Indiana Jones & the Peril at Delphi

Prologue

Delphi, Greece—1922

Indy hung in the darkness like a quarter moon, suspended by a rope that burned into his chest and armpits. He heard shouts above him, but couldn't make out the words. When he dropped his head back, the aperture high above him offered no more light than a twinkling star.

"Dorian!" he yel ed. "Send down another torch!"

His voice bounced back and forth against the wal s of the crevice; he didn't know if she had heard him or not. He rubbed his cheek against his shoulder and peered down. Blackness was everywhere, an inky veil that disoriented him, dizzied him. Nausea rol ed through him. He squeezed his eyes shut and moved his hands a fraction of an inch upward on the rope, fearing that in the next second, it was going to snap and he'd fol ow his first torch into the fathomless darkness below him.

There was no space, no time, only the pul of gravity, the suction of the void. He couldn't have dangled more than a few minutes, but it seemed he'd been hanging here for hours, waiting for light to redeem him.

"Jones," Dorian shouted.

His name reverberated in the pit. He glanced up and saw a flickering light dancing toward him. The rope that held it coiled and uncoiled, serpentine, its tongue hissing fire. Indy ducked as the torch darted past his head, then grabbed the rope and snared the end of the torch.

He gripped it, his breath erupting from his chest like hiccups. He peered at the wall in front of him, no longer certain if it was the right wall. Maybe he was too far down. He tugged on his rope twice and Doumas, Dorian's assis tant, lowered him another two feet. Then he was directly opposite the tablet. It jutted out from the stone wall like a tombstone in a graveyard, and was tilted slightly downward.

He pulled a four pronged clamp from his knapsack and pounded it into the wall with a mallet. He was about to place the torch into it when something caught his eye. He held the torch in front of the tablet and leaned forward for a closer look.

He'd been told the inscription would be caked with dirt and that it would have to be cleaned once the tablet was taken to the surface. But he was staring at parallel rows of glyphs that were not only clearly recognizable, but were written in ancient Greek, a language he could read.

His eyes skipped over the words, devouring them. Excitement knotted in his gut. He put the torch back into the holder on the wall, and pulled a notepad from a side pocket of his knapsack. Quickly, he scrawled the transla tion. He couldn't believe it. They were right. The crazy bastards knew what they were talking about.

He wanted to yell up to the top, but decided to conserve his energy. He stuffed the notebook back into the pack, pulled out the net, and carefully covered the tablet before fastening the drawstrings to a hook at the end of the rope.

He was about to start chiseling at the wall to loosen the tablet when the rope suddenly jerked against his chest. He dropped several inches; the rope tightened under his arms.

"Hey, what the hell is going on?"

His voice ricocheted about the crevice. He was directly below the tablet now and saw pick marks under it.

Some one had not only cleaned the inscription, but had tried to remove the tablet. But who?

The rope jerked again. A weird creaking filled the crevice and he knew what it was. His rope was fraying.

He pulled the torch from the wall and held it up. "Aw, Christ."

Easy does it, he thought. He placed the torch in his mouth, and reached for the rope above the spot where it was unraveling. He heard a resounding snap, a sharp, terrible sound that echoed in the crevice. His fingers snagged the rope.

He dangled by one hand, the frayed end rubbing against his wrist. The torch burned the hair on his arm.

His face was contorted in a grimace as he stretched his other hand over his head. Sweat beaded on his brow, trickled into his eyes.

He felt a hard yank from above, and the rope slipped through his fingers. He reached desperately with his other hand, but his fist closed on black air.

He fell.

1

College Capers

Chicago— two years earlier

The night was still and tight as the two men lumbered down a narrow lane, limp bodies draped over their shoul ders. Rain from a spring shower puddled in hidden de pressions, shadowed by the tall buildings on either side. They were nearing a corner, and beyond it was the grassy mall, their destination.

One of the men was tall and rangy and bobbed as he walked as if constantly readjusting the weight of the body he carted. The other one was sturdy and muscular. Coils of rope hung from both sides of his belt, and he moved with the nimbleness of a mountain climber. Suddenly, he stumbled in one of the ruts and lurched to the side, almost losing his balance. Nimble, yes, but also afflicted by occasional spasms of clumsiness.

"Damn it," he sputtered as he recovered his footing. It was almost over, and he was edgy.

"You okay?" the tall one asked.

"Fine. Let's stop a minute. I've got a bad feeling about this."

The tall one unceremoniously let the body slip from his shoulder, then pulled out a flask from inside his coat. He

held it out, but his partner shook his head. "No?" The tall man shrugged, then took a long swallow.

"Take it easy on that stuff," the rope man hissed.

"It takes the edge off."

"Fifteen more minutes and it'll be all over," the rope man said. He hugged the shadows of the building as he moved ahead, the body still draped over his husky shoulder. When he reached the corner, he looked both ways. In spite of his concern, he was determined to complete his mission, and he wanted every detail perfect.

He turned to signal his partner, but the man was already standing behind him, the other body slung over his shoulder. They headed down a rain-slick sidewalk, the glow of street lamps reflecting off its surface.

They stopped when they reached the first light, and slid the bodies onto the grass. Barely visible under a nearby hedge were two other bodies they'd left there half an hour earlier.

"Call your tune," the tall one said.

"Get Paine ready. I want him first. And make sure his hat is on straight." He loosened one of the ropes coiled on his belt. A hangman's noose was knotted at the end of the rope, and with a graceful swing of his arm, he tossed it over the arc of the lamp. The noose danced in the pale light.

"Okay, slide it over his neck, and make sure his name tag doesn't come off."

The tall man lifted the body and worked the noose over the head. When it was tight, he reached into Paine's vest, pulled out a three-cornered hat, and fit it firmly over his head. The other man, meanwhile, had scaled the lamp post, and now raised the body into place. He deftly tied the rope, then dropped to the ground.

"Hey, he looks great. Now, just three more to go."

The tall man tipped the flask to his mouth, once more and again, he gestured with it to his partner.

"We'll do Georgie next," the rope man said in response. "God, I can't wait to see the reaction tomorrow morning."

A headless figure wriggled beneath a dark gown like a magician struggling to free himself from chains and locks. Then the top of a head, a brow, and a face emerged from the dark cocoon. He straightened the gown over his bare legs, and gazed at himself in a full-length mirror. He ran a hand through his thick hair, which was parted in the center, then placed his mortarboard and tassel on top of his head.

The intricate lithographic lettering on his diploma would say he was Henry Jones, Jr. But those who knew him called him Indy—short for Indiana, a name he'd used since his early teens. "Henry Jr." was consigned to use on official documents, and by his father, who still called him Junior.

In fact, the only visible remainder of his childhood was a scar on his jaw, which he'd gotten in a scrap with thieves he'd stumbled on in a desert cavern as they uncovered a relic of the Spanish conquest.

But even his father, if he were here, would see that he was no longer a kid. He was handsome in a rugged sort of way, with clear, determined hazel eyes and the broad shoulders and musculature of a halfback. But he wasn't a football player. Although he was well coordinated, he preferred horseback riding and skiing to sports like foot ball or baseball. He was also proficient at the use of a whip, an odd skill he rarely talked much about. Not that any of that mattered today.

"I'm a college graduate," he said to himself, and smiled at the image those words conjured, but his smile revealed more than a hint of irony. He was graduating in spite of everything. He'd missed so many classes last fall, his grades had nose-dived and he'd nearly been expelled. For several weeks, he'd simply lost interest in his formal education while he was attaining another sort on the street.

He and Jack Shannon, his wily roommate, had spent their

nights at barrelhouse piano saloons on the South Side, listening to musicians with names like Pine Top Smith, Cripple Clarence Lofton, Speckled Red, and Cow Cow Davenport pound the keys on their uprights.

The music was called barrelhouse piano because the small bars where it was played served liquor directly out of kegs. At least, they had until Prohibition started a few months back.

Most of the jazzmen had come up from New Orleans, the hometown of jazz, in the last five years, and more were arriving every week. Living conditions for Negroes were better in Chicago; there were jobs in clubs where they could make fifty dollars a week compared to a dollar a night in New Orleans. And Chicago was where the record ing studios were making jazz records.

When the bars closed, Indy and Shannon often headed to freewheeling rent parties where the music continued until dawn. Shannon would bring his cornet and play along with the likes of Johnny Dunn and Jabbo Smith. Not only was Shannon one of the few whites Indy had seen play jazz, but he was undoubtedly the only economics student playing the music. Most of the jazzmen in the barrelhouse saloons were uneducated. They didn't read music, didn't follow the rules, didn't know the rules, and didn't care. They didn't even know their music was unusu al, and all of that contributed to its power and integrity.

"Hey, you ready? You said you wanted to get there early, right?"

He looked up, snapping out of his reverie. Shannon's red hair looked as wild as ever. His gown was draped over his arm, and he wore a coat and tie. The coat was too short in the sleeves, but he knew Shannon didn't give a damn about it. He had a habit of nodding his head when he was excited or nervous and he was doing it now. But Shannon always seemed a bit edgy, as though he weren't really made for this world. The only time he ever seemed perfectly at ease was when he was playing his cornet. Then his lanky body seemed

to flow with the music and you no longer noticed his size twelve feet or his long neck with its bulging Adam's apple.

Indy glanced once more at himself, then removed the mortarboard. They were only a couple of blocks from the grassy mall where the ceremony was being held. They'd be there in a few minutes.

"Okay. Let me get dressed. I don't have my pants on yet."

"Dare you to go just like that. Graduate without your pants, kiddo."

"No thanks. Don't see any reason to do it." He watched Shannon through the mirror, knowing that he would make an offer.

"Tell you what. I'll buy you a bottle of hooch. We'll get plastered."

Indy shrugged. Hell, with the gown on, no one would know the difference. "All right." He wasn't exactly looking forward to the ceremony; he just wanted to be done with it. Not wearing any pants would at least make it somewhat interesting.

"I can just hear ol' Mulhouse now," he said as they left the house. "'You are a new generation, a generation of hope.'" His voice was deep, authoritative, mimicking the university president. " 'The war is over. Go out into the world and show others who are less fortunate that America's young people are hardworking, productive individuals who get the job done, whatever that job may be.'"

Something like that, he thought. No, the ceremony wasn't the reason Indy wanted to arrive early.

"How is it with no pants?" Shannon asked as they headed down an oak-shrouded street.

"Cool and breezy. You should try it."

Indy expected him to laugh and make a joke, but Shannon wore a pensive expression. "Is your father going to be here?"

Indy shook his head. "He's busy. Hell, he didn't even bother to apologize."

"Really?"

"Yeah. That's how he is. My father, the esteemed expert on grail lore, is a man with little time for anything or anyone outside of his scholarly pursuits."

"He always been like that?"

"Only after my mother died when I was young. Ever since then he's become more distant from me, no matter what I do. I guess I majored in linguistics just to get his attention."

Shannon glanced at him. "How would linguistics get his attention?"

"For as long as I can remember, he's said that language is the key to understanding mankind. But so what? How can he expect me to understand mankind when I can't even understand him?"

"I wish my family were staying home. Hell, I wish I weren't even graduating."

"What're you talking about, Jack? You've got a job and you'll be making good money." Shannon had been hired as an accountant with a Chicago trucking company for the salary of two hundred fifty dollars a month, a sum that seemed astonishingly high. When Indy asked how he'd gotten it, Shannon's only response was "family connections."

"And you'll still have time to play in the clubs," Indy continued. "Hey, remember that night we went down to the Royal Gardens and saw King Oliver? Authentic New Orleans Creole jazz. It's all moving right up here into your own backyard. What more could you ask for?"

Shannon didn't say anything as they crossed the street. "You are going to play, aren't you?" Indy asked as he watched a shiny new Tin Lizzie motor past.

"I made a deal."

Indy noted the dour expression on his face. "What kind of deal?"

"I have to stop playing jazz. That's the price of the job."

"That's crazy. Why?"

"It's not 'respectable' music, Indy."

Indy knew that jazz was slow to catch on. And many

whites thought the syncopated beat—accenting notes when it wasn't expected—and improvisational style were 'jungle music' It causes the listener to move in strange, suggestive ways, he'd heard one radio commentator say.

"That's bullshit, Jack, because I think you could be as good as Earl Hines or Johnny Dodds. You watch; things will change as the music catches on."

"I don't know if that'll ever happen." Shannon swayed from side to side, his gangly arms moving to their own beat. "You know, they're even blaming jazz for those riots on the South Side. Can you believe that?"

