Timeline by Michael Crichton

steel.”
    “Nothing’s been rebuilt here at all,” Kramer said. She sighed.
    “No,” Marek said. “But we’ve been studying it. Chris Hughes, one of our graduate students, has investigated it quite extensively. That’s Chris down there now, with the Professor.”
    Kramer saw a compact, dark-haired young man, standing beside the tall, imposing figure she recognized as Professor Johnston. Neither man looked up at the helicopter passing overhead; they were focused on their work.
    Now the helicopter left the river behind, and moved on to the flat land to the east. They passed over a complex of low rectangular walls, visible as dark lines in the slanting morning light. Kramer guessed that the walls were no more than a few inches high. But it clearly outlined what looked like a small town.
    “And this? Another town?”
    “Just about. That’s the Monastery of Sainte-Mère,” Marek said. “One of the wealthiest and most powerful monasteries in France. It was burned to the ground in the fourteenth century.”
    “Lot of digging down there,” Kramer said.
    “Yes, it’s our most important site.”
    As they flew by, she could see the big square pits they had dug down to the catacombs beneath the monastery. Kramer knew the team devoted a great deal of attention here because they hoped to find more buried caches of monastic documents; they had already discovered quite a few.
    The helicopter swung away, and approached the limestone cliffs on the French side, and a small town. The helicopter rose up to the top of the cliffs.
    “We come to the fourth and final site,” Marek said. “The fortress above the town of Bezenac. In the Middle Ages it was called La Roque. Although it’s on the French side of the river, it was actually built by the English, who were intent on maintaining a permanent foothold in French territory. As you see, it’s quite extensive.”
    And it was: a huge military complex on top of the hill, with two sets of concentric walls, one inside the other, spread out over fifty acres. She gave a little sigh of relief. The fortress of La Roque was in better condition than the other sites of the project, and it had more standing walls. It was easier to see what it once had been.
    But it was also crawling with tourists.
    “You let the tourists in?” she asked in dismay.
    “Not really our decision,” Marek said. “As you know, this is a new site, and the French government wanted it opened to the public. But of course we’ll close it again when we begin reconstruction.”
    “And when will that be?”
    “Oh . . . between two and five years from now.”
    She said nothing. The helicopter circled and rose higher.
    “So,” Marek said, “we’ve come to the end. From up here you can see the entire project: the fortress of La Roque, the monastery in the flats, the mill, and across the river, the fortress of Castelgard. Want to see it again?”
    “No,” Diane Kramer said. “We can go back. I’ve seen enough.”
    Edward Johnston, Regius Professor of History at Yale, squinted as the helicopter thumped by overhead. It was heading south, toward Domme, where there was a landing field. Johnston glanced at his watch and said, “Let’s continue, Chris.”
    “Okay,” Chris Hughes said. He turned back to the computer mounted on the tripod in front of them, attached the GPS, and flicked the power button. “It’ll take me a minute to set up.”
    Christopher Stewart Hughes was one of Johnston’s graduate students. The Professor — he was invariably known by that name — had five graduate students working on the site, as well as two dozen undergraduates who had become enamored of him during his introductory Western Civilization class.
    It was easy, Chris thought, to become enamored of Edward Johnston. Although well past sixty, Johnston was broad-shouldered and fit; he moved quickly, giving the impression of vigor and energy. Tanned, with dark eyes and sardonic manner, he often seemed more like Mephistopheles