Michael Crichton - Timeline

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Timeline
by
Michael Crichton
For Taylor
"All the great empires of the future will be empires of the mind."
WINSTON CHURCHILL, 1953
"If you don't know history, you don't know anything."
EDWARD JOHNSTON, 1990
"I'm not interested in the future. I'm interested in the future of the future."
ROBERT DONIGER, 1996
INTRODUCTION
Science at the End of the Century
A hundred years ago, as the nineteenth century drew to a close, scientists around the world were
satisfied that they had arrived at an accurate picture of the physical world. As physicist
Alastair Rae put it, "By the end of the nineteenth century it seemed that the basic fundamental
principles governing the behavior of the physical universe were known."* Indeed, many scientists
said that the study of physics was nearly completed: no big discoveries remained to be made, only
details and finishing touches.
But late in the final decade, a few curiosities came to light. Roentgen discovered rays that
passed through flesh; because they were unexplained, he called them X rays. Two months later,
Henri Becquerel accidentally found that a piece of uranium ore emitted something that fogged
photographic plates. And the electron, the carrier of electricity, was discovered in 1897.
Yet on the whole, physicists remained calm, expecting that these oddities would eventually be
explained by existing theory. No one would have predicted that within five years their complacent
view of the world would be shockingly upended, producing an entirely new conception of the
universe and entirely new technologies that would transform daily life in the twentieth century in
unimaginable ways.
If you were to say to a physicist in 1899 that in 1999, a hundred years later, moving images would
be transmitted into homes all over the world from satellites in the sky; that bombs of
unimaginable power would threaten the species; that antibiotics would abolish infectious disease
but that disease would fight back; that women would have the vote, and pills to control
reproduction; that millions of people would take to the air every hour in aircraft capable of
taking off and landing without human touch; that you could cross the Atlantic at two thousand
miles an hour; that humankind would travel to the moon, and then lose interest; that microscopes
would be able to see individual atoms; that people would carry telephones weighing a few ounces,
and speak anywhere in the world without wires; or that most of these miracles depended on devices
the size of a postage stamp, which utilized a new theory called quantum mechanics - if you said
all this, the physicist would almost certainly pronounce you mad.
Most of these developments could not have been predicted in 1899, because prevailing scientific
theory said they were impossible. And for the few developments that were not impossible, such as
airplanes, the sheer scale of their eventual use would have defied comprehension. One might have
imagined an airplane - but ten thousand airplanes in the air at the same time would have been
beyond imagining.
So it is fair to say that even the most informed scientists, standing on the threshold of the
twentieth century, had no idea what was to come.
Now that we stand on the threshold of the twenty-first century, the situation is oddly similar.
Once again, physicists believe the physical world has been explained, and that no further
revolutions lie ahead. Because of prior history, they no longer express this view publicly, but
they think it just the same. Some observers have even gone so far as to argue that science as a
discipline has finished its work; that there is nothing important left for science to discover.
But just as the late nineteenth century gave hints of what was to come, so the late twentieth
century also provides some clues to the future. One of the most important is the interest in so-
called quantum technology. This is an effort on many fronts to create a new technology that
utilizes the fundamental nature of subatomic reality, and it promises to revolutionize our ideas
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of what is possible.
Quantum technology flatly contradicts our common sense ideas of how the world works. It posits a
world where computers operate without being turned on and objects are found without looking for
them. An unimaginably powerful computer can be built from a single molecule. Information moves
instantly between two points, without wires or networks. Distant objects are examined without any
contact. Computers do their calculations in other universes. And teleportation - "Beam me up,
Scotty" - is ordinary and used in many different ways.
In the 1990s, research in quantum technology began to show results. In 1995, quantum ultrasecure
messages were sent over a distance of eight miles, suggesting that a quantum Internet would be
built in the coming century. In Los Alamos, physicists measured the thickness of a human hair
using laser light that was never actually shone on the hair, but only might have been. This
bizarre, "counterfactual" result initiated a new field of interaction-free detection: what has
been called "finding something without looking."
And in 1998, quantum teleportation was demonstrated in three laboratories around the world - in
Innsbruck, in Rome and at Cal Tech.* Physicist Jeff Kimble, leader of the Cal Tech team, said that
quantum teleportation could be applied to solid objects: "The quantum state of one entity could be
transported to another entity. . . . We think we know how to do that."² Kimble stopped well short
of suggesting they could teleport a human being, but he imagined that someone might try with a
bacterium.
