Timeline by Michael Crichton

“So she actually died?”

“I wouldn’t say that, no. You see—”

“But if you destroy the person at one end,” Kate said, “don’t they die?”

Gordon sighed. “It’s difficult to think of this in traditional terms,” he said. “Since you’re instantaneously reconstructed at the very moment you are destroyed, how can you be said to have died? You haven’t died. You’ve just moved somewhere else.”

:

Stern felt certain — it was a visceral sense — that Gordon wasn’t being entirely honest about this technology. Just looking at the curved water shields, at all the different machines standing on the floor, gave him the sense that there was quite a bit more that was being left unexplained. He tried to find it.

“So she is in the other universe now?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

“You transmitted her, and she arrived in the other universe? Just like a fax?”

“Exactly.”

“But to rebuild her, you need a fax machine at the other end.”

Gordon shook his head. “No, you don’t,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Because she’s already there.”

Stern frowned. “She’s already there? How could that be?”

“At the moment of transmission, the person is already in the other universe. And therefore the person doesn’t need to be rebuilt by us.”

“Why?” Stern said.

“For now, just call it a characteristic of the multiverse. We can discuss it later if you like. I’m not sure everybody needs to be bothered with these details,” he said, nodding to the others.

Stern thought, There is something more. Something he doesn’t want to say to us. Stern looked back at the transmission area. Trying to find the odd detail, the thing that was out of place. Because he was sure that something here was out of place.

“Didn’t you tell us that you’ve only sent a few people back?”

“That’s right, yes.”

“More than one at a time?”

“Almost never. Very rarely two.”

“Then why do you have so many machines?” Stern said. “I count eight in there. Wouldn’t two be enough?”

“You’re just seeing the results of our research program,” Gordon said. “We are constantly working to refine our design.”

Gordon had answered smoothly enough, but Stern was certain he had seen something — some buried glint of uneasiness — in Gordon’s eyes.

There is definitely something more.

“I would have thought,” Stern said, “that you’d make refinements to the same machines.”

Gordon shrugged again, but did not answer.

Definitely.

“What are those repairmen doing in there?” Stern said, still probing. He pointed to the men on their hands and knees, working on the base of one machine. “I mean by the machine in the corner. What exactly are they repairing?”

“David,” Gordon began. “I really think—”

“Is this technology really safe?” Stern said.

Gordon sighed. “See for yourself.”

On the big screen, a sequence of rapid flashes appeared on the floor of the transit room.

“Here she comes,” Gordon said.

The flashes grew brighter. They heard the chattering sound again, first faintly, then louder. And then the cage was full-size; the humming died away; the ground mist swirled, and the woman climbed out, waving to the spectators.

Stern squinted at her. She appeared absolutely fine. Her appearance was identical to what it had been before.

Gordon looked at him. “Believe me,” he said. “It’s perfectly safe.” He turned to the screen. “How’d it look back there, Sue?”

“Excellent,” she said. “Transit site is on the north side of the river. Secluded spot, in the woods. And the weather’s pretty good, for April.” She glanced at her watch. “Get your team together, Dr. Gordon. I’m going to go burn the spare nav marker. Then let’s go back there and pull that old guy out before somebody hurts him.”

* * *

“Lie on your left side, please.” Kate rolled over on the table and watched uneasily as an elderly man in a white lab coat raised what looked like a glue gun and placed it over her ear. “This will feel warm.”

Warm? She felt a burning rush of heat in her ear. “What is that?”

“It’s an organic polymer,” the man said. “Nontoxic and nonallergenic. Give it eight seconds. All right, now please make chewing motions. We want a looser fit. Very good, keep chewing.”

She heard him going down the line. Chris was on the table behind her, then Stern, then Marek. She heard the old man say, “Lie on your left side, please. This will feel warm. . . .”

Not long after, he was back. He had her turn over, and injected the hot polymer into her other ear. Gordon was watching from the corner of the room. He said, “This is still a bit experimental but so far it works quite well. It’s made of a polymer that begins to biodegrade after a week.”

Later, the man had them stand up. He expertly popped the plastic implants out of their ears, moving down the line.

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.

Soon after, they were all fitted with flesh-colored plastic earpieces. “They’re turned off now,” Gordon said. “To turn them on, just tap your ear with your finger. Now, if you’ll come over here . . .”

:

Gordon handed them each a small leather pouch. “We’ve been working on a first-aid kit; these are the prototypes. You’re the first to enter the world, so you may have a use for them. You can keep them out of sight, under your clothing.”

He opened one pouch and brought out a small aluminum canister about four inches high and an inch in diameter. It looked like a little shaving cream can. “This is the only defense we can provide you. It contains twelve doses of ethylene dihydride with a protein substrate. We can demonstrate for you with the cat, H.G. Where are you, H.G?”

A black cat jumped onto the table. Gordon stroked it, and then shot a burst of gas at its nose. The cat blinked, made a snuffling sound, and fell over on its side.

“Unconsciousness within six seconds,” Gordon said, “and it leaves a retroactive amnesia. But bear in mind that it’s short acting. And you must fire right in the person’s face to ensure any effect.”

The cat was already starting to twitch and revive as Gordon turned back to the pouch and held up three red paper cubes, roughly the size of sugar cubes, each covered in a layer of pale wax. They looked like fireworks.

“If you need to start a fire,” he said, “these will do it. Pull the little string, and they catch fire. They’re marked fifteen, thirty, sixty — the number of seconds before the fire starts. Wax, so they’re waterproof. A word of warning: sometimes they don’t work.”

Chris Hughes said, “What’s wrong with a Bic?”

“Not correct for the period. You can’t take plastic back there.” Gordon returned to the kit. “Then we have basic first aid, nothing fancy. Anti-inflammatory, antidiarrhea, antispasmodic, antipain. You don’t want to be vomiting in a castle,” he said. “And we can’t give you pills for the water.”

Stern took all this in with a sense of unreality. Vomiting in a castle? he thought. “Listen, uh—”

“And finally, an all-purpose pocket tool, including knife and picklock.” It looked like a steel Swiss army knife. Gordon put everything back in the kit. “You’ll probably never use any of this stuff, but you’ve got it anyway. Now let’s get you dressed.”

:

Stern could not shake off his persistent sense of unease. A kindly, grandmotherly woman had gotten up from her sewing machine and was handing them all clothing: first, white linen undershorts — sort of boxer shorts, but without elastic — then a leather belt, and then black woolen leggings.

“What’re these?” Stern said. “Tights?”

“They’re called hose, dear.”

There was no elastic on them, either. “How do they stay up?”

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