Michael Crichton - Timeline

"That's right."

"Because there is no landing site."

"That's right."

"Because debris blocks it."

"That's right."

"And how long until they can come back?"

Gordon sighed. He pushed away from the table. "It's going to be all right, David," he said. "Things are going to turn out fine."

"Just tell me. How long?"

"Well, let's count it off. Another three hours to clear the air in the cave. Add an hour for good measure. Four hours. Then two hours to clear the debris. Six hours. Then you have to rebuild the water shields."

"Rebuild the water shields?" Stern said.

"The three rings of water. They're absolutely essential."

"Why?"

"To minimize transcription errors."

Stern said, "And what exactly are transcription errors?"

"Errors on the rebuild. When the person is reconstructed by the machine."

"You told me there weren't any errors. That you could rebuild exactly."

"For all intents and purposes, we can, yes. As long as we're shielded."

"And if we're not shielded?"

Gordon sighed. "But we will be shielded, David." He glanced at his watch. "I wish you'd stop worrying. There's several hours more before we can fix the transit site. You're upsetting yourself needlessly."

"It's just that I keep thinking," Stern said, "that there must be something we can do. Send a message, make some kind of contact…"

Gordon shook his head. "No. No message, no contact. It's just not possible. For the moment, they're entirely cut off from us. And there's not a thing we can do about it."

Kate Erickson flattened herself against the wall, feeling damp stone on her back. She had ducked inside one of the cells in the corridor, and now she waited, holding her breath, while the guards who had locked up Marek and Chris walked back past her. The guards were laughing, and they seemed in good humor. She heard one of them say, "Sir Oliver was sore displeased with that Hainauter, to make a fool of his lieutenant."

"And the other one was worse! He rides like a flopping rag, and yet he breaks two lances with Tête Noire!" General laughter.

"Sooth, he made a fool of Tête Noire. For that, Lord Oliver will take their heads before nightfall.

"Else I miss my guess, he will chop their heads before supper."

"No, after. The crowd will be larger." More laughter.

They moved down the corridor, their voices fading. Soon she could hardly hear them. Now there was a short silence - had they started back up the stairs? No, not yet. She heard them laughing once again. And the laughter continued. It had an odd, forced quality.

Something was wrong.

She listened intently. They were saying something about Sir Guy and Lady Claire. She couldn't really make it out. She heard "… much vexed by our Lady…" and more laughter.

Kate frowned.

Their voices were no longer quite so faint.

Not good. They were coming back.

Why? she thought. What happened?

She glanced toward the door. And there, on the stone floor, she saw her own wet footprints, going into the cell.

Her shoes had been soaked from the grass near the stream. So had the shoes of everyone else, and the center of the stone corridor was a wet, muddy track of many footprints. But one set of footprints veered off, toward her cell.

And somehow they had noticed.

Damn.

A voice: "When does the tourney draw closed?"

"By high nones."

"Faith, then it is nigh finished."

"Lord Oliver will haste to sup, and prepare for the Archpriest."

She listened, trying to count the different voices. How many guards had there been? She tried to remember. At least three. Maybe five. She hadn't paid attention at the time.

Damn.

"They say the Archpriest brings a thousand men-at-arms…"

A shadow crossed the floor, outside her door. That meant they were now on both sides of the cell door.

What could she do? All she knew was that she couldn't let herself be captured. She was a woman; she had no business here; they would rape her and kill her.

But, she reflected, they didn't know she was a woman. Not yet. There was silence outside the door, then a scuffling of feet. What would they do next?

Probably send one man into the cell while the others waited outside. And meanwhile the others would get set, draw their swords, and raise them high-

She couldn't wait. Crouching low, she bolted.

She banged into a guard as he came through the door, hitting him at knee level from the side, and with a howl of pain and surprise, he fell backward. There were shouts from the other guards, but then she was through the door, a sword clanged down against stone behind her, spitting sparks, and she was running up the corridor.

"A woman! A woman!"

They ran after her.

She was in the spiral staircase now, going up fast. From somewhere below, she heard the clank of their armor as they started up after her. But then she had reached the ground floor, and without thinking, she did the immediate thing: she ran straight into the great hall.

It was deserted, the tables set for a feast, the food not yet laid out. She ran past the tables, looking for a place to hide. Behind the tapestries? No, they were flat to the wall. Under the tablecloths? No, they would look there and find her. Where? Where? She saw the huge fireplace, the fire still burning high. Wasn't there a secret passage out of the dining room? Was that passage here in Castelgard, or was it in La Roque? She couldn't remember. She should have paid more attention.

In her mind's eye she saw herself, wearing khaki shorts and a Polo T-shirt and Nike sneakers, moving lazily through the ruins, taking notes on her pad. Her concerns - to the extent she'd had any at all - had been to satisfy her scholarly peers.

She should have paid more attention!

She heard the men approaching. There was no more time. She ran toward the nine-foot-high fireplace and stepped behind the huge gilded circular screen. The fire was blazing hot, waves of heat radiating against her body. She heard the men coming into the room, shouting, running, looking. She crouched behind the screen, held her breath and waited.

She heard kicking and banging, the clatter of dishes on tables as they searched. She could not make out their voices clearly; they merged with the roar of the flames behind her. There was a metal clang as something fell over; it sounded like a torch stand, something big.

She waited.

One man barked a question, and she heard no reply. Another shouted a question, and this time she heard a soft answer. It didn't sound like a man. Who were they talking to? It sounded like a woman. Kate listened: Yes, it was a woman's voice. She was sure of it.

Another exchange, and then the sound of clanking armor as the men ran from the room. Peering around the edge of the gilded screen, she saw them vanish through the doorway.

She waited a moment, then stepped from behind the screen.

She saw a young girl of ten or eleven. She wore a white cloth that wrapped over her head, so only her face showed. She had a loose sort of dress, rose-colored, that came almost to the floor. She carried a gold pitcher, and was pouring water into goblets at the tables.

The girl met her eyes and just stared.

Kate waited for her to cry out, but she did not. She just stared curiously at Kate for a moment and then said, "They went upstairs."

Kate turned and ran.

Inside the cell, Marek heard the blare of trumpets, and the distant roar of the tournament crowds, drifting in from one of the high windows. The guard looked up unhappily, swore at Marek and the Professor, and then walked back to his stool.

The Professor said quietly, "Do you still have a marker?"

"Yes," Marek said. "I do. Do you have yours?"

"No, I lost it. About three minutes after I got here."