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?”
“You slip them under your belt, beneath the doublet. Or tie them to the points of your doublet.”
“Points?”
“That’s right, dear. Of your doublet.”
Stern glanced at the others. They were calmly collecting the clothes in a pile as each article was given to them. They seemed to know what everything was for; they were as calm as if they were in a department store. But Stern was lost, and he felt panicky. Now he was given a white linen shirt that came to his upper thigh, and a larger overshirt, called a doublet, made of quilted felt. And finally a dagger on a steel chain. He looked at it askance.
“Everyone carries one. You’ll need it for eating, if nothing else.”
He put it absently on top of the pile, and poked through the clothing, still trying to find the “points.”
Gordon said, “These clothes are intended to be status-neutral, neither expensive nor poor. We want them to approximate the dress of a middling merchant, a court page, or a down-at-the-heels nobleman.” Stern was handed shoes, which looked like leather slippers with pointed toes, except they buckled. Like court jester’s shoes, he thought unhappily.
The grandmotherly woman smiled: “Don’t worry, they have air soles built in, just like your Nikes.”
“Why is everything dirty?” Stern said, frowning at his overshirt.
“Well, you want to fit in, don’t you?”
:
They changed in a locker room. Stern watched the other men. “How exactly do we, uh . . .”
“You want to know how you dress in the fourteenth century?” Marek said. “It’s simple.” Marek had stripped off all his clothes and was walking around naked, relaxed. The man was bulging with muscles. Stern felt intimidated as he slowly took off his trousers.
“First,” Marek said, “put on your undershorts. This is very nice quality linen. They had good linen in those days. To hold the shorts up, tie your belt around your waist and roll the top of
the undershorts around the belt a couple of times, so it holds. All right?”
“Your belt goes under your clothes?”
“That’s right. Holding up your shorts. Next, put on your hose.” Marek began to pull on his black wool tights. The hose had feet at the bottom, like a child’s pajamas. “They have these strings at the top, you see?”
“My hose is baggy,” Stern said, tugging them up, poking at the knees.
“That’s fine. These aren’t dress hose, so they aren’t skintight. Next, your linen overshirt. Just pull it over your head and let it hang down. No, no, David. The slit at the neck goes in the front.”
Stern pulled his arms out and twisted the shirt around, fumbling.
“And finally,” Marek said, picking up a felt outershirt, “you put on your doublet. Combination suit coat and windbreaker. You wear it indoors and out, never take it off except when it is very hot. See the points? They’re the laces, under the felt. Now, tie your hose to the points of the doublet, through the slits in your overshirt.”
Marek managed this in only a few moments; it was as if he’d done it every day of his life. It took Chris much longer, Stern noted with satisfaction. Stern himself struggled to twist his torso, to tie the knots at his backside.
“You call this simple?” he said, grunting.
“You just haven’t looked at your own clothes lately,” Marek said. “The average Westerner in the twentieth century wears nine to twelve items of daily clothing. Here, there are only six.”
Stern pulled on his doublet, tugging it down over his waist, so it came to his thighs. In doing so, he wrinkled his undershirt, and eventually Marek had to help him straighten it all out, as well as lace his hose tighter.
Finally, Marek looped the dagger and the chain loosely around Stern’s waist, and stood back to admire him.
“There,” Marek said, nodding. “How do you feel?”
Stern wriggled his shoulders uncomfortably. “I feel like a trussed chicken.”
Marek laughed. “You’ll get used to it.”
:
Kate was finishing dressing when Susan Gomez, the young woman who had taken the trip back, came in. Gomez was wearing period clothes and a wig. She tossed another wig to Kate.
Kate made a face.
“You have to wear it,” Gomez said. “Short hair on a woman is a sign of disgrace, or heresy. Don’t ever let anyone back there see your true hair length.”
Kate pulled on the wig, which brought dark blond hair to her shoulders. She turned to look in the mirror, and saw the face of a stranger. She looked younger, softer. Weaker.
“It’s either that,” Gomez said, “or cut your hair really short, like a man. Your call.”
“I’ll wear the wig,” Kate said.
Diane Kramer looked at Victor Baretto and said, “But this has always been a rule, Victor. You know that.”
“Yes, but the problem,” Baretto said, “is that you’re giving us a new mission.” Baretto was a lean, tough-looking man in his thirties, an ex-ranger who had been with the company for two years. During that time, he had acquired a reputation as a competent security man, but a bit of a prima donna. “Now, you’re asking us to go into the world, but you won’t let us take weapons.”
“That’s right, Victor. No anachronisms. No modern artifacts going back. That’s been our rule from the beginning.” Kramer tried to conceal her frustration. These military types were difficult, particularly the men. The women, like Gomez, were okay. But the men kept trying to, as they put it, “apply their training” to the ITC trips back, and it never really worked. Privately, Kramer thought it was just a way for the men to conceal their anxiety, but of course she could never say that. It was difficult enough for them to take orders from a woman like her in the first place.