These quantum curiosities, defying logic and common sense, have received little attention from the
public, but they will. According to some estimates, by the first decades of the new century, the
majority of physicists around the world will work in some aspect of quantum technology.
It is therefore not surprising that during the mid-1990s, several corporations undertook quantum
research. Fujitsu Quantum Devices was established in 1991. IBM formed a quantum research team in
1993, under pioneer Charles Bennett. ATT and other companies soon followed, as did universities
such as Cal Tech, and government facilities like Los Alamos. And so did a New Mexico research
company called ITC. Located only an hour's drive from Los Alamos, ITC made remarkable strides very
early in the decade. Indeed, it is now clear that ITC was the first company to have a practical,
working application employing advanced quantum technology, in 1998. In retrospect, it was a
combination of peculiar circumstances - and considerable luck - that gave ITC the lead in a
dramatic new technology. Although the company took the position that their discoveries were
entirely benign, their so-called recovery expedition showed the dangers only too clearly. Two
people died, one vanished, and another suffered serious injuries. Certainly, for the young
graduate students who undertook the expedition, this new quantum technology, harbinger of the
twenty-first century, proved anything but benign.
A typical episode of private warfare occurred in 1357. Sir Oliver de Vannes, an English knight of
nobility and character, had taken over the towns of Castelgard and La Roque, along the Dordogne
River. By all accounts, this "borrowed lord" ruled with honest dignity, and was beloved by the
people. In April, Sir Oliver's lands were invaded by a rampaging company of two thousand
brigandes, renegade knights under the command of Arnaut de Cervole, a defrocked monk known as "the
Archpriest." After burning Castelgard to the ground, Cervole razed the nearby Monastery of Sainte-
Mère, murdering monks and destroying the famed water mill on the Dordogne. Cervole then pursued
Sir Oliver to the fortress of La Roque, where a terrible battle followed.
Oliver defended his castle with skill and daring. Contemporary accounts credit Oliver's efforts to
his military adviser, Edwardus de Johnes. Little is known of this man, around whom a Merlin-like
mythology grew up: it was said he could vanish in a flash of light. The chronicler Audreim says
Johnes came from Oxford, but other accounts say he was Milanese. Since he traveled with a team of
young assistants, he was most likely an itinerant expert, hiring himself out to whoever paid for
his services. He was schooled in the use of gunpowder and artillery, a technology new at that
time. . . .
Ultimately, Oliver lost his impregnable castle when a spy opened an inside passage, allowing the
Archpriest's soldiers to enter. Such betrayals were typical of the complex intrigues of that time.
From The Hundred Years War in France
by M. D. Backes, 1996
CORAZON
"Anyone who is not shocked by quantum theory does not understand it."
NEILS BOHR, 1927
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"Nobody understands quantum theory."
RICHARD FEYNMAN, 1967
He should never have taken that shortcut.
Dan Baker winced as his new Mercedes S500 sedan bounced down the dirt road, heading deeper into
the Navajo reservation in northern Arizona. Around them, the landscape was increasingly desolate:
distant red mesas to the east, flat desert stretching away in the west. They had passed a village
half an hour earlier - dusty houses, a church and a small school, huddled against a cliff - but
since then, they'd seen nothing at all, not even a fence. Just empty red desert. They hadn't seen
another car for an hour. Now it was noon, the sun glaring down at them. Baker, a forty-year-old
building contractor in Phoenix, was beginning to feel uneasy. Especially since his wife, an
architect, was one of those artistic people who wasn't practical about things like gas and water.
His tank was half-empty. And the car was starting to run hot.
"Liz," he said, "are you sure this is the way?"
Sitting beside him, his wife was bent over the map, tracing the route with her finger. "It has to
be," she said. "The guidebook said four miles beyond the Corazón Canyon turnoff."
"But we passed Corazón Canyon twenty minutes ago. We must have missed it."
"How could we miss a trading post?" she said.
"I don't know." Baker stared at the road ahead. "But there's nothing out here. Are you sure you
want to do this? I mean, we can get great Navajo rugs in Sedona. They sell all kinds of rugs in
Sedona."
"Sedona," she sniffed, "is not authentic."
"Of course it's authentic, honey. A rug is a rug."
"Weaving."
"Okay." He sighed. "A weaving."
"And no, it's not the same," she said. "Those Sedona stores carry tourist junk - they're acrylic,
not wool. I want the weavings that they sell on the reservation. And supposedly the trading post
has an old Sandpainting weaving from the twenties, by Hosteen Klah. And I want it."
"Okay, Liz." Personally, Baker didn't see why they needed another Navajo rug - weaving - anyway.
