Timeline

"Flex sabaton or firm?"

"Vambrace guard or side plate?"

"Broadsword left or right?"

"Bascinet beneath your helm, or no?"

He felt increasingly burdened as more weight was added, and increasingly stiff as each joint was encased in metal. The pages worked quickly, and in a matter of minutes he was entirely dressed. They stepped away and surveyed him.

" ‘Tis good, squire?"

"It is," he said.

"Now the helm." He was already wearing a kind of metal skullcap, but now they brought over the pointy-snout helmet and placed it over his head. Chris was plunged into darkness, and he felt the helmet’s weight on his shoulders. He could see nothing except what was straight ahead, through a horizontal eye slit.

His heart began to pound. There was no air. He couldn’t breathe. He tugged at the helmet, trying to lift the visor, but it did not move. He was trapped. He heard his breathing, amplified in the metal. His hot breath warmed the tight confines of the helmet. He was suffocating. There was no air. He grabbed at the helmet, struggling to remove it.

The pages lifted it off his head and looked at him curiously.

"Is all well, squire?"

Chris coughed, and nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He never wanted that thing on his head again. But already they were leading him out of the tent, to a waiting horse.

Jesus Christ, he thought.

This horse was gigantic, and covered in more metal than he was. There was a decorated plate over the head, and more plates on the chest and sides. Even in armor, the animal was jumpy and high-spirited, snorting and jerking at the reins the page held. This was a true warhorse, a destrier, and it was far more spirited than any horse he had ever ridden before. But that was not what concerned him. What concerned him was the size  –  the damn horse was so big, he couldn’t see over it. And the wooden saddle was raised, making it still higher. The pages were all looking at him expectantly. Waiting for him. To do what? Probably to climb up.

"How do I, uh. . . ."

They blinked, surprised. The head page stepped forward and said smoothly, "Place your hand here, squire, on the wood and swing up. . . ."

Chris extended his hand, but he could barely reach the pommel, a rectangle of carved wood in the front of the saddle. He closed his fingers around the wood, then raised his knee and slipped his foot in the stirrup.

"Um. I think your left foot, squire."

Of course. Left foot. He knew that; he was just tense and confused. He kicked the stirrup to get his right foot free. But the armor had caught on the stirrup; he bent forward awkwardly and used his hand to tug the stirrup free. It still was stuck. Finally, at the moment of release, he lost his balance and fell on his back near the horse’s rear hooves. The horrified pages quickly dragged him clear.

They got him to his feet, and then they all helped him to mount. He felt hands pressing against his buttocks as he rose shakily into the air, swung his foot over  –  Jesus, that was hard  –  and landed with a clank in the saddle.

Chris looked down at the ground, far below. He felt as if he were ten feet in the air. As soon as he was mounted, the horse began to whinny and shake its head, turning sideways and snapping at Hughes’s legs in the stirrups. He thought, This damn horse is trying to bite me.

"Reins, squire! Reins! You must rein him!"

Chris tugged at the reins. The enormous horse paid no attention, pulling hard, still trying to bite him.

"Show him, squire! Strongly!"

Chris yanked the reins so sharply, he thought he’d break the animal’s neck. At this, the horse merely gave a final snort and faced forward, suddenly calmed.

"Well done, squire."

Trumpets sounded, several long notes.

"That is the first call to arms," the page said. "We must to the tourney field."

They took the horse’s reins and led Chris toward the grassy field.

36:02:00

It was one in the morning. From inside his office at ITC, Robert Doniger stared down at the entrance to the cave, illuminated in the night by the flashing lights of six ambulances parked all around. He listened to the crackle of the paramedic radios and watched the people leaving the tunnel. He saw Gordon walking out with that new kid, Stern. Neither of them appeared to have been hurt.

He saw Kramer reflected in the glass of the window as she entered the room behind him. She was slightly out of breath. Without looking back at her, he said, "How many were injured?"

"Six. Two somewhat seriously."

"How seriously?"

"Shrapnel wounds. Burns from toxic inhalation."

"Then they’ll have to go to UH." He meant University Hospital, in Albuquerque.

"Yes," Kramer said. "But I’ve briefed them about what they can say. Lab accident, all that. And I called Whittle at UH, reminded him of our last donation. I don’t think there’ll be a problem."

Doniger stared out the window. "There might be," he said.

"The PR people can handle it."

"Maybe not," Doniger said.

In recent years, ITC had built a publicity unit of twenty-six people around the world. Their job was not to get publicity for the company, but rather to deflect it. ITC, they explained to anyone who inquired, was a company that made superconducting quantum devices for magnetometers and medical scanners. These devices consisted of a complex electro-mechanical element about six inches long. Press handouts were stupefyingly boring, dense with quantum specifications.

For the rare reporter who remained interested, ITC enthusiastically scheduled a tour of their New Mexico facility. Reporters were taken to selected research labs. Then, in a large assembly room, they were shown how the devices were made  –  the gradiometer coils fitted into the cryostat, the superconducting shield and electrical leads outside. Explanations referred to the Maxwell equations and electric charge motion. Almost invariably, reporters abandoned their stories. In the words of one, "It’s about as compelling as an assembly line for hair dryers."