"The rioting had nothing to do with jazz." But the city's race riots were a sour note in a nation that was feeling good about the Allies' victory. They created a sad contrast to the big parades that marched along New York's Fifth Avenue, celebrating America's role in the triumph.

"It's not marching music, Indy. You know what I mean. Nobody feels like a goddamn hero when they listen to it. That's the problem. It's coming from a different place, and so am I."

Indy chuckled. "You could always go to Europe with me, and start a new life."

"Don't think I haven't thought about it. I'm jealous as hell. You're going to love it."

Paris, Indy was sure, would be fascinating, but he wasn't so certain about becoming an expert in ancient languages. "I guess. But studying old manuscripts in libraries isn't my idea of an exciting time."

"You keep saying that. Why are you doing it?"

"The opportunity was there, and I wasn't going to pass it up. Simple as that."

Shannon abruptly turned down an alley, and motioned for Indy to follow.

"Where you going?"

"C'mon," he said in a hushed voice. "I said I'd buy you a bottle. Let's get a pint and take it with us. There's a guy close by who's got it."

"I don't know, Jack." Prohibition was a bad joke, but Indy was anxious to get to the campus.

"It'll only take a minute. C'mon."

He shrugged and followed him. Although the two men got along well, they differed considerably in their con sumption of and attitude toward alcohol. Shannon had been a heavy drinker since he was seventeen, and Prohibi tion hadn't slowed his habit. Indy, on the other hand, had a low tolerance for alcohol and could take it or leave it.

Halfway down the block, Shannon opened a gate, and strolled along the walk to a back door. He rapped out the uni versal code for "it's me"—BOP; bop-bop-bob-bop; BOP; BOP A dog answered, yelping from inside the house. Shannon glanced back at Indy as if to make sure he was still there.

A moment later, a short, frumpy man with a cross look on his face opened the door. A two-day stubble shadowed his jaw and his white hair was mussed, as though he'd been sleeping. He shouted at the dog, then asked what they wanted.

"A bottle of juice, Elmo, what else?" Shannon said with a smirk.

The man motioned for them to enter. Indy smelled whiskey on his breath as soon as he stepped into the cramped kitchen.

A wiry, mixed-breed dog growled from behind his mas ter. Indy kept his distance and looked around the kitchen. Green paint was peeling from the walls, revealing patterned wallpaper. One of the cupboard doors lay on the floor where it had apparently fallen some time ago, and the room stank of urine-soaked newspapers stacked in one corner.

"Just a quick pint, Elmo. We're in a hurry."

"Good for you." He looked past Shannon and frowned at Indy's black gown. "Who's this guy, a judge?"

"Don't you know a college graduate when you see one? We're on our way to the big time."

"Is that right? This professor who visits me says I deserve an honorary degree. How do you like that?"

Elmo grinned, his teeth lining up in his mouth like a picket fence that had yellowed in the sun.

"A degree in what, moonshining?" Shannon asked.

"No. Chemistry."

Indy laughed, but he felt uneasy, and wished they hadn't stopped.

"You got it or not, Elmo? We don't have all day."

"Fifty cents."

"Fifty?" Shannon threw up his hands, enraged by the price. "How about a break for the new graduates?

C'mon, Elmo."

"Fifty cents," Elmo retorted, and crossed his arms over his chest.

"All right, all right." Shannon turned to Indy. "You got a quarter?"

"What about our deal?"

"I'll pay you back. Don't worry."

Indy dug into his pocket. He earned expense money by tutoring high school students in Latin and French, but never had much extra. He grudgingly handed Shannon a quarter.

Elmo dropped the coins in his pocket, ambled across the kitchen, and descended into a cellar. Indy glanced at his watch. "I hope he doesn't get lost down there."

Shannon waved a hand impatiently, dismissing Indy's concern. "Relax, we'll be there in no time."

Indy saw that the dog had bared its teeth and was growling again.

"What's his problem?" Indy grumbled.

Shannon pointed at the mongrel. "Shut up, pooch."

But the dog charged past them as someone banged on the door. Shannon looked toward the cellar, shrugged, then opened the door a couple of inches. "Who is it?"

"Ya mudda. Open up. I'm here to see Elmo."

"Who's there?" the old moonshiner called out as he emerged from the basement. He slipped Indy the pint,

and the graduate-to-be stuffed it inside his mortarboard. The door swung open, and a man in a dark coat, tie, and hat filled the doorway. He had a grim, menacing look on his face and a gun in his hand. Aw, hell. A damp chill raced up Indy's spine. Elmo took one look at the new visitor and bolted toward the front door.

The man yelled for him to stop, but Elmo kept moving. The man charged through the house, the dog yelping at his heels.

Indy and Shannon exchanged a glance and rushed for the kitchen door. At the bottom of the steps, Indy tripped on his gown and fell to his knees. He scrambled up and raced after Shannon, who was sprinting across the yard. Indy couldn't help laughing; they were getting away, escaping the danger, and he even had the whiskey. But then Shannon stopped abruptly, and Indy crashed into him. At the gate were two cops just waiting to nab them. "Hey, you two!" "Shit."

Shannon spun, dashed across the yard, and ran between two houses. Indy didn't wait around for directions; he darted after him, hiking up his gown as he ran. He passed Shannon as they crossed the street. They fled across a succession of yards and in between houses. He was almost sure they had gotten away when he realized he'd run into a yard enclosed by an eight-foot wood fence. "Damn," he hissed.

"Watch out!" Shannon shouted behind him. Indy's head jerked around; he expected to see the cops.

Instead, a pair of Doberman pinschers were dashing to ward them. "Christ," he breathed. He dropped the pint, pulled on his mortarboard, and scrambled up the fence. Just as he was about to lift a leg over the top, he was yanked back. One of the Dobermans had snared his gown. The dog snarled and shook its head from side to side as Indy struggled to get away.

He reached back and jerked hard, ripping the gown from the dog's mouth. He leaped over the fence, and dropped to the ground where Shannon was already wait ing. They crossed another yard, ducked around a garage, then pulled up short. The two cops were standing in the alley with their revolvers drawn.

"Nice going, boys. Hold it right there," said the shorter cop.

Indy froze. Now they were in trouble, and it wasn't even his trouble.

"Billy?" Shannon said, rocking forward onto the balls of his feet. "That you?"

"Jesus," murmured the cop. "Jack Shannon. What're you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing. We were getting a pint. We're on our way to graduation."

"Christ, Shannon." He glanced at his partner. "It's Harry's brother." He jerked his head toward the alley.

"Get out of here and watch who the hell you do business with from now on."

"Thanks, Billy."

"Don't thank me, Jack. Harry's going to hear about this. You can count on it."

Indy had no idea what Shannon's brother had to do with the cop. As they hurried toward the campus, Indy's torn gown flapped like a flag behind him. "Your brother's not a cop, is he, Jack?"

An angry scowl tightened Shannon's face. "No, but he's got friends. Billy Flannery is from the neighborhood."

"But what were they doing?"

"Putting a small-time competitor out of business. Har ry's got territory to maintain."

"The cops work for your brother?"

"Wake up, Indy. They all work for the organization, and Harry's a charter member. It runs in the family."

2

Hanging Heroes

The back of Indy's gown was in shreds, and he held it together with one hand as they passed through the gate of the campus. But he didn't give a damn. He was just grateful to be free of cops and crooks and dogs. He was graduating and that was all that mattered.

He glanced up at a banner fluttering in the breeze.

CELEBRATE FOUNDING FATHERS DAY—M AY 23, it read. At the sight of it his stomach knotted, and his sense of relief vanished. With everything that had just happened, he'd almost forgotten about last night.

What had seemed like a notable way to end his college career no longer felt so wonderful.

As they reached the end of the lane leading to the mall, they stopped. A crowd of black-gowned students and their families were gathered on the sidewalk. Above them, bodies dangled from ropes high up on lampposts. From where they stood, the hanging mannequins looked like actual corpses dressed in American revolutionary garb complete with loose white shirts and vests, tight-fitting pants, and three-cornered hats.

"Well, look at that," Shannon said with a mischievous grin. "Georgie, the two Toms, and Benji."

Indy stared glumly at the sight. The thrill had definitely

worn off. "I don't know. It's sort of grotesque in the daylight. I guess I didn't really think they'd still be here."

On a weekday the campus maintenance workers would probably have cut them down and carted away by now. But it was Saturday, midmorning, graduation day, and everyone was stopping and staring.

"Well, I think it's great." Shannon grinned and slapped Indy on the back. "We pulled it off." There wasn't a trace of concern in his voice.

"Yeah. Swell."

"Look. The press is even here. It's your chance to tell them all about it!"

That was his original intention, but now he wasn't so sure he wanted to take credit for the deed, much less boast about it. Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to postpone it from the night before Founding Fathers Day to the eve of graduation. Maybe no one would understand.

Shannon punched him lightly on the shoulder. "There're my folks. See you in a while."

Indy watched him drift into the crowd, then walked over to where photographers were snapping pictures of "Tom Jefferson." Several people were talking at once, and the words struck him like blows to the gut.

"Who could have done it?" he heard someone ask.

"What was the point?"

"No point."

"It's horrible."

"Must have been a Bolshevik. I've heard they were on campus."

"Maybe it was a Royalist. I'm sure they must hate

Franklin."

"A mad Englishman."

No one seemed to find it humorous or to grasp its meaning. Now he was barely able to contain himself.

He felt like shouting that it was just his Founding Fathers Day exhibit, and didn't they understand what these men stood for, anyway?

"It's a disgrace to the university," an authoritative voice boomed from under the next lamppost. "An outrage of the worst sort."

Mallery Mulhouse, the university president, was sur rounded by reporters, students, and parents. His face was ruddier than usual, and his brow was covered in sweat.

Founding Fathers Day was Mulhouse's inspiration. It involved a day of speeches and patriotic ado, and although no one was forced to participate, it was considered a gaffe for undergraduates to ignore it.

During Indy's first two years, when he'd lived in a dormitory, the floor captains had been responsible for getting everyone involved in making floats for the parade or other related projects.

Last year, when he'd moved into an apartment off campus, he'd avoided Founding Fathers Day. But this year, Mulhouse had required everyone taking a history or an English course to write a paper on the Founding Fathers or fail the course. Indy had grudgingly abided, but in his own way.

'Anyone who would hang effigies of our nation's foun ders from the lampposts of an academy of higher learning is clearly a dangerous, unbalanced individual," Mulhouse continued. "I consider this an act of sedition, an affront to everything this nation is about."

A frown furrowed Indy's brow as he worked his way closer to Mulhouse. He'd expected controversy; he'd wanted it. But he hadn't counted on Mulhouse considering it some sort of high crime against the nation.

"Don't you think it was just a college prank?" one of the reporters asked.

Indignation seized Mulhouse's face, reddening it even more. "If it's a prank, it's in extremely poor taste.

Who ever was behind it will be found and proper punishment will be meted out."

"Are you saying that hanging these dummies could be considered a criminal act?" another reporter called out.

"The university police have been notified, and our lawyers are looking into the legal aspects at this moment. Right now I'm not discounting anything."

"Dr. Mulhouse, isn't what we see here simply an exam ple of freedom of speech as professed by our founding fathers?" asked a student Indy recognized as the universi ty newspaper's editor.

Mulhouse pointed to "Georgie" behind him, who was now being cut down by one of his assistants.

"Young man, hanging an effigy of our country's first president on a lamppost of a university is not an example of freedom of speech. On the contrary, it's a threat to it."

Damn. It wasn't going well at all. Indy looked down at the mortarboard in his hand, and wondered if they could still take away his diploma. Then what? He'd be out of luck, that's what. But he should have thought about that last night.

"What do you make of it, Jones?"

He turned to see Ted Conrad, his history professor. He was in his early thirties, wore an old-time handlebar mustache, and was Indy's favorite instructor.

Indy shrugged and gazed at the nearest dummy. "Someone went to a lot of trouble."

"Looks like a parting shot at Founding Fathers Day to me."

A hint of a smile shadowed Indy's mouth. "Could be, I suppose."

He admired the professor for his forthright manner as well as for his compelling ideas. Conrad had repeatedly told the class to stand up for what they believed, to question authority. Freedom of speech, he'd said, meant expressing yourself any way you wanted as long as it did not harm anyone else. That was what democracy was about. Conrad had also poked gentle fun at the exalted stature of Founding Fathers Day, and when he'd assigned the required class paper, had prodded them, saying: "Keep in mind when you write this paper that you are attending a university, not a church."