The men also had more trouble keeping their work secret. It was easier for women, but the men all wanted to brag about going back to the past. Of course, they were forbidden by all sorts of contractual arrangements, but contracts could be forgotten after a few drinks in a bar. That was why Kramer had informed them all about the existence of several specially burned nav wafers. These wafers had entered the mythology of the company, including their names: Tunguska, Vesuvius, Tokyo. The Vesuvius wafer put you on the Bay of Naples at 7:00 a.m. on August 24, A.D. 79, just before burning ash killed everyone. Tunguska left you in Siberia in 1908, just before the giant meteor struck, causing a shock wave that killed every living thing for hundreds of miles. Tokyo put you in that city in 1923, just before the earthquake flattened it. The idea was if word of the project became public, you might end up with the wrong wafer on your next trip out. None of the military types were quite sure whether any of this was true, or just company mythology.
Which was just how Kramer liked it.
“This is a new mission,” Baretto said again, as if she hadn’t heard him before. “You’re asking us to go into the world—to go behind enemy lines, so to speak—without weapons.”
“But you’re all trained in hand-to-hand. You, Gomez, all of you.”
“I don’t think that’s sufficient.”
“Victor—”
“With all due respect, Ms. Kramer, you’re not facing up to the situation here,” Baretto said stubbornly. “You’ve already lost two people. Three, if you count Traub.”
“No, Victor. We’ve never lost anybody.”
“You certainly lost Traub.”
“We didn’t lose Dr. Traub,” she said. “Traub volunteered, and Traub was depressed.”
“You assume he was depressed.”
“We know he was, Victor. After his wife died, he was severely depressed, and suicidal. Even though he had passed his trip limit, he wanted to go back, to see if he could improve the technology. He had an idea that he could modify the machines to have fewer transcription errors. But apparently, his idea was wrong. That’s why he ended up in the Arizona desert. Personally, I don’t think he ever really intended to come back at all. I think it was suicide.”
“And you lost Rob,” Baretto said. “He wasn’t any damn suicide.”
Kramer sighed. Rob Deckard was one of the first of the observers to go back, almost two years earlier. And he was one of the first to show transcription errors. “That was much earlier in the project, Victor. The technology was less refined. And you know what happened. After he’d made several trips, Rob began to show minor effects. He insisted on continuing. But we didn’t lose him.”
“He went out, and he never came back,” Baretto said. “That’s the bottom line.”
“Rob knew exactly what he was doing.”
“And now the Professor.”
“We haven’t lost the Professor,” she said. “He’s still alive.”
“You hope. And you don’t know why he didn’t come back in the first place.”
“Victor—”
“I’m just saying,” Baretto said, “in this case the logistics don’t fit the mission profile. You’re asking us to take an unnecessary risk.”
“You don’t have to go,” Kramer said mildly.
“No, hell. I never said that.”
“You don’t have to.”
“No. I’m going.”
“Well, then, those are the rules. No modern technology goes into the world. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“And none of this gets mentioned to the academics.”
“No, no. Hell no. I’m professional.”
“Okay,” Kramer said.
She watched him leave. He was sulking, but he was going to go along with it. They always did, in the end. And the rule was important, she thought. Even though Doniger liked to give a little speech about how you couldn’t change history, the fact was, nobody really knew—and nobody wanted to risk it. They didn’t want modern weapons, or artifacts, or plastic to go back.
And they never had.
Stern sat with the others on hard-backed chairs in a room with maps. Susan Gomez, the woman who had just returned in the machine, spoke in a crisp, q
uick manner that Stern found rushed.
“We are going,” she said, “to the Monastery of Sainte-Mère, on the Dordogne River, in southwestern France. We will arrive at 8:04 a.m. on the morning of Thursday, April 7, 1357—that’s the day of the Professor’s message. It’s fortunate for us, because there’s a tournament that day in Castelgard, and the spectacle will draw large crowds from the surrounding countryside, so we won’t be noticed.”
She tapped one map. “Just for orientation, the monastery is here. Castelgard is over here, across the river. And the fortress of La Roque is on the bluffs here, above the monastery. Questions so far?”
They shook their heads.
“All right. The situation in the area is a little unsettled. As you know, April of 1357 puts us roughly twenty years into the Hundred Years War. It’s seven months after the English victory at Poitiers, where they took the king of France prisoner. The French king is now being held for ransom. And France, without a king, is in an uproar.
“Right now, Castelgard is in the hands of Sir Oliver de Vannes, a British knight born in France. Oliver has also taken over La Roque, where he is strengthening the castle’s defenses. Sir Oliver’s an unpleasant character, with a famously bad temper. They call him the ‘Butcher of Crécy,’ for his excesses in that battle.”
“So Oliver is in control of both towns?” Marek said.
“At the moment, yes. However, a company of renegade knights, led by a defrocked priest called Arnaut de Cervole—”
“The Archpriest,” Marek said.
“Yes, exactly, the Archpriest—is moving into the area, and will undoubtedly attempt to take the castles from Oliver. We believe the Archpriest is still several days away. But fighting may break out at any time, so we will work quickly.”
She moved to another map, with a larger scale. It showed the monastery buildings.
“We arrive approximately here, at the edge of the Forêt de Sainte-Mère. From our arrival point, we should be able to look right down on the monastery. Since the Professor’s message came from the monastery, we will go directly there first. As you know, the monastery takes its main meal of the day at ten o’clock in the morning, and the Professor is likely to be present at that time. With luck, we’ll find him there and bring him back.”