Timeline

by Michael Crichton

“Rhyming is timing,” the old man said. And then he began to sing loudly, almost shouting to the tune of the old John Denver song: “Quondam phone, makes me roam, to the place I belong, old Black Rocky, country byway, quondam phone, it’s on roam.”

It was at TechGate that Doniger’s harsh management style became famous. During meetings with his scientists, he’d sit in the corner, tipped precariously back in his chair, firing off questions. “What about this?” “Why aren’t you doing that?” “What’s the reason for this?” If the answer satisfied him, he’d say, “Maybe.…” That was the highest praise anyone ever got from Doniger. But if he didn’t like the answer—and he usually didn’t—he’d snarl, “Are you brain-dead?” “Do you aspire to be an idiot?” “Do you want to die stupid?” “You’re not even a half-wit.” When really annoyed, he threw pencils and notebooks, and screamed, “Assholes! You’re all fucking assholes!”

“You know,” the Professor said, “what she really doesn’t like is corporate sponsorship. But archaeological research has always depended on outside benefactors. A hundred years ago, the benefactors were all individuals: Carnegie, Peabody, Stanford. But these days wealth is corporate, so Nippon TV finances the Sistine Chapel, British Telecom finances York, Philips Electronics finances the Toulouse castrum, and ITC finances us.”

“I’ve taken Dr. Marek’s excellent tour, in the helicopter and on foot. It’s evident you’re doing absolutely spectacular work. Progress is good, the work’s of extremely high academic quality, recordkeeping is first rate, your people are happy, the site is managed well. Just fabulous. I couldn’t be happier. But Dr. Marek tells me he is going to be late for his—what is it?”

“My broadsword lesson,” Marek said. “His broadsword lesson. Yes. I think he should certainly do that. It doesn’t sound like something you can change, like a piano lesson. In the meantime, shall we walk the site together?” “Of course,” Johnston said.

“I understand you want to be accurate—” “If I knew ITC wanted Disneyland, I’d never have agreed.” “We don’t want Disneyland.” “If you rebuild now, that’s what you’ll get, Ms. Kramer. You’ll get a fantasy. Medieval Land.” “No,” she said. “I can assure you in the strongest possible terms. We do not want a fantasy. We want an historically accurate reconstruction of the site.”

As the Professor left, Marek said, “I pray God look with favor upon your journey and deliver you safe back.” That was what he always said to departing friends. It had been a favorite phrase of the Count Geoffrey de la Tour, six hundred years before.

The Professor’s sudden departure left everyone on the project feeling bereft and uneasy; wild rumors flew, especially among the undergraduates: ITC was pulling its funding. ITC was turning the project into Medieval Land. ITC had killed somebody in the desert and was in trouble. Work stopped; people just stood around talking.

Yet the truth was that the modern world was invented in the Middle Ages. Everything from the legal system, to nation-states, to reliance on technology, to the concept of romantic love had first been established in medieval times. These stockbrokers owed the very notion of a market economy to the Middle Ages. And if they didn’t know that, then they didn’t know the basic facts of who they were. Why they did what they did. Where they had come from. Professor Johnston often said that if you didn’t know history, you didn’t know anything. You were a leaf that didn’t know it was part of a tree.

Kate said to Gordon, “My hearing is fine, I don’t need a hearing aid.” “It’s not a hearing aid,” Gordon said. Across the room, the man was drilling out the center of the plastic earpieces and inserting electronics. He worked surprisingly quickly. When the electronics were in place, he capped the hole with more plastic. “It’s a machine language translator and a radio mike. In case you need to understand what people are saying to you.” “But even if I understand what they’re saying,” she said, “how can I answer back?” Marek nudged her. “Don’t worry. I speak Occitan. And Middle French.” “Oh, that’s good,” she said sarcastically. “You going to teach it to me in the next fifteen minutes?” She was tense, she was about to be destroyed or vaporized or whatever the hell they did in that machine, and the words just popped out of her mouth. Marek looked surprised. “No,” he said seriously. “But if you stay with me, I will take care of you.” Something about his earnestness reassured her. He was such a straight arrow. She thought, He probably will take care of me. She felt herself relaxing.

Kate Erickson stared at Castelgard with a sense of puzzlement. Beside her, Marek was sighing like a lover, but she wasn’t sure why.