4.3 767
by Michael Crichton

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In this thriller from the author of Jurassic Park, Sphere, and Congo, a group of young scientists travel back in time to medieval France on a daring rescue mission that becomes a struggle to stay alive.
“Compulsive reading . . . brilliantly imagined.

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In this thriller from the author of Jurassic Park, Sphere, and Congo, a group of young scientists travel back in time to medieval France on a daring rescue mission that becomes a struggle to stay alive.
“Compulsive reading . . . brilliantly imagined.”—Los Angeles Times
In an Arizona desert, a man wanders in a daze, speaking words that make no sense. Within twenty-four hours he is dead, his body swiftly cremated by his only known associates. Halfway around the world, archaeologists make a shocking discovery at a medieval site. Suddenly they are swept off to the headquarters of a secretive multinational corporation that has developed an astounding technology. Now this group is about to get a chance not to study the past but to enter it. And with history opened up to the present, the dead awakened to the living, these men and women will soon find themselves fighting for their very survival—six hundred years ago.
“Exciting . . . classic adventure . . . [a] swashbuckling novel . . . Crichton delivers.”—USA Today
“More screams per page . . . than Jurassic Park and The Lost World combined . . . The pace will leave many breathlessly grasping for oxygen masks.”—The San Diego Union-Tribune
“One of his best . . . [a] nonstop roller coaster of a novel.”—The Philadelphia Inquirer

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
–Los Angeles Times

“THE PRESENT AND THE LONG-AGO PAST COLLIDE. . . . [as] three young historians whisk themselves back to fourteenth-century feudal France to rescue a friend–and engulf themselves in all manner of mind-blowing intrigue.”
Chicago Sun-Times

–The Wall Street Journal

–USA Today

–USA Today

Forbes Magazine
Timeline is a wonderful combination of fast-paced entertainment and information.
Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
"And the Oscar for Best Special Effects goes to: Timeline!" Figure maybe three years before those words are spoken, for Crichton's new novel--despite media reports about trouble in selling film rights, which finally went to Paramount--is as cinematic as they come, a shiny science-fantasy adventure powered by a superior high concept: a group of young scientists travel back from our time to medieval southern France to rescue their mentor, who's trapped there. The novel, in fact, may improve as a movie; its complex action, as the scientists are swept into the intrigue of the Hundred Years War, can be confusing on the page (though a supplied map, one of several graphics, helps), and most of its characters wear hats (or armor) of pure white or black. Crichton remains a master of narrative drive and cleverness. From the startling opening, where an old man with garbled speech and body parts materializes in the Arizona desert, through the revelation that a venal industrialist has developed a risky method of time-travel (based on movement between parallel universes; as in Crichton's other work, good, hard science abounds), there's not a dull moment. When elderly Yale history prof Edward Johnston travels back to his beloved 15th century and gets stuck, and his assistants follow to the rescue, excitement runs high, and higher still as Crichton invests his story with terrific period detail and as castles, sword-play, jousts, sudden death and enough bold knights-in-armor and seductive ladies-in-waiting to fill any toystore's action-figure shelves appear. There's strong suspense, too, as Crichton cuts between past and present, where the time-travel machinery has broken: Will the heroes survive and make it back? The novel has a calculated feel but, even so, it engages as no Crichton tale has done since Jurassic Park, as it brings the past back to vigorous, entertaining life. (Nov. 16) Copyright 1999 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal
With Timeline, Crichton has written his best book since Jurassic Park. Sometime in the future, a group of students is studying an archaeological site in France when the professor in charge disappears. While uncovering 600-year-old documents from the remains of a monastery, they discover a note dated April 7, 1357, and written in the professor's hand that says "Help me." Three people then embark on a journey back in time to rescue the professor. The first third of the book sets up the plot and discusses quantum technology. The rest of the story is a heart-pounding adventure in 14th-century France. Crichton is a master at explaining complex concepts in simple terms. As in most of his novels, the characters are forgettable and overshadowed by ideas, but who reads Crichton for his characters? His plot is intriguing, and his well-researched history and science are certain to prompt discussions. Highly recommended. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 7/99.]--Jeff Ayers, Seattle P.L. Copyright 1999 Cahners Business Information.
Iain Pears
Timeline combines all the ingredients that make Crichton's books compulsive reading: a fast-paced story, a hefty dollop of scientific speculation and an almost cinematic structure...A well-researched and brilliantly imagined story...Crichton has so perfected the fusion of thriller with science fiction that his novels define the genre.
Los Angeles Times
Daniel Mendelsohn
Crichton's books [are] hugely entertaining, lending thrilling documentary realness to the proceedings . . . His novels are diverting—they're manically entertaining. (I gobbled up Timeline in a single sitting.)
New York Times Book Review
USA Today
Timeline, Crichton's swashbuckling novel, could be another otherworldly blockbuster like Jurassic Park...A classic adventure...The author has an uncanny knack for coupling suspense with scientific concepts that captivate the public's imagination.
Tom DeHaven
...Exhilarating entertainment...this is an unapologetic novel of high adventure, and a very good one at that.

Entertainment Weekly

Gary K. Wolfe
As an historical novel in an SF frame, Timeline pales in comparison to, say, Connie Willis's Doomsday Book, but it works well enough as an action tale which often seems to be written with the movie script in mind. Overlaying the entire time-travel project however, is another of Chrichton's cynical conspiracies of capitalist greed: what is intially presented as the first great advance in physics that will benefit historians turns out instead to be a multibillion-dollar scheme to control tourism to the past by franchising various hotels and restaurants near famous historical events. The novel's one nod at humor is the CEO's fury at learning that Lincoln's voice at the Gettysburg address sounds like Betty Boop and that Washington huddled near the back of the boat during the crossing of the Delaware; one technician even suggests removing Lincoln's wrinkles using Photoshop. (Even this sort of comedy is done better and more consistently, though in John Kessel's Corrupting Dr. Nice) So in the end, the capitalists who decry the artificiality of Disney and argue that what people really lust for is authenticity turn out to be the same ones who plan to Disnify the whole timestream for profit. Crichton wants us to feel righteous outrage at this, just as we're finishing a novel that did exactly the same thing. It's worth noting, speaking of authenticity, that despite the lengthy bibliography of physics and history that he appends to the novel, the quotation that appears as the book's epigraph is from M.D. Backes's The Hundred Years War in France—a totally fictional book invented by Crichton for the sole purpose of setting up his ersatz version of history.

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Product Details

Random House Publishing Group
Publication date:
Sales rank:
Product dimensions:
4.10(w) x 7.50(h) x 1.20(d)

Read an Excerpt

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 his finger.  "It has to be," she said.  "The guide-book said four miles beyond the Corazon Canyon turnoff."
        "But we passed Corazon Canyon twenty minutes ago.  We must have missed it."
        "How could we miss the 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 al kinds of rugs in Sedona."
        "Sedona," she sniffed, "is not authentic."
        "Of coarse it's authentic, honey.  A rug is a rug."
        "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 go 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!"
        "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.
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-
        "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 down 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 the hospital."
        Baker put his hands on 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's been driving, Baker thought.  Maybe he's fallen asleep.  Maybe his car had gone off the road and he's 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 in 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 it."

        Back on the main highway, they made better time, heading south to Gallup.  The old guy was still sleeping.  Liz looked and him and said, "Dan . . ."
        "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.




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