Indy had done just that, and now Conrad suspected him; he was sure of it.

"What I see here, Jones," he said, smiling as he motioned toward the hanging figures, "looks a lot like what you were suggesting in your paper."

Indy suddenly realized he was as transparent as water to Conrad. "I didn't say they should've been hanged. My point was that if the British had won, our great Founding Fathers would have been branded traitors and probably hung."

"Oh, I know your point. I liked that paper. Gave you an A."

Great. He understood.

"Then you can appreciate what I did here," Indy exclaimed. "This was my parting Founding Fathers Day project. Democracy in practice."

Conrad nodded. "Only a week late, but still nicely timed to coincide with your graduation. I admire your boldness, Jones. But you're still going to have to face the consequences, you know."

He looked down at Indy's torn gown, and the white, hairy legs which protruded from beneath it.

"Nice outfit, by the way."

Indy felt like an insect trapped on flypaper, still alive but ready to be squashed. He stood at one end of a long conference table in a richly paneled room on the fourth floor of the administration building. It was smack in the gray, cold heart of the university, a place few students ever ventured. Seated around the table were the dean of students, the history department chairman, a member of the university's board of regents, two university lawyers, and Ted Conrad. Except for Conrad, who'd turned him in, all were severe-looking older men in gray suits.

Suddenly, the door opened and President Mulhouse strode into the conference room. He greeted everyone around the table, then looked up at Indy. "Take a seat, Mr. Jones." Mulhouse pointed to a chair at the opposite end of the table.

He'd been roused early yesterday morning by two uni versity police officers and questioned in their office. He'd confessed everything, except Shannon's participation. Dean Williams had been present and after the police were finished, he questioned Indy for another half hour about his personal life. The dean, a distinguished white-haired man, had once been a psychology professor, and his questions reflected that fact. Finally, he'd been ordered to appear here today at ten sharp.

"'The Nature of American Patriots and Traitors,' " Mulhouse mused, tapping his finger against Indy's Founding Fathers Day paper. "Well, that's better than 'Hanging Heroes,' as the press calls this episode." He peered at the new graduate over the rims of his pince-nez and stroked his chin, one of those practiced academic gestures at which he excelled. "Did you think you could really get away with this, Mr. Jones?"

"I... ah.. ." Indy cleared his throat and tried to over come his nervousness. "I'm not trying to get away with anything. My paper is about the fine line between popular heroes and treacherous villains. If the British had won—"

"But the British didn't win, Mr. Jones," the history department chairman interrupted. "And when you hung the effigies of our national heroes, our Founding Fathers, from those lampposts, you were acting like a traitor. And that's precisely how most people see it."

"I think we need to consider some mitigating circum stances in our judgment of Mr. Jones," Dean Williams said. "I had a long talk with him yesterday morning, and I believe that he is a disturbed young man. His act was not so much an attack on our Founding Fathers, as against his own father, his only living relative, the renowned medie val scholar Dr. Henry Jones.

"As I understand it, Dr. Jones is a very busy man, and unfortunately he did not have the time to travel from New York for his son's graduation. There apparently has been some resentment on the son's part regarding his father's aloofness, and what took place the night before graduation is a manifestation of those feelings."

It annoyed Indy that the dean discussed him as though he weren't in the room. And what was he saying? Sure, he felt resentful toward his father, but that wasn't why he'd hung the Founding Fathers. He was about to say so when Ted Conrad spoke up.

"That's an interesting analysis, Dean Williams, but I'm not sure it has much to do with Mr. Jones's actions. His motives were obviously related to his Founding Fathers Day paper. The paper itself was well thought out. Rewrit ing history is, at best, speculative, but the events he described were well reasoned."

Mulhouse's mouth pursed with disapproval. "Are you condoning his actions, Professor Conrad?" Indy sat forward. "Excuse me, but—" "No, I'm not condoning what he did," Conrad said, ignoring Indy. "He went considerably beyond what was required or allowed for such a project. I'm just explaining what I think motivated him."

It was obvious that Mulhouse wasn't buying any of it. "Of course you can look at is psychologically or academi cally. But the fact remains that Mr. Jones was illustrating his disrespect for our nation's founders, and his distaste for Founding Fathers Day, an institution at this university."

They talked a few minutes longer about his motives with everyone agreeing that, whatever they were, he was

wrong. Then Indy was asked to leave the room. "Can I say something, please?" he asked as he stood.

Mulhouse frowned at him. "Go ahead, young man, but keep it brief."

"All I want to say is that my father has nothing to do with what I did. I never once thought I was symbolically hanging him."

With that, he turned and walked out of the room and took a seat in the outer office. He sighed heavily.

He imagined them continuing their conversation, talking about the alternatives, deciding his future, and trying to dissect his personality in the process. At the very least, he was sure that Mulhouse intended to take away his diploma.

What would he do without a degree? He wouldn't go to Paris. That was certain. He'd have to find a job.

But what kind of job? Without a degree he couldn't even teach French or Latin. He didn't want to think about what he might do, because he didn't know.

Several minutes later, the door opened and Dean Williams nodded for him to rejoin them. As Indy sat down, Mulhouse's gaze flicked toward him. "Now, Mr. Jones, you are fortu nate that I am someone who listens closely to what others have to say. First of all, our attorneys and I have discussed the possibilities of prosecuting this case. It is our consen sus that there will be no benefit for this institution if we carry the matter any further, at least in a legal sense. We prefer to put this behind us."

C'mon, just get this over with. Say it. Say you're taking away my diploma.

"The easiest way of handling the matter would be to simply expel you. But you've already graduated.

Lucky for you." His smile was cold and hard. "However, we under stand that you are planning to attending the Sorbonne this fall. We can easily refuse to send your records, and it's doubtful whether you would be considered a legitimate student." His pause was deliberate, to let the significance of what he was saying sink in. "But we're going to give you a chance to redeem yourself."

Mulhouse glanced among the others, and they nodded approvingly. "I would like you to apologize to everyone here for what you did, then write a letter of apology, which my office will submit to the press."

Every eye in the room turned toward him as the men waited for him to reply. But he didn't have anything to say. Why should he apologize for something he wasn't sorry for? What about standing up for what he believed in? What about democracy?

Conrad was staring intently at Indy and the message was implicit: Accept what they're offering you. Indy looked away from him, irritated that Conrad—who'd betrayed him, who couldn't even stick to his own principles—should now presume to advise him. But if he didn't apologize, he knew Mulhouse would make good on his threat to with hold his records. The lesser of two evils, he thought, and said, "Fine, I'll do it."

Mulhouse nodded, and smiled thinly. "Well, we're wait ing. Let's hear it."

Indy looked down at the tabletop. "I apologize to all of you. I'm sorry... sorry I did it. Your office will have my letter of apology tomorrow."

Then he pushed away from the table, stood, and walked quickly out of the room. He descended the stairs two at a time until he reached the first floor, then headed across the mall. He didn't know where he was going. It didn't matter. He was literally seeing red.

"Jones, hold on, will you?"

It was Conrad. Indy kept walking.

"Jones."

He stopped, turned. "What do you want?"

"I want to talk to you."

Indy realized he was standing just a few feet from the lamppost where he and Shannon had hung the first mannequin. "I suppose you'd like me to climb up there and hang myself," he said, stabbing a finger at the lamppost. "Or maybe you just want me to apologize to you personal ly. Is that it?"

"Calm down, Jones. You did just fine in there. Just

fine."

"Sure. I did great."

"Listen to me. You made your point. Believe me, you did. I talked to Mulhouse at his home for almost an hour yesterday, and he conceded that he'd overreacted."

"Well, I didn't hear him apologizing."

"No, but you didn't find yourself arrested, either. Those lawyers could have drummed up any number of charges from vandalism to treason. Don't you see? You won. Hell, if booze were legal, I'd buy you a drink."

"I won, but I had to apologize? What kind of victory is

that?"

"Look, Mulhouse has to maintain his cloak of credibility. If you had ripped it off by refusing to apologize, he would have had no choice but to ruin your chances at the Sorbonne."

Indy knew Conrad was right. "What about this apology

I have to write?"

"It's your chance to explain to everyone what you were doing. Just don't gloat; say you know it was a mistake."

"Yeah. I suppose."

Conrad clasped him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit. Good luck in Paris. I envy you. I'm sure you'll do well and find what you're looking for."

As Conrad walked away, Indy thought about what the professor had said. What was he looking for? He didn't know, but he had the feeling that he'd recognize it when he saw it.

3

LADY ICE

Paris—October 1922

It was a brisk fall morning and Indy bundled his leather jacket around his throat as he traipsed along the boulevard St. Michel. Unlike most of the Frenchmen he passed on the street, he wasn't wearing a scarf.

Madelaine had given him one last Christmas, but he hadn't seen her for several weeks and wearing it reminded him of her.

He leaned forward, pulled his hat low over his brow, and picked up his pace. He not only wanted to escape the cold, but he was looking forward to the lecture this morning in his Greek archaeology class. The topic was Apollo's Oracle, and he was curious about the approach Professor Belecamus would take.

He crossed the campus, heading directly to the class room building. After two years of studying at the Sorbonne, he felt he knew the city almost as well as a native Parisian. But, of course, he would always be a foreigner here, and oddly enough he liked the feeling. He was an outsider, on the inside.

He was in his third year of a Ph.D. program that focused on ancient written languages, and was taking his second course in classical Greek archaeology. It fit well

with his study of Old Greek, but there was also something else about the course that particularly captivated him—the professor.

Everything about her, from the clothes and perfume she wore to the way she talked and walked, was distinctly feminine. And yet, beneath this veneer he sensed a strength and self-possession that intrigued him. The di chotomy hinted at the mystery of this woman and also defined the boundaries of her personal area. Too close and you're in trouble, it whispered.

So far that had not been a problem. He was midway through his second course with her and was excelling in it. His knowledge of Old Greek as well as his thorough understanding of Greek mythology made him something of a standout among his peers, but she had acted as if he didn't exist.

A few days earlier, he had approached her after class and asked a couple of questions about her lecture. She'd answered in a brusque tone that matched the cold indiffer ence in her eyes. He refused to be intimidated, and had told her how much he enjoyed her lectures.

"That's nice," she'd said, then excused herself and brushed past him.

Dorian Belecamus was Lady Ice. That was the way he thought of her. Yet, ice could be melted, and somewhere below her thick protective coating there must be a warm, friendly woman who longed for intimacy.

Or so he fantasied.

Lost in thought, he collided with someone as he entered the classroom and realized it was she. He dropped to one knee to retrieve the notebook that had slipped from Belecamus's hand. His eyes shifted to her trim legs, which were just inches from his head. On most days she dressed in a long skirt and a white blouse covered by a sleeveless velveteen waistcoat. But today she wore a shorter plaid schoolgirl dress that made her look as if she might be one of the students rather than the instructor.

She crouched and plucked up a paper that had slipped out of the notebook. They stood at the same time and their eyes met; hers were lovely, wide and dark, almost black. "Sorry, Dr. Belecamus. I didn't see you."

"Thanks, Jones." She flicked a hand at her thick raven hair. It was tied back with a bow and set off her compelling eyes, high cheekbones, and full mouth. "Nice running into you. See me after class. I have something to talk to you about."

Abruptly, she turned away and walked to the podium. Indy gazed after her, astonished that she'd actually smiled at him. He glanced around the classroom, expecting to see looks of envy from the men, knowing glances from the women. But no one seemed to notice. He'd broken, or at least cracked, the cake of ice that encased Dorian Belecamus, and no one cared. What was with these guys? Their expressions were as inscrutable as the mugs on the skulls that stared out from the cases that lined the walls of the room.

The French were supposed to be lovers, but none of them seemed to think there was anything special about their instructor.

He sat down at a desk on the aisle, opened his note book, and tried to think of reasons she would want to see him. He could think of none. A plain-looking girl with stringy brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses leaned over toward him from the next seat. "God, did you see how she's dressed today?" she whispered.

"Like she thinks she's one of us."

No comparison, Indy thought. Worlds apart. Worlds improved. "She's not. Not even close," he said in a commiserating tone. He turned back to his notebook, cutting off the conversation.

"The topic today is one with which I am intimately

familiar," Belecamus began. Ironic, he thought. She was intimate with a dead city.