They already had two dozen. She had them all over the house. And packed away in closets, too.
They drove on in silence. The road ahead shimmered in the heat, so it looked like a silver lake.
And there were mirages, houses or people rising up on the road, but always when you came closer,
there was nothing there.
Dan Baker sighed again. "We must've passed it."
"Let's give it a few more miles," his wife said.
"How many more?"
"I don't know. A few more."
"How many, Liz? Let's decide how far we'll go with this thing."
"Ten more minutes," she said.
"Okay," he said, "ten minutes."
He was looking at his gas gauge when Liz threw her hand to her mouth and said, "Dan!" Baker turned
back to the road just in time to see a shape flash by - a man, in brown, at the side of the road -
and hear a loud thump from the side of the car.
"Oh my God!" she said. "We hit him!"
"What?"
"We hit that guy."
"No, we didn't. We hit a pothole."
In the rearview mirror, Baker could see the man still standing at the side of the road. A figure
in brown, rapidly disappearing in the dust cloud behind the car as they drove away.
"We couldn't have hit him," Baker said. "He's still standing."
"Dan. We hit him. I saw it."
"I don't think so, honey."
Baker looked again in the rearview mirror. But now he saw nothing except the cloud of dust behind
the car.
"We better go back," she said.
"Why?"
Baker was pretty sure that his wife was wrong and that they hadn't hit the man on the road. But if
they had hit him, and if he was even slightly injured - just a head cut, a scratch - then it was
going to mean a very long delay in their trip. They'd never get to Phoenix by nightfall. Anybody
out here was undoubtedly a Navajo; they'd have to take him to a hospital, or at least to the
nearest big town, which was Gallup, and that was out of their way-
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"I thought you wanted to go back," she said.
"I do."
"Then let's go back."
"I just don't want any problems, Liz."
"Dan. I don't believe this."
He sighed, and slowed the car. "Okay, I'm turning. I'm turning."
And he turned around, being careful not to get stuck in the red sand at the side of the road, and
headed back the way they had come.
"Oh Jesus."
Baker pulled over, and jumped out into the dust cloud of his own car. He gasped as he felt the
blast of heat on his face and body. It must be 120 degrees out here, he thought.
As the dust cleared, he saw the man lying at the side of the road, trying to raise himself up on
his elbow. The guy was shaky, about seventy, balding and bearded. His skin was pale; he didn't
look Navajo. His brown clothes were fashioned into long robes. Maybe he's a priest, Baker thought.
"Are you all right?" Baker said as he helped the man to sit up on the dirt road.
The old man coughed. "Yeah. I'm all right."
"Do you want to stand up?" he said. He was relieved not to see any blood.
"In a minute."
Baker looked around. "Where's your car?" he said.
The man coughed again. Head hanging limply, he stared at the dirt road.
"Dan, I think he's hurt," his wife said.
"Yeah," Baker said. The old guy certainly seemed to be confused. Baker looked around again: there
was nothing but flat desert in all directions, stretching away into shimmering haze.
No car. Nothing.
"How'd he get out here?" Baker said.
"Come on," Liz said, "we have to take him to a hospital."
Baker put his hands under the man's armpits and helped the old guy to his feet. The man's clothes
were heavy, made of a material like felt, but he wasn't sweating in the heat. In fact, his body
felt cool, almost cold.
The old guy leaned heavily on Baker as they crossed the road. Liz opened the back door. The old
man said, "I can walk. I can talk."
"Okay. Fine." Baker eased him into the back seat.
The man lay down on the leather, curling into a fetal position. Underneath his robes, he was
wearing ordinary clothes: jeans, a checked shirt, Nikes. He closed the door, and Liz got back in
the front seat. Baker hesitated, remaining outside in the heat. How was it possible the old guy
was out here all alone? Wearing all those clothes and not sweating?
It was as if he had just stepped out of a car.
So maybe he'd been driving, Baker thought. Maybe he'd fallen asleep. Maybe his car had gone off
the road and he'd had an accident. Maybe there was someone else still trapped in the car.
He heard the old guy muttering, "Left it, heft it. Go back now, get it now, and how."
Baker crossed the road to have a look. He stepped over a very large pothole, considered showing it
to his wife, then decided not to.
Off the road, he didn't see any tire tracks, but he saw clearly the old man's footprints in the
sand. The footprints ran back from the road into the desert. Thirty yards away, Baker saw the rim
of an arroyo, a ravine cut into the landscape. The footprints seemed to come from there.
