GPS-fixed tripod position, the image that came up on the screen was in exact perspective.
They watched the green outline fill in, making solid forms. It showed a substantial covered bridge, built of stone, with three water wheels beneath it. “Chris,” Johnston said, “you’ve made it fortified.” He sounded pleased.
“I know it’s a risk . . .,” he said.
“No, no,” the Professor said, “I think it makes sense.”
There were references in the literature to fortified mills, and certainly there were records of innumerable battles over mills and mill rights. But few fortified mills were actually known: one in Buerge and another recently discovered near Montauban, in the next valley. Most medieval historians believed such fortified mill buildings were rare.
“The column bases at the water’s edge are very large,” Chris said. “Like everything else around here, once the mill was abandoned, the local people used it as a quarry. They took away the stones to build their own houses. But the rocks in the column bases were left behind, because they were simply too large to move. To me, that implies a massive bridge. Probably fortified.”
“You may be right,” Johnston said. “And I think—”
The radio clipped to his waist crackled. “Chris? Is the Professor with you? The minister is on-site.”
Johnston looked across the monastery excavation, toward the dirt road that ran along the edge of the river. A green Land Rover with white lettering on the side panels was racing toward them, raising a large plume of dust. “Yes indeed,” he said. “That will be François. Always in a rush.”
:
“Edouard! Edouard!” François Bellin grabbed the Professor by the shoulders, and kissed him on both cheeks. Bellin was a large, balding, exuberant man. He spoke rapid French. “My dear friend, it is always too long. You are well?”
“I am, François,” Johnston said, taking a step back from this effusiveness. Whenever