"As a child I visited the ruins of Delphi during the early years of the modern restoration, which began in 1892." Her eyes darted to the door and a late arrival squirmed under her gelid stare as he found a seat. "As a high school student and later in college, I spent my summers working first as a volunteer, then as a paid assistant at the site. Delphi became the focus of my graduate study, and my Ph.D. thesis. Before coming to teach here, I spent five years as the chief archaeologist at the ruins while associated with the University of Athens."

She looked down a moment, and smiled to herself. "One of my assistants once made the mistake of jokingly referring to me as Pythia. As we all know Pythia was the name of the succession of women who served as Apollo's Oracle, or the Oracle of Delphi. To become Pythia a woman had to be from a poor farmer's family, more than fifty years old, and not particularly intelligent." Her eyes roamed around the room. "I hope you can understand why I did not feel particularly charmed by the comment."

This elicited a collective laugh from the class. Belecamus definitely fit neither the age bracket nor the intelligence quotient, and she most likely was not from a poor family, Indy thought.

"Pythia made her pronouncements from the altar in the Temple of Apollo, where she sat on a copper-and-gold tripod set above a fissure in the earth. Intoxicating vapors supposedly rose from the aperture, causing the woman to enter a frenzied trance." She smiled again, as if at some private joke, and her gaze settled on Indy. "One witness from the first century A.D. described Pythia's transforma tion this way:

'Her eyes flashed, she foamed at the mouth, her hair stood on end.' Then she would reply to the question which had been put to her."

Indy suddenly felt as though she were speaking only to

him, that the rest of the class no longer mattered. Heat crept up the back of his neck. His eyes remained riveted on her, taking in the way the light slipped over her black hair and glinted in her dark eyes.

"Her answer was always an incoherent babble of words and phrases. Incoherent to all, that is, except the temple priests, who interpreted them for the petitioner." Belecamus looked over the class. "By the way, does anyone know what the word Delphi means? Mr. Jones, our Greek scholar, how about it?"

So, she had been looking at him, and she was aware of his study of ancient Greek.

"It means 'place of the dolphin.'"

She nodded. "Okay. But tell me, why is it called that?"

Indy had learned the mythical history of Delphi as a child, long before he even knew that Greece was a coun try. "Apollo arrived at the shrine in the form of a dolphin."

"And what did he find there?"

He suddenly felt as if he were twelve years old again and his father was drilling him on the myths he'd assigned him to study. But Dorian Belecamus was hardly his father. "A dragon named Python. It was the serpent-son of Gaea, the earth goddess and Poseidon, the earth shaker. Python lived in a cave on the mountain and spoke prophecies through Pythian priestesses."

"And what happened?"

"Apollo killed the dragon, and tossed him into a crevice in the earth."

"Thank you, Mr. Jones." Her eyes flicked away from him and darted around the room. "Now let's move away from the mythological aspects to our historical knowledge of Delphi."

She explained that for more than a millennium, from approximately 700 B.C. to a.d. 362, the mountain retreat had been the site of an oracle. She moved away from the podium as she continued talking. It was obvious she didn't

need any notes. "At the height of its influence, Delphi was the seat of power in the Mediterranean, virtually scripting the political history of the region. Hardly any action of consequence was taken by the rulers without consulting the oracle. Even skeptical philosophers including Plato and Socrates held the Oracle in high regard. Over the years, Delphi accumulated a vast treasure of gold and marble statues, paintings and jewelry, all tributes from

clients."

"Were the predictions actually accurate?" one of the students asked.

"I was just getting to that. The predictions were often worded in ambiguous phrases open to varying interpreta tions," she said. "However, one of the possibilities usually was accurate. Let me give you a few examples."

When asked how the Greeks would fare against a Persian attack in 480 B.C., the Oracle said to trust the

"wooden walls." Although the meaning of the walls was debated, the Greeks successfully defended themselves in their wooden fleet of ships even though they were surrounded. "So those who interpreted the 'wooden walls' as wooden ships were proved correct," she concluded.

When the Roman emperor Nero was warned: Beware of seventy-three, he chose to interpret the prediction as meaning that he would die at the age of seventy-three. Instead, he was overthrown at age thirty-one by Galba, who was seventy-three. "Some predictions were accurate in only an ambiguous or even a cynical sense," she contin ued. "For instance, Croesus was told that if he invaded neighboring Cyrus he would destroy a mighty empire. He did: his own."

Hocus-pocus, Indy thought. He doubted that Plato or Socrates gave a damn about the oracle. They gave lip service to the oracle only because it was the religion of the time; to defy that authority would have cost them dearly.

Indy knew from his studies that the powerful priests

who interpreted the babblings of Pythia were at the center of the Amphyctionic League, a coalition of Greek city-states, and were therefore well informed about important activities through the region. They simply used the oracle to create an aura of truth to their proclamations. In effect, the old woman called Pythia was simply a ritualistic vehicle of no actual consequence.

He also knew that his father would lash out at him if he ever said such a thing to him. Reducing Apollo's Oracle to a form of political corruption lacking any mystical reality was heresy. But all through his childhood, Indy had watched his father become increasingly mired in mystical musings that had taken over his life, and virtually ruined his own.

He raised his hand. "What exactly were those vapors that Pythia breathed when she made her prophecies?"

Belecamus sounded amused by the question. "Ah, the legendary 'mephitic' gases, as they were called.

"Who knows? Legend has it that the vapors came from the rotting carcass of Python."

"Fortunately, scientists don't take myths and legends as fact," Indy responded. "That's where religion and science part."

Belecamus stopped in front of him. Indy's eyes were drawn to her strong, tawny legs bare almost to her knees. "So what do you think the vapors were, Mr. Jones?"

He raised his eyes from her legs. For a moment he didn't answer. Her presence so near him nearly overwhelmed him. He cleared his throat and gathered his thoughts. She challenged him, and he would meet her head on. "Most likely they were a mixture of burning incense and bay leaves. Pythia inhaled the mixture and chewed narcotic laurel leaves to enter a trance state. The so-called vapors were just another way for the priests to mystify and ritualize the activities."

Belecamus crossed her arms. "You're very rational, Mr. Jones. That's good. But sometimes we need to spur our imaginations in archaeology. Myths are often a spring board to truth and understanding."

"They can also baffle and mislead, and too often are taken as the truth themselves," he responded.

"Even by intelligent people."

His father, for instance.

Belecamus smiled, and moved back to the podium. "Well said. I hope everyone here understands the double nature of myths."

As the hour neared its end, Belecamus said she wanted to make an announcement. "This lecture on Delphi, as you know, has been scheduled for weeks. But oddly enough it coincides with an urgent matter at Delphi. Just two days ago there was a minor earthquake in the area."

"Was there much damage?" someone asked.

"The quake caused the earth to buckle, and a crevice has opened in Apollo's Temple. But on the bright side, there apparently has also been a new discovery—a stone tablet has been spotted protruding from inside the chasm."

"What's on it?" someone else asked.

"We don't know yet. I'll be leaving Paris shortly to inspect the site. What this means is that my teaching assistant will take over the course for the remainder of the semester."

Indy felt a sudden vacancy in his chest, an absence of vital organs, as though his heart had been suctioned out. "I want to wish you all the best for the semester. You've been a very attentive group. I'll miss you."

Everyone applauded. As a line of students filed past Belecamus, wishing her well, Indy remained at his desk. Finally, as the last few students left, he stood up and approached the podium.

"Mr. Jones, I hope I'm not keeping you from anything. Another class? A girlfriend waiting in the hall, perhaps?"

"No. Not at all."

"Good. I asked you to wait because I wanted to tell you more about my immediate plans."

"You do?"

Her eyes locked on his. Her look was as penetrating and intimate as an embrace and its intensity astonished him. "Would you be interested in accompanying me to Delphi as my assistant?"

"Me?"

"Yes. You are my best student, and I'll need help from someone not associated with the University of Athens. Politics, if you know what I mean."

"Well, I'm not, uh, sure that I can leave right away," he stammered. "I mean, it's the middle of the semester."

She waved a hand. "Don't worry. I'll take care of everything with the university. My emergency leave was approved, and you'll receive credit for field study. Your basic costs will be covered by my research budget.

What do you say?"

Indy wasn't quite sure how to respond. On the one hand, he was ecstatic. But on the other, her assumption that he would simply drop everything irritated him. Be sides, archaeology wasn't even his field of study.

"It's kind of sudden."

She took a step closer to him, and smiled. "It'll be worth it, Henry."

He wanted to correct her, to tell her to call him Indy, that Henry was his father. But just the fact that she'd addressed him by his first name was a major break through. It was as if some invisible barrier between professor and student had been pierced.

To act familiar was saying that you were equals, and she'd made it clear from the first day of class that she was not their equal. She'd not only been schooled in Greek archaeology since her teens, but she was of the Greek culture. It was in her blood. In her class she was the authority, the living source of knowledge, and they were sponges, there to absorb her wisdom.

And now she was giving him what might be the chance of a lifetime. It will be worth it. Of course, she'd meant the opportunity to work at Delphi, but hadn't she hinted at more? Or was he just imagining it? "I'd like to think about it, but it sounds . . . interesting." Such a weak word, but nothing else came to mind.

"Don't wait too long, Henry." Her voice was low and breathy. "Opportunities like this don't come along every day."

4

Dada and Jazz

Indy opened the door of the Jungle, a boite in Montpar nasse. It was early and he was relieved to see that the tables the Dada crowd usually claimed near the door were empty. He wasn't in any mood to listen to their banter. They were, for the most part, arrogant cynics who enjoyed insulting virtually anyone who walked in the door.

He looked around, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. The ceiling was layered with copper, the walls were wooden, and the small bar was trimmed with copper. Hanging high overhead were several dim Victorian candelabras, and a balcony with more tables encircled the place. At one end of the nightclub, under a lip of the balcony, was a small wooden stage. A single red light bulb glowed above it, spilling light onto an upright piano and a set of drums.

Only three or four tables were occupied, and at one of them near the bar Indy spotted a lone figure bent over in concentration as he scribbled something on a sheet of paper. Light from a burning candle stuck inside an empty wine bottle streaked the man's red hair. Indy strolled over and pulled out a chair.

"Hey, Jack."

"Indy," Shannon said without looking up. "Kinda early."

"I know."

He eased down in the chair, and noticed how a strand of

Shannon's unkempt hair hung dangerously close to the candle's flame. His old college roommate had been living in Paris for the past year, after quitting his job with the trucking company in Chicago. Although he'd kept his bargain with his family and hadn't played in any clubs, he'd practiced nightly in his apartment, collected dozens of new jazz records, and all the while saved his money and planned his escape to Paris.

"I want to talk to you about something."

"Go ahead." Shannon looked up for the first time. "What's on your mind?"

He told Shannon about Belecamus's offer. "I just heard about it today, and I'm still trying to sort everything out."

Shannon set his pencil on the table. "Let me buy you a drink. I think you need one." He raised a hand, caught the eye of the bartender, and ordered two Pernods.

"Tell me more about this woman. This professor of yours."

"Not really much to tell. I don't know her very well." A sly smile altered the shape of his mouth. "Not yet, anyway."

Shannon didn't seem amused. "If I were you, I'd ask around before I took off with her. I'd find out what she's all about."

Shannon, the analyst. "Oh, come on. You think she'd just make this up so she can go home to Greece in the middle of the semester and take me with her?"

"I don't know. It seems to me that she could be playing you for a sucker."

"Jack, for chrissake, we're not on the South Side making some gangster deal."

Shannon stared coldly at him, and Indy realized it was the wrong thing to say.

"I'm sorry. It's just that if you'd sat in on one of her classes, you'd know she isn't that type. She's serious, intelligent."

"And beautiful," Shannon added. "Right?"

"That too."

"Just watch yourself. It sounds sort of suspicious to me."

"Why?"

"Look, if you were an archaeology student, I wouldn't think twice about it. But you're not."

Indy shrugged off the remark. "Look, it's an opportuni ty, a good one, and I don't want to pass it up on account of some vague suspicion."

Shannon held up his hands. "Hey, I'm not arguing with you. I'm just telling you what I think."

"You know how ambivalent I've felt about life as a scholar. Maybe this is what I've been looking for—a career with some adventure."

"I'm not sure about the career, but I bet your profes sor's going to be an adventure. Hell, I don't know.

Maybe it's just what you need."