So he followed the footsteps back to the arroyo, stood at the edge, and looked down into it. There
was no car. He saw nothing but a snake, slithering away from him among the rocks. He shivered.
Something white caught his eye, glinting in the sunlight a few feet down the slope. Baker
scrambled down for a better look. It was a piece of white ceramic about an inch square. It looked
like an electrical insulator. Baker picked it up, and was surprised to find it was cool to the
touch. Maybe it was one of those new materials that didn't absorb heat.
Looking closely at the ceramic, he saw the letters ITC stamped on one edge. And there was a kind
of button, recessed in the side. He wondered what would happen if he pushed the button. Standing
in the heat, with big boulders all around him, he pushed it.
Nothing happened.
He pushed it again. Again nothing.
Baker climbed out of the ravine and went back to the car. The old guy was sleeping, snoring
loudly. Liz was looking at the maps. "Nearest big town is Gallup."
Baker started the engine. "Gallup it is."
Back on the main highway, they made better time, heading south to Gallup. The old guy was still
sleeping. Liz looked at him and said, "Dan . . ."
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"What?"
"You see his hands?"
"What about them?"
"The fingertips."
Baker looked away from the road, glanced quickly into the back seat. The old guy's fingertips were
red to the second knuckle. "So? He's sunburned."
"Just on the tips? Why not the whole hand?"
Baker shrugged.
"His fingers weren't like that before," she said. "They weren't red when we picked him up."
"Honey, you probably just didn't notice them."
"I did notice, because he had a manicure. And I thought it was interesting that some old guy in
the desert would have a manicure."
"Uh-huh." Baker glanced at his watch. He wondered how long they would have to stay at the hospital
in Gallup. Hours, probably.
He sighed.
The road continued straight ahead.
Halfway to Gallup, the old guy woke up. He coughed and said, "Are we there? Are we where?"
"How are you feeling?" Liz said.
"Feeling? I'm reeling. Fine, just fine."
"What's your name?" Liz said.
The man blinked at her. "The quondam phone made me roam."
"But what's your name?"
The man said, "Name same, blame game."
Baker said, "He's rhyming everything."
She said, "I noticed, Dan."
"I saw a TV show on this," Baker said. "Rhyming means he's schizophrenic."
"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."
"Oh boy," Baker said.
"Sir," Liz said again, "can you tell me your name?"
"Niobium may cause opprobrium. Hairy singularities don't permit parities."
Baker sighed. "Honey, this guy is nuts."
"A nut by any other name would smell like feet."
But his wife wouldn't give up. "Sir? Do you know your name?"
"Call Gordon," the man said, shouting now. "Call Gordon, call Stanley. Keep in the family."
"But, sir-"
"Liz," Baker said, "leave him alone. Let him settle down, okay? We still have a long drive."
Bellowing, the old man sang: "To the place I belong, old black magic, it's so tragic, country
foam, makes me groan." And immediately, he started to sing it again.
"How much farther?" Liz said.
"Don't ask."
He telephoned ahead, so when he pulled the Mercedes under the red-and-cream-colored portico of the
McKinley Hospital Trauma Unit, the orderlies were waiting there with a gurney. The old man
remained passive as they eased him onto the gurney, but as soon as they began to strap him down,
he became agitated, shouting, "Unhand me, unband me!"
"It's for your own safety, sir," one orderly said.
"So you say, out of my way! Safety is the last refuge of the scoundrel!"
Baker was impressed by the way the orderlies handled the guy, gently but still firmly, strapping
him down. He was equally impressed by the petite dark-haired woman in a white coat who fell into
step with them. "I'm Beverly Tsosie," she said, shaking hands with them. "I'm the physician on
call." She was very calm, even though the man on the gurney continued to yell as they wheeled him
into the trauma center. "Quondam phone, makes me roam. . . ."
Everybody in the waiting room was looking at him. Baker saw a young kid of ten or eleven, his arm
in a sling, sitting in a chair with his mother, watching the old man curiously. The kid whispered
something to his mother.
The old guy sang, "To the plaaaaace I belongggg. . . ."
Dr. Tsosie said, "How long has he been this way?"
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摘要：

file:///F|/rah/Micheal%20Crigton/Timeline.txtTimelinebyMichaelCrichtonForTaylor"Allthegreatempiresofthefuturewillbeempiresofthemind."WINSTONCHURCHILL,1953"Ifyoudon'tknowhistory,youdon'tknowanything."EDWARDJOHNSTON,1990"I'mnotinterestedinthefuture.I'minterestedinthefutureofthef\uture."ROBERTDONIGER,1...

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