As their drinks arrived, Indy looked around and was surprised by the number of tables that were now occu pied. It was as if a crowd had seeped out of the wall. "To Greece," Shannon toasted. "Hope it works out."

Indy sipped his Pernod, then nodded at the scrap of paper in front of Shannon. "What were you writing?"

"Just a song."

"A song? For the band?"

"Sure."

"Who's going to sing?"

"The band" was Shannon on cornet, a piano player from Brooklyn whose professional experience had been limited to performances at bar mitzvahs, and a Parisian drummer who'd never played jazz until he'd heard Shannon's re cords. None of them sang as far as Indy knew. Shannon waved the paper in the candlelight.

"I'm looking for a singer. A woman. She's got to be real sultry with a deep voice. No sopranos. If we were in Chicago I could go down to the Gardens or Dreamland and have my choice of ladies fitting the bill."

"I suppose. Not too many of them visiting Paris, though." "Oh, they'll be here, Indy." He leaned forward, his eyes bright with sudden excitement. "You look at the crowds we get here with this make-do band.

They're hungering for jazz in this town. The bands will be coming here. Lots of 'em. Listen and tell me what you think. This is called 'Down in the Quarter.'" Shannon frowned at the paper, then started reciting:

"You know I fled Chicago

Late in twenty-one.

Floated on cross the water,

And never did see the sun.

Finally landed in the Quarter,

Left side of the Seine.

But found so many Americans

thought I was back from where I came.

Down in the Quarter; Down in the Quarter. Meet you tonight Down in the Quarter.

Shannon shrugged. "That's all I got so far."

"Why don't you say, thought I was going insane, for your last line on the first verse instead of back from where I came?"

"Because it's not true. Besides, the number of beats is wrong."

Indy nodded. "I like it. Never knew you wrote songs."

'Well, it's just words on paper now, but I think I've got some real gutsy love songs in me. Gotta find that singer, though."

Indy laughed. "Ha. I think you're looking for more than just a singer."

They both turned as they heard a ruckus near the door.

Chairs clattered. People shouted. Indy peered over his shoulder. "What's going on?"

"Looks like they're arguing about the table."

"The Dada gang. Should've guessed," Indy said dryly.

They had taken over two tables on either side of the door, and now one of the men was rapping on the table and chanting what sounded like czar.. . czar. . . czar.... The other chimed in: arf.. .arf.. .arf....

"What are they saying?"

"Tzara and Arp. Tristan Tzara is a poet. Jean Arp is an artist. I heard they were going to be here tonight."

"So it's going to be a Dada sort of evening," Indy said unenthusiastically.

Shannon knocked back the rest of his drink. "They're really not a bad bunch. Just sort of abrasive sometimes toward anyone they see as standing for traditional ways."

"Toward anyone who walks in the door," Indy remarked. "They rub me the wrong way."

"They're making a break, Indy. We need people like that to wake us up sometimes."

"I agree, but they're as dependent on traditions as anyone. Maybe more so."

"How can you say that?"

"Where would they be without tradition, Jack? If there were no traditions, there would be no basis for nontraditional art."

Shannon grinned, shook his head. "Yeah, I guess so. But like I said, we need people who show us a way of breaking the old molds. If we don't do something different soon, we'll blow ourselves up in another war."

"You're making a break, Jack, but I bet you don't spit on priests and nuns. How's that sort of behavior going to stop us from making wars?"

"Indy, they spat on their own friends. It was an event, you know. They were just dressed like nuns and priests." Shannon stood up. "So you staying around?"

"Just for the first set."

"Listen, you serious about Greece?"

"I don't know, Jack. I've gotta think about it."

He punched Indy on the shoulder. "I've got the feeling

you're going."

The club was crowded by the time the band was mid way through the set. Indy emptied his second glass of Pernod just as a solo by Shannon came to a close. The green, licorice-tasting drink was taking its effect, and he felt like walking. He debated whether he'd go over to the bar for one more drink or leave right away.

He pulled on his leather jacket, and looked for his hat. He peered under the table and on the other chairs.

Finally, he reached up and felt it on his head. Yeah, it was definitely time to leave. He stood up and looked toward the stage. Shannon was pattering about the next song.

"I first heard this tune in a place called Dreamland in the Windy City," he said as Indy threaded his way through the tables. The song's by Freddie Keppard's band. Kep doesn't record his music. Says he's afraid people will steal his tunes. He's right because I remembered this one. It goes something like this."

As the song began and Indy headed toward the door, the dadaists looked him over. "Hey, where'd you get that jacket?" one of them called out. "You going on a bombing mission?"

Everyone at the two tables started chanting: Arp, Arp, Arp, Arp. Like a pack of seals, Indy thought. A real swell

bunch.

"You got something against our German brothers?" an other shouted in Indy's face.

"Save it for an old lady or a nun," he snapped, and moved on. As he reached for the door, something hit him in the back; alcohol splattered his neck. He stopped and turned.

"That's for the Red Baron's mother, ace," a bespectacled man yelled from the table on his left.

"Tzara, Tzara, Tzara, Tzara," the crowd shouted in cadence.

Indy stepped over to the man, jerked the chair out from under him, then grabbed the edge of the table and stood it on end. Drinks crashed to the floor. The wine bottle with the candle in it shattered. The flame hissed for a moment, then went out.

Suddenly, the music stopped and everyone in the club turned to see what was going on. No one moved or said a word for a long moment, then a voice boomed from the stage.

"That's my friend, Indiana Jones, all the way from Chicago," Shannon said. "He turned over a table on the South Side one night, but that was his own table. I think he was looking for his hat."

"What an asshole," someone said.

"Hey, do our table, man."

Indy started backing toward the door, but Shannon wasn't finished. "Then another time, this is a true story, he hung George Washington, the first president of the United States, and three of his friends from lampposts at the University of Chicago. Imagine that. A real traditional sort of guy. Well, he had his reasons. But watch out for him next Bastille Day."

Indy smiled, tipped his hat toward the stage, and left the Jungle. As he walked down the street, he felt the dampness on his neck and hair chilling him. But he ignored it. It was his own fault. Why had he let the bastards get the better of him? He could've just ignored them and left. Instead, he'd played their game with them, and they'd got just what they wanted—a reaction.

He wandered aimlessly around the Latin Quarter, his thoughts drifting from dadaists to his impending decision.

Maybe it was time for him to leave Paris. He needed a change; he needed something.

He passed a theater with a marquee advertising several serials from The Perils of Pauline. He slowed, and glanced at the poster in the front window, which showed a blonde hanging by her fingertips from a cliff. He smiled. He'd grown up on that stuff. Pauline never failed to get herself in a bad fix. If she wasn't dangling from an airplane or facing a roaring locomotive, she was trapped in a snake pit, sinking in quicksand, or chained in a dungeon. He looked at another window displaying coming attractions: The Death Ray, The Poisoned Room and The Blood Crys tals. He would be gone before the serials arrived, he thought. He moved on. Now he knew he was leaving.

He walked for nearly an hour and finally found himself back in Montparnasse and outside a neighborhood dance hall. He knew he'd stopped here because this was Madelaine's favorite bal musette, and one of the first to move from the Luxembourg district. Soon, no doubt, they would all be located in the Latin Quarter. Popular trends, it seemed, always followed the artists by a few years, and the bohemian crowd was well ensconced here, just as the Impressionists of the last century had been in the Montmartre district.

Inside, dancers were fox-trotting to an accordion player and a violinist. The crowd was young, and well behaved compared to the Jungle or any of the boites. Once on the dance floor, the men never even spoke to the women they asked to dance. It was considered uncouth. In some ways, things hadn't changed much since the days of the minuet.

"Indy, I haven't seen you for ages. How are you?" Madelaine said in her high squeaky voice. He turned and she planted a light kiss on his cheek. She was as vibrant and bright-eyed as ever. Her short, bobbed hair curled around her sharply sculptured face, softening it.

"I'm okay. How about you?" He cursed himself for not noticing her first. He hadn't really expected to see her and didn't particularly want to talk to her. But now he didn't have a choice.

"I'm wonderful, and it's a wonderful night." She tilted her head, listening to the music as a new song began. "Do you want to dance? We can do the java to this one." Her hand slid down his arm and gripped his fingers. She took a couple of steps and her body swayed in front of him.

"No thanks. I'm not up to dancing tonight." Madelaine was her usual exuberant self, the life of the party, and acting as if nothing had come between them.

"You're no fun, Indy," she pouted.

"I'm going to Greece," he blurted, as though his pend ing trip would make him more interesting to her, worthy of her attention.

"What? Greece? How splendid. Can you take me along? I'd love to see Greece."

Short memory, he thought. "I seem to remember your saying you didn't want to see me again because you thought we were getting too serious. You wanted to be free, I think that's the way you put it."

"Well, I am free. We don't have to get married to see Greece, do we?"

"It's an archaeology field trip to Delphi. I'll be working and I can't take anyone with me."

"Oh, so you need to be free!"

Indy grinned. "You got it."

"Madelaine, there you are," a man called out as he approached them. He glanced at Indy. "Jonesy, what a surprise. Give up on the dead languages for the night?" Then he looked at Madelaine again. "We going to dance, love?"

Indy knew the handsome, young British man as Brent, one of Madelaine's acquaintances. Like her, he seemed to do nothing but float from dance hall to dance hall, cafe to cafe with the same crowd. There were more like him in the

Latin Quarter every day. If given a choice of spending the evening with Brent and his crowd or being abused by the dadaists, Indy would be hard pressed to choose.

"Brent, guess what, Indy's going to Greece, to a place called Delphi, and he won't take me with him." Her voice squeaked to a new high.

Brent shrugged. "I'll take you to Greece any time you want, darling. Paris is getting so dreadfully boring.

But let's dance right now. My legs won't stop moving."

With that, Madelaine was swept away onto the dance floor. She turned once, waved and laughed, then vanished into the crowd.

Indy felt sick. Why hadn't he just left his past alone? Now more than ever he was anxious to move into the future. "Good-bye, Madelaine," he said without regret, and turned away.

5

Encounters

It was almost noon as Indy pulled on his sneakers and jacket. Normally on a Saturday he would take a book and walk down to the corner for a lunch at the Deux-Magots. But today he was going to stroll over to Le Dome, the cafe where Dorian Belecamus had suggested they meet. She would answer any of his questions, and he would make a decision. It sounded simple. But somehow, he had the feeling that it wasn't going to be simple at all.

He picked his fedora off a hook on the wall. Under it was a coiled bullwhip, the only decorative item in his two-room abode. The apartment was located above a bakery on the rue Bonaparte, a few blocks from the Sorbonne. One room was a tiny kitchen with an icebox, a gas stove, and a cupboard. In the other was a mattress and box spring on the floor, a wooden table with two chairs, and a low bookcase with books strewn on and around it. He had lived in the apartment for two years, and the place looked virtually the same as when he arrived.

He inhaled deeply as he descended the stairs, but the tantalizing smell of fresh bakery goods was faint.

Usually, when he left for classes, the smell was so overpowering he stopped for a couple of croissants, which he ate en route to the university. This morning, however, he'd slept late after staying up until three, finishing a new novel called Ulysses.

After he closed the seven-hundred-thirty-page tome and fell asleep, he dreamed of Madelaine and Belecamus, but both women were in Dublin and, not surprisingly, had the same quirks and concerns as James Joyce's Molly Bloom.

As he headed toward Montparnasse, his thoughts returned to the decision he had to make in the next couple of hours. Last night he thought he had made up his mind, but now he wasn't so sure. Of course Greece was an opportunity. But was it practical? Even though he'd get field-work credit for the archaeology course, he'd still have to retake his other courses. In a sense, he would be penalized.

Besides, what was the purpose? Did he really have an interest in pursuing an archaeology career? Or was he just intrigued by Dorian Belecamus? The fact was he had an interest in both, but he doubted that either was a long-term pursuit for him. He'd already taken two years of graduate school in linguistics. How many more would he need to qualify as an archaeologist? It didn't make sense.

When he arrived at Le Dome, he looked around the terrace. In spite of the brisk fall weather, a few tables were occupied, probably by tourists who had heard the French always ate on sidewalks. To accommodate them, glowing coals in a large brasero warmed the air, at least in one corner. Outdoor cafes were fine with him, but only when the weather was moderate.

He stepped inside the cafe and scanned the tables. He was a few minutes early and apparently had arrived ahead of Belecamus. His eyes settled on a man in a tweed coat who was seated at a table by himself.

There was a book to one side of him, and he held a pencil in his hand above a pad of paper. He looked familiar, and now he was staring intently at Indy.

He met his gaze, glanced away, then looked back at him. The man was rising from the table, moving toward him, threading his way through the crowded tables. Who was he, a writer he had met? Probably looking for a sucker to buy him a drink. He was approaching the wrong guy.

"Henry Jones, my God. How are you?"

Indy stared at him for a moment before his face fell into place. "Professor Conrad. What're you doing here?"

Conrad laughed. "Come over, have a seat. It's a long story."

Indy looked around once more for Belecamus, then followed Conrad to his table. "I'm meeting someone for lunch, but she isn't here yet."

"Wait here until she arrives. Or better yet, why don't you both join me?"

As Indy sat down, the waiter appeared and they ordered cups of cafe au lait. His old history professor hadn't changed much in two years. His sandy hair was still combed the same way, his blue eyes remained vibrant and alive, and his mustache still drooped over the sides of his lips. But he seemed less formal somehow, looser, more relaxed, as if he'd found something in Paris that had eluded him in the States.

"It's good to see you," Indy said. "Quite a surprise."

"You know, I've thought about you more than once since you graduated."

Considering the situation the last time he'd seen Conrad, he didn't know whether that was a compliment or not. "So why aren't you teaching?"

"Mulhouse refused to give me tenure, and this past summer my contract wasn't renewed."

"Why not? You're a great teacher. Probably the best I had at the university."

"Thanks, Jones." He combed his fingers back through his hair. "Mulhouse never gave me a reason." He shrugged. "He wasn't required to. But the scuttlebutt was that he wanted me out ever since that fiasco over Founding Fa thers Day."

No wonder the man had been thinking about him. "I'm

sorry. I guess my silly prank had more repercussions than I'd imagined."

"It's not your fault." He smiled and leaned forward. "Ever since then, I made a point of mentioning your particular way of celebrating the day to my classes. I always related the story in a humorous vein, and apparently Mulhouse heard about it."

"So how long have you been here?"

"Just a few days. I'm writing a novel that takes place in Paris during the revolution."

"This is the city for writers. Seems like there's a novelist or two in every cafe."

"I know. I saw Booth Tarkington the other day. Talked to him for a bit." He tapped the book on the table.

"Had to pick up one of his books after that. Seventeen. Have you read it?"

"A few years ago." It was about an American boy confronting adolescence; that was all he recalled, except that the kid had a younger sister who ate bread with applesauce. "I've seen James Joyce in here."

"You have?" Conrad looked around as if expecting to see the Irish author. Then his eyes settled on someone approaching the table.

"Henry Jones. There you are." Indy turned and saw Dorian Belecamus strolling up to the table. She wore a blue robe and a white turban. Like Conrad, she'd stepped out of her professorial character. Both men rose to their feet, and Indy introduced the two professors.

"And you can both call me Indy, instead of Henry. That's my father's name."

Belecamus seemed annoyed; she looked about the cafe as if in search of another table.

"It seems the place is full," Conrad said stiffly, reacting to her obvious unease. "You're welcome to join me for lunch."

"Oh, I don't want to intrude," she replied.

"It won't be an intrusion."

Realizing there were no other options, she nodded and took a seat. Indy led the conversation, telling Belecamus about Conrad's history course, and the reason he'd lost his job. At first, Belecamus seemed indifferent, but as Conrad filled in details about the hanging heroes episode her interest peaked. She glanced several times at Indy, and asked a couple of pointed questions about the university's reaction and how he dealt with it.

When the waiter walked over, Indy and Belecamus both ordered fresh oysters and pommes frites, and Conrad ordered another cafe au lait.

"In Greece, there would have been no question about it," Belecamus said when the waiter walked away.

"You would go to jail if you hung an effigy of any of our leaders. Weren't you concerned about the possible repercussions?"

"Not when it was happening. Only afterward."

She shook her head. "Then why did you do it?"

"I wanted to make a point."

"But you also got a thrill from it, didn't you?"

He shrugged. "I suppose." He'd never really put it into words, but that was exactly how it had been for him.

She laughed. It was a full, throaty sound, delightful. "You have a reckless streak in you. A bit of a rebel."

She sat back in her chair. "Indy." The word seemed to roll off her tongue like music. "I never heard such a name, but I like it. And you can call me Dorian."

Her hand brushed his as she sat forward again, a quick, deliberate touch that he felt all the way to his toes, like a mild electrical shock. It wasn't just the touch itself, but the realization that Lady Ice wasn't quite as impenetrable as he had believed.

Conrad glanced inquisitively between the two of them, but didn't comment. Indy still hadn't said anything about the impending trip to Greece, and Conrad was undoubtedly puzzled about their relationship. He told him about her offer.

"Delphi. Sounds fascinating." He nodded thoughtfully. "So are you taking the professor up on it?"

"I haven't really decided."

"Why not?" Belecamus asked.

"My field is linguistics, not archaeology. I'd be wasting a semester. I don't know. I'm not sure what I want to do."

She averted her eyes and gazed toward the door as though she wished she weren't there anymore. "You Ameri cans," she said with a sigh. "You're a colony here. Writers, artists, students. You're fortunate. You can live in a foreign country and be right at home with your own compatriots. And yet all you do—most of you—is complain. You're just an unhappy bunch, lost in a sea of culture."

There was no rancor in her voice; she was just stating the facts as she saw them.

Indy started to disagree, but the waiter appeared with their meals. They ate in silence for a while, a silence that wasn't entirely comfortable. Finally, Belecamus popped an oyster in her mouth, and pointed her fork at Indy. "You say you're interested in archaeology and have been since you were a boy. So why're you studying linguistics?"

"My father taught me languages early. Languages and myths. Some weeks he would only speak French to me, and other weeks it was Spanish or German. I was studying Latin an hour a day after school when I was nine. I knew the Greek myths by the time I was ten. He always said he was preparing me for a career as a scholar, a linguistics scholar."

She sighed and shook her head. "That was your father. What about you? What do you want to do?"

The way she said that bothered him, but only because it mirrored his own feelings. "Something exciting. I guess I just don't like the idea of spending the rest of my life in libraries, poring over manuscripts of dead languages."

"Then why don't you switch to archaeology?" Conrad asked. "You'll get more variety."

"I don't particularly want to be a student my whole life, either."

Belecamus pushed her plate to the side. "Look, Indy, if the tablet that has been discovered at Delphi is important, and I have the feeling it is, you'll be able to use it as the basis for your Ph.D. With your background, I'd say you can have your doctorate easily in two years. One year of intense study, then your thesis, and you'll be an archaeolo gist. If it doesn't work out, you fall back on linguistics."

That last part didn't appeal to him. If he made a commitment to archaeology, he would stick with it. No falling back. "What if the tablet isn't what you think?"

"Then you choose something else for your thesis," she answered brusquely.

"Don't worry, Indy," Conrad said, "If you really want it, you'll find what you need."

"All right, I'll do it." There. Quick, Simple.

Belecamus smiled. "Good. I thought you would. We're leaving for Athens tomorrow afternoon. Be at my office at one o'clock. Now I must go." She held out a hand to Conrad. "Nice meeting you, and good luck with your writing."

A moment later, the door to the cafe closed behind her. Indy glanced at Conrad. "So what do you think?"

"I think archaeology is something you'll enjoy, and you'll do very well at it."

"What about Professor Belecamus?"

Conrad threaded and unthreaded his fingers. His reply was slow and measured. "I don't know what it is about her, Indy, but I'd be careful. I guess my sense of her is that she is saying one thing, and thinking another."

"You think I should turn down the offer?"

"I didn't say that. It's just that I sense there's more involved than she's telling."

6

On the Rails

The train rumbled along, rolling through the open countryside of southern Italy. Dorian Belecamus gazed out the window toward the shadowy hills that loomed against the plum-colored horizon. The last of the light tipped them in gold, creating a kind of magic about them. But it wasn't the magic of Greece, she thought. Her homeland was a landscape of dramatic contrasts: bleached white houses that dotted the shores of a sea so blue it made her heart ache, mountains the color of ripened grapes, skies burned by the sun.

Soon, she thought. Her self-imposed exile was almost over. By morning they would arrive in Brindisi, where they would take a ship to the port of Piraeus. From there, they would go overland to Athens, and she would be home.

She turned away from the window, reached up, and switched on the reading light on her side of their private compartment. Across from her, Jones was slumped on his left side, his fedora pulled low over his brow.

She smiled as she watched him. No doubt about it, she thought. He was going to prove helpful. He was just what they needed, bright and quick, but not so bright or quick that he would present a danger to them.

The quake was a

perfect excuse. She and Jones would work at the ruins until the arrangements were made, and the trap set.

She heard a creaking noise; the door had moved. She hadn't closed it tightly, and thought it must be the rush of air down the corridor as someone passed by. But a shadow fell across the crack in the door and she realized someone was standing just outside.

She waited, expecting to hear a tap, and to hear the conductor tell her that dinner was being served.

"Who is it?" she demanded when there was no tap.

She took two steps to the door and pulled it open. No one was there. She peered down the aisle and saw a man in a black suit push his way through the doorway to the next car. She glanced back at Jones, saw he was still asleep, then hurried after the man in the suit.

The next car was second class; rows and rows of passen gers were reading or resting. No one was in the aisle. He must have sat down. She moved forward, looking at each passenger. She saw a man dressed in black, talking softly to a young girl. A newspaper was spread across his lap and it seemed doubtful that he'd just sat down.

Two rows further, she saw another man dressed in black. He was sleeping. Or did he just look like he was sleeping? He was an elderly man. His breathing was deep and even; his mouth hung open and a spicule of saliva glistened on his lower lip.

She continued down the aisle, where she counted four more men in black. It was useless, and what would she say if she confronted one of them? She would demand to know why he was looking in her compartment; he would deny it, and that would be that.

Then she glimpsed the top of a blond man's head; his face was buried behind an issue of Punch. He wore a white shirt and tie. It was Farnsworth, of course. She should have guessed. He must have taken off his black

coat, but the fool gave himself away with his English magazine.

She abruptly turned, and retreated from the car. Farnsworth had been following her around campus for the past month. After she'd noticed him and was sure he was watching her, she'd hired an investigator to find out who he was. When she'd found out his name, it was all she needed to know.

Quietly, she slipped back into the compartment. After checking to see that Jones was still asleep, she settled into her seat again and opened a book on her lap. She looked down at it, but she wasn't reading. Her thoughts drifted from Farnsworth to the two most important men in her life, her father and Alex Mandraki.

The things she did for Alex. She didn't love him, but she felt committed to him. She knew, though, that what ever she did for him, she also did for her father. It was he, after all, who had introduced her to Alex, and the middle-aged colonel's future was closely tied to her father's des tiny as well as her own. What her father didn't know was that she and Alex were planning on rushing forward into that future. And why not? There was no sense waiting for the inevitable.

But first she had to deal with Farnsworth. He was a trivial matter in the larger scheme, but needed to be handled swiftly and deftly. The train was the ideal place for it. After all, she'd confronted him once and told him to leave her alone. But he'd ignored her warning, and now she could no longer afford the annoyance. If she was going to act, she should do it before she was back in Greece, before Alex found out. It was her problem, after all, not his.

She reached up into the storage compartment above her seat, unstrapped a canvas shoulder bag, and rummaged through her trowels and brushes, the tools of her trade. When her fingers brushed the smooth, cold steel of her

favorite hand pick, she smiled. It felt good in hand again. She quickly removed it, and stuffed it in her purse.

Jones was stirring in his sleep as she sat down again. She hooked her foot under his calf, lifted it, let it go.

His head jerked. He glanced around, confused, still drugged with sleep, then saw her and smiled.

"Guess I drifted off. What time is it?"

"Almost time for dinner. You've been asleep for more than an hour. Should we go for a cocktail?"

He laid a hand on the stack of books at his side. "I was hoping to work a little more before dinner, but I suppose it can wait."

Indy had brought along a small library on Greek archae ology. His excitement about the prospect of working at Delphi was tempered somewhat by his insecurity about his abilities. It was a quality she intended to use to her own benefit.

When they reached the dining car, they found an empty table. Jones ordered a beer, and Dorian, who normally drank sparingly, asked for a French seventy-five. She would need it for later.

"What kind of drink is that?" Jones asked.

"Champagne and vodka. It's named after a French cannon used in the war."

"Must have quite a kick."

She laughed. "It does at that." She tapped her fingers on the table, scrutinizing him covertly. He seemed ner vous, as though he had something to say, but wasn't sure where or how to begin.

"Dr. Belecamus?"

She leaned slightly forward. "Please, don't call me Doctor."

"Dorian." He spoke her name as though testing its sound, savoring its taste. But he didn't say anything more. She sensed he wanted to ask why she had chosen him to accompany her, because he didn't accept her explanation that he was her best student. There were many students in other courses who had far more experience academical ly and in the field and they both knew it.

"Go ahead. What is it?"

"It's nothing."

"Look, Indy, we're going to be working together for some time, maybe weeks. So it's important for us to be open with each other."

"Open. Yes." He repeated the words with the slow, measured speech of someone who didn't speak the lan guage. "I guess I was wondering what, exactly, you want me to do in Delphi."

Dorian smiled, reached across the table, and touched his hand. "There'll be plenty to do. Don't worry about that. You'll be working and learning. It should be quite an experience."

Though he nodded, he was still uncomfortable. Her gesture had obviously surprised him, as she had known it would. He was definitely going to be easy, she thought. No trouble at all. As compliant as a kitten.

Her choice had been an excellent one.

"What I'm trying to say is that I know I don't have experience, but I don't want to do just menial work," he went on. "I mean, I'd like the chance to do something significant."

So that was it. He wanted to be in the center of things. She slowly ran her fingers over the back of his hand. He swallowed and shifted in his chair. His skin flushed. He was staring at her hand. "You'll have that opportunity." In more ways than you realize.

Her fingers trailed away from his hand. "In fact, I want you to be the first one to examine the script on the tablet when we bring it up from the crevice. You can put your knowledge of ancient Greek to use."

"Suppose it's not Old Greek, but Linear B?"

Dorian laughed and shook her head. Linear B was the name of the script on tablets found during excavations at

Knossos on Crete in 1899. No one yet had been able to crack the code. "You've been reading too much. The chances of a Linear B tablet being found at Delphi are minute. Don't worry about it."

She finished her drink in several swallows, and noted the surprise on Jones' face. She laughed softly.

"What's wrong? Did you think I don't drink, that I never relax or have any fun?"

Jones sipped his beer. "Sometimes, I'm not quite sure what to think of you."

She smiled at him and gazed into his eyes. "Well, I will tell you what I think about you. You not only have intelligence and potential, but you are a very handsome man. I'll admit that if you were an ugly brute I probably wouldn't have asked you along."

The perplexity in his expression amused her. He's prob ably never heard a woman speak so bluntly before, she thought. "So what do you think of me?" She slipped her foot out of her shoe and poked Indy's leg with her toe. "And be honest."

He seemed flustered. "I've never really met a woman like you. I guess you're part of the new women's revolution."

"No. I'm an exception to it."

He looked more perplexed than ever. He no doubt had expected her to agree with him and say that they were in the twenties now. Women were changing, and were no longer willing to be cinctured in dress or spirit. But she had her own ideas about revolution.

"Women are rebelling, Indy, but only in superficial ways—smoking cigarettes in public, getting their hair bobbed. That's not a revolution."

"Well, it's a start."

"The problem with most women, especially the ones your age, is that they refuse to deal with men openly and intellectually. Instead, they prefer subterfuge, intrigue, and sex."

"I guess I never really thought of it that way." "Well, I have, and I understand it. Most men aren't ready to deal with women on equal terms. Men don't have to use either subterfuge or intrigue to get their way with women." She reached out and pinched his chest. "They do it right out in the open."

"Most women ask for it. They tease men." She burst out laughing. "See what I mean? Women ask for it, so anything goes. Women are supposed to be the weaker sex, but let me tell you something. Secretly, most men fear and hate women."

He shook his head, and grinned. "Not me. I'm not afraid of women and I definitely don't hate them. That's the problem ... I love women."

By the time their dinner arrived, Indy was filled with expectations. In spite of her dire comments on men, he was sure Dorian would invite him to her berth tonight and he couldn't help but imagine what it would be like with her. He thought of running his hands through her long dark hair, of touching her face, her shoulders, of reading her entire body like a blind man learning braille. He'd never met anyone like her. Never.

"Would you like some dessert?" she asked as they finished their meals.

"Maybe some Italian ice cream."

"Spumoni, of course. I'll go find the waiter. The service is terribly slow."

"No, that's all right, Dorian," he said, but she was already out of her chair and heading down the aisle.

He turned, glancing after her, and saw her pause and lean toward a table where a man was seated by himself. Their eyes locked momentarily, and something flickered between them, something Indy couldn't decipher. Then the man looked away, his eyes flitting about like insects, shoulders twitching nervously. He was about thirty, fair-haired and slightly overweight. As Dorian disappeared into the next car, the stranger rose to his feet and followed her.

Indy's gaze trailed after him. What the hell was going on? He was tempted to get up and follow them, but decided against it. It was none of his business.

A couple of minutes later, two dishes of ice cream arrived. Indy stared at the multicolored scoop in the dish in front of him. He waited a while longer until the edges of the ice cream started to melt. He quartered it with his spoon, tasted it. What's taking her so long? What are they doing? He glanced over his shoulder, then turned back to his dish. Slowly, spoonful by spoonful, he consumed his serving. When he finished, he laid his spoon aside.

Time to take a look around.

He rose from his chair and walked quickly down the aisle of the dining car. The next one, which was the last car of the train, was a bar. It was crowded, but Dorian was nowhere in sight. Neither was the man who had followed her.

He described Dorian to the bartender and asked if he'd seen her. "No," the bartender said with a shake of his head. "Sorry."

"But I saw her walk in here. Just a few minutes ago, and she hasn't left."

He pointed to the far end of the car. "Maybe she went outside."

Outside? He moved through the crowd to the end of the car, and opened the door. The sweet evening air rushed around him, a scent of countryside and purple skies. He stepped out onto the iron balcony and saw Dorian stand ing at the railing, smoking a cigarette. For a moment or two, she seemed unaware of his presence. She was as motionless and lovely as a statue in profile, the wind blowing her hair away from her face, one arm crossed at

her waist, the other propped against it, holding a ciga rette. Then she turned, saw him, and smiled.

"Did you get your ice cream?"

Cool and possessed, he thought, and for a moment 'ice cream' turned to ice queen in his mind. He nodded, then gestured toward her cigarette. "I didn't know you smoked."

She tossed the cigarette over the railing and fixed her hands at his waist. "I probably do a lot of things you don't know about."

Indy touched her face and kissed her, a slow, almost hesitant kiss. Her mouth tasted sweet, of exotic fruit, exotic wine, exotic everything. He ran his hands through her raven hair, loving the thickness, the softness, and then she stepped back from him, her mouth still close to his, and whispered, "My ice cream is melting."

"I bet it is."

As he followed her back through the bar into the dining car, it occurred to him that he hadn't seen the blond man, and now the table where he'd sat was empty. A disappearing act.

Maybe he'd imagined the whole thing. Maybe Dorian had stopped to pull up a stocking, and the man had been embarrassed when she'd caught him looking at her. He hadn't followed her, but had gone to the bathroom. By now he'd returned to his seat in one of the passenger cars.

Of course. That must be it.

7

Intrigue in Athens

The sun was low by the time they reached the Acropo lis, and the city was hidden in a copper haze. But from where they stood, high above Athens, the slanting rays bronzed the magnificent Doric columns of the Parthenon, and Indy gazed in awe.

"I grew up thinking Greece was a legend."

Dorian laughed. "I think I hear echoes of your father."

"His bedtime stories were about the feats of Zeus, Heracles, Poseidon, Hermes, and all the others.

Medusa, the Gorgons, Jason and the Argonauts. I heard about them all."

"Well, that sounds like a wonderful childhood," she said, hooking her arm through his.

Yeah, real swell, he thought, but he didn't disagree with her. Not now. He took in a deep breath, as if the magical air surrounding this bastion could somehow preserve the moment.

"What do you think is the single most amazing thing about the Acropolis?" she asked.

He thought back to her lectures, but drew a blank and shook his head.

"That any of it still exists," she said and explained. The Turks stored ammunition in a building called the Propy laea and one day in 1645 it exploded. Forty-two years

later, the Venetians blew up the Parthenon. The only reason it still remained was that early nineteenth-century archaeologists restored it to what they believed had been its appearance in the fifth century B.C.

"Now you sound like the professor again." He smiled as he said it just to show her he didn't mean it as a criticism. "This must be a very special place for you."

"It is, of course, but actually my favorite place in Athens is the Tower of the Winds in the Roman Agora, especially at dawn."

"I'll have to see it sometime." Indy gazed over the city below them in the fading light. "Great place to be an archaeologist. All the best ruins are right in your backyard."

He expected her to laugh. She didn't. "Archaeology grew up around this country just as European civilization did."

They moved from the massive columns of the Parthenon and walked over to the Erechtheum, the only other sur viving building. "So why do you teach in Paris? I'd think you'd prefer to be here."

"That's complicated. You have to understand that we Greek archaeologists tend to favor the aesthetic aspects of the science. Rather than dirtying ourselves in pits looking for pottery fragments, most of us prefer to study the great works of ancient sculpture. In fact, the chairman of ar chaeology in all our major universities is actually the chairman of the history of sculpture."

"Really? Why is that?"

"It's a way of compensating for the fact that we are economically and socially behind the northern countries which drew on our legacy. We've only been independent for ninety years, you know, after four centuries of foreign domination. So by focusing on the aesthetic aspects of archaeology, we ever so slightly elevate our present culture."

"You agree with that approach?"

"No, but I understand it. I teach in Paris because it's easier to take a broader approach to the field."

They stopped in front of the Erechtheum and examined the Caryatids, a series of stone maidens who served as pillars on the building's southern porch. The last rays of the sun danced across the faces of the stone goddesses; behind them, light and shadow eddied across the porch. For an instant, Indy thought he saw someone standing near the base of one of the statues.

"You remind me a bit of another student," she said, speaking in such a soft voice that Indy almost thought she was talking to herself. "He was from England. When he came here, he had no sense of our recent history. He knew that Lord Byron died at Missolonghi. That was it."

She was quiet a moment and Indy waited for her to continue. "We should get going," she finally said.

The first lights winked on in the dusky haze over the city. Indy nodded, but his attention was drawn back to the Erechtheum. He peered, as best he could, into the inner recesses of the porch. The light shifted, the glare vanished, and now he could see the porch clearly. There was some one there. No, two people, two men, and they were peering out at them.

"That's odd."

"What?" Dorian asked.

"There're two guys up by the Caryatids watching us."

Dorian swung around as if he'd stabbed her in the back. "I don't see anyone."

"They moved back now."

Dorian took hold of his arm. "Come on."

He didn't know what the hurry was, but he followed her back toward the Parthenon. Below it was a path leading to the road where horses and buggies waited. In Athens, there was a mix of carriages and automobiles, whereas in Paris autos prevailed and horses were a rarity. It was as if Athens couldn't quite decide whether to join the twentieth century.

Dorian tugged on his arm again. "Indy, they're coming after us."

He glanced back. The two men were moving toward the Parthenon, one a few yards ahead of the other.

"Why do you think they're after us? They're probably just a couple of tourists."

"Look again." The men had closed the gap. They weren't quite running, but they weren't bothering to disguise the fact that they were in a hurry.

"Let's wait. They're probably not interested in us at all."

Dorian grabbed him by the arm. "Don't be a fool. Run."

They charged forward, hurrying over the rocky escarp ment. Indy felt foolish; he still doubted the men were chasing them. He stumbled and almost pulled Dorian down on top of him. A white-hot pain shot through his ankle.

"Damn it."

"Hurry," Dorian hissed. He winced as he pushed off the ground and hobbled after her.

The shadows had turned a deep purple, making it more difficult to see. They scraped their arms on the heavy thicket as they descended the path, his ankle throbbed and screamed with every step. He kept glancing back, but couldn't see anyone pursuing them.

The ruins were nearly empty and a lone carriage waited at the bottom of the path for stragglers. Dorian rushed over to it, waving her arms at the driver. The man calmly opened the door for her; Indy reeled across the road, limping as he ran.

"You all right, sir?" the driver asked.

"Fine. Let's go."

As the carriage pulled away, Indy glanced out the win dow into the dusky night. He glimpsed the men just as they reached the road. They stopped, and stared after the carriage as it pulled away.

"They were probably just after the last carriage, not us," he said.

She didn't answer.

Dorian's house was located on a hill in an old neighbor hood called Monastiraki, where at any time of the day you could look up and see the Acropolis hovering in the sky like a temple of gods. The house was quaint in appearance, with pilasters at the corners, a tile roof edged with terra-cotta goddesses, and a small yard protected from the street by a wrought iron fence and an abundance of vegetation.

Not bad, Indy thought as they entered the house and he smelled dinner cooking. She'd come home after two years, and it was as if she'd never left. She had another life here that had continued despite her absence. Not only was dinner being prepared by the housekeeper, but a bubble bath awaited Dorian. While she bathed, Indy sat on the bed soaking his swollen ankle in a pail of cold water.

"Hey, Indy," Dorian called.

He looked at the bathroom door. "Yeah?"

"Bring your pail in here so we can talk."

Good idea, he thought. He did want to talk to her and, hey, why not do it while she bathed? A mischievous smile turned on his lips as he raised his foot from the pail. "How come I didn't think of that?"

He set his pail down next to the bathtub and sat on a chair draped with a towel. On the floor next to the tub was a bottle and a wine glass. Dorian held a half-full glass in her hand. "Help yourself to some retsina,"

she said as he lowered his foot into the pail.

"Thanks. What is it?"

"A wine made from pine sap."

"Pine sap?" He poured himself a glass, sipped it, and made a face.

Dorian laughed. "It grows on you. Believe me. It's very popular. Some people say too popular. You just have to be careful not to overindulge."

He took another sip; his eyes strayed from her face. The sight of her soaking among the bubbles with one leg stretched languidly over the side reminded him of their recent tryst. He saw them entwined in her berth on the train, their movements synchronized with the rattle of the rails below them. Their lovemaking seemed almost surreal now, not like a real memory at all. He still found it hard to believe how rapidly the Lady Ice of Paris had melted in his arms. Yet, here he was, casually watching as she bathed. Everything since then seemed like a blur to him. They'd left the train yesterday morning, and spent most of the day on the ferry. When they'd reached the port of Piraeus, they'd taken a taxi to Athens. They'd arrived exhausted, and had slept twelve hours.

Today, while Dorian had busied herself with details for the trip to Delphi, Indy had explored the city on his own. First, he'd dutifully spent the morning at the archaeology museum; later, he'd simply wandered around taking in the sights.

"So what do you think of Athens?" she asked. "I like it, but I can't stop comparing it to Paris." "And what have you concluded?" She stretched one of her legs, toes pointed toward the ceiling.

The texture of life was different here, he'd decided. The beauty of Paris was seen through the subtle changes in the quality of light. Here the light was harsher, brighter, a contrast to the craggy landscape.

"Greece is earthy, fertile; France is more intellectual, refined." "I agree."

Both cities were tied to the past, but the past affected each city in different ways. Paris thrived as a center of artistic culture, a creative offspring of past artistic triumphs. Here, even though the past was everywhere, the culture that had flowered was now dormant. Paris was a sculpture still being defined; Athens was a monument, and its people could only stand by and watch it slowly deteriorate. Yet, in spite of living in the shadows of their forebears, the Greeks still seemed to excel in spirit. He saw them as a gregarious, talkative people who openly expressed their emotions, whether joy, anger or sorrow. Most of the men were dark, curly-haired, and handsome. They smoked black tobacco and drank endless cups of coffee while they absently fingered beads made of amber or silver. The women, however, seemed resigned to domestic drudgeries and many wore black dresses, as though they were in permanent mourning.

He tried his best to explain his thoughts, but Dorian no longer seemed interested. "Indy, I want to tell you why I thought those men at the ruins were after us." "Good. I'd like to hear about it." "First, I should tell you a bit about my family," she said, arching her back as she washed the base of her neck, and the rosy tips of her breasts pushed through the bubbles.

"Your family?" It was difficult to concentrate on what she was saying.

"Yes. My family. You see, Greek peasant girls don't become archaeologists. My father is a shipbuilder, and a large landholder. We even own a couple of islands." "Entire islands?" She laughed. "Not large islands." "He lives here in Athens?"

"He has an estate here, and houses in Rome and London. He's living in Rome right now, and he can't come home."

"Why not?"

"Politics." She uttered the word like a curse. "After Greece won her independence, there was no more nobili ty left, so those families who became involved in politics were the ones who became wealthy." "That sounds pretty typical."

"Anyway, when the king decided to invade Turkey last year, my father took exception. He knew that it would end disastrously. And for speaking the truth, he was exiled."

The bitterness in her voice was reflected in the tightness of her features. "And is still in exile."

Indy knew that the results of the war with Turkey were exactly what she said. As he understood it, Greece had invaded its neighbor with the hopes of freeing Greeks living outside of Greece. Now the city was flooded with refugees, who had been forced from their homes in the conflict, and the loss of life had been extraordinary. "I guess the invasion didn't solve anything, " he said.

"What happened was a horrible mistake. We sent a hundred thousand men and they're still being butchered."

Indy nodded, unsure of what to say. He sipped his retsina and watched her.

"You'd think we would have learned from the Great War. We suffered terribly in our support of Britain and France. The Greek people are tired of fighting, and now we are at it again."

"But what does this have to do with those two men at the Acropolis?"

She rolled the stem of her glass between her fingers, gathering her thoughts. "My father warned me not to come back until things settled down. He said it would be dangerous."

"So you think they work for the king?"

"Possibly."

"Why don't they just stop you from working at the ruins?" he asked.

"The king could certainly block me from returning to Delphi, but he is not a fool. Delphi is a national treasure, and it would look bad for him if he refused to allow me to go back, especially now after the earthquake."

"So you think they're dealing with you covertly, watching you to see what you're doing?"

She handed Indy her empty glass, motioning for a refill. "If they were only watching me, I would not mind. But I believe the king's men, if not the king himself, would like to hurt my father, and if I were killed, they would succeed."

"What are you going to do?"

"Nothing. We're leaving for Delphi tomorrow morning as planned. I refuse to be intimidated."

Indy tipped the bottle, filling Dorian's glass and his own. He decided the retsina wasn't so bad after all.

He held out the glass to her, and watched as she soaped one of her thighs with a round sponge.

"Put the glasses down," she said, and slipped her hand around his neck.

"What are you doing?"

She pulled him to her, and retsina spilled on the floor and in the tub. "I think you need a bath." Her voice was husky, soft, laced with laughter. She wound her wet arms around his back, and he toppled over the side, splashing into the warm bath as Dorian's soft limbs wrapped around him.

"What about the maid?"

"Don't worry."

"And dinner?"

"It'll keep."

"I'm supposed to be the aggressive one," he sputtered, wiping his arm across his face as she tugged at his sopping clothes.

"You're too slow. Besides, you could use a few lessons."

"Okay, professor." He peeled off his wet shirt. "I guess I'm still your student."

8

Journey to Delphi

The room was dark when Dorian rose from bed. She pushed the curtain aside, and the faint gray light of predawn seeped into the room. It was after five; she had to hurry.

She moved silently across the room, glanced once at the covered form on the bed, then quickly pulled on a plaid skirt, a blouse, and a wool jersey. She was about to leave the bedroom when Jones stirred. She froze, staring at him, willing him to remain asleep. When she was certain he hadn't heard her, she turned and left.

At the side of the house, she lifted a bicycle and wheeled it across the yard. She opened the wrought iron gate, winced when it creaked, then climbed on the bicycle and pedaled off.

Three blocks from her house, Dorian veered left and coasted downhill. The morning air was cool, and she was glad she'd worn the sweater. Ahead of her, a distant, barely perceptible pink glow challenged the sullen grayness of the eastern horizon. She braked when she reached the bottom of the hill, turned right, and rode past Platia Monastirakiou. The square usually bustled with nut vendors, fruit stalls, and shoppers, but at this hour it was quiet. The tenth-century monastery church in the center of it looked gray and desolate, a lonely artifact of simpler times.

She passed the crumbling walls of Hadrian's Library and followed Eolou Street until she reached the Gate of Athena Archegetis, the entrance to the Roman Forum. Engraved on the surface of the pilaster that faced the Acropolis was an edict of Hadrian announcing the rules and taxes for the sale of oil. If Hadrian could see the place now, Dorian thought.

She walked her bicycle through the gate and into the ruins, passing ramshackle huts built atop the remains of the ancient public latrine. Thin filaments of smoke curled up from the doorways of a few of the huts, the first sign of the new morning. Throughout the ruins of the market place were makeshift homes built by some of the thou sands of refugees flooding the city. Another national disaster.

She continued on until she reached an octagonal tower where she laid the bike on its side. She wasn't sure why, but the Tower of the Winds fascinated her. It had been designed in the first century B.C. by a Syrian astronomer named Andronicos of Cyrrhos and served as compass, sundial, weather vane, and water clock powered by a stream. If the clock had still worked, she would have been able to tell that it was five-thirty by reading the level of water in the interior cylinder.

She turned her gaze upward. Each face of the tower was decorated with a relief of a mythical entity which personi fied one of the eight winds. Directly above her on the northwest side of the tower was a relief of Skiron, who held a vessel of charcoal. Next to it, Boreas, the North Wind, blew into a conch shell.

"I got your message," a voice said from behind her, and a hand touched her shoulder.

"You're here early." She dropped her gaze, and turned. In the pale light, Alex Mandraki was a dark, brooding figure, as mysterious as the mythical entities on the tower.

"Looking out for my interests." His hand strayed to her face, touching it lightly, as though he were uncertain of his right to do so. "You're a clever strategist, Dorian. You'd make a good man. A better one than most. Must be why I like you."

She brushed a hand against his cheek; his skin felt rough even though he had just shaved. "You only like me? I thought you loved me."

He grasped her hand. His features softened as much as was possible for a man whose very glance caused his men to quaver. "Of course I do, and I've missed you." He pulled her to him, and kissed her with a sudden urgency.

"I've missed you, too," she whispered, and drew back from him. "Was it horrible?"

"A slaughter. Beyond words. And there was nothing I could do to prevent it."

"All the more reason for what we must do."

He studied her for a moment, perhaps trying to read her thoughts by the intensity and sincerity of her eyes, her expression. "I know you have to become close to the Ameri can, but I hope you aren't taking your task too seriously."

She smiled at him for the first time. "Are you jealous, Alex?"

"No." He raked his fingers back through his short, kinky hair. "Not yet." He took her hand again. They started to walk. His hawk nose, silhouetted in the pale light, looked like a sharp, deadly beak. "Jealousy is like hatred: an emotion that wastes energy."

"You could say the same about making war."

"In the current situation," he said, referring to the invasion of Turkey, "I agree wholeheartedly. But we must never eliminate our army. We would be a weak, ineffec tive people. Greeks must never again be held in subjugation."

"You don't have to lecture to me, Alex, especially not at this hour of the morning."

"Something's bothering you. What is it?"

She told him about the trouble she had encountered on the train.

He nodded and spoke in a firm, even voice. "You did

the right thing. But I warned you that Farnsworth might be trouble. I should've placed someone on the train with you."

She smiled up at him. "I can handle myself quite well."

"So it seems. Then there is no problem."

"I'm not finished. I think there are two others working with Farnsworth." She told him about the men who had chased them at the Acropolis.

A frown burrowed deep between his dark eyes. He shook his head. "They sound like amateurs."

"Thank God. I was vulnerable. I didn't get a good look at either of them, but Jones did." She described the men as best she could.

"I'll see what I can find out, and I'll assign a guard to your truck."

"That's not necessary."

"Please, let me decide what is necessary for your pro tection." He smiled, and took her hand. "Now I want to tell you what I have in mind for Delphi."

When she pushed the bicycle toward the street a few minutes later, peach and pale yellow edged the sky.

The quiet of dawn was over, and the ancient forum was waking as people trickled out of the huts. It's going to be a long day, she thought.

Indy ran through the Acropolis, arms pumping at his sides, legs blurring beneath him, his breath coming in quick, sharp bursts. He could hear the men behind him, their shoes pounding the pavement, their shouts slapping the air. His head snapped around. They were rapidly closing in on him, but he couldn't run any faster; his legs wouldn't cooperate. Panic clawed at his throat.

One of the men suddenly lurched ahead of the other and slammed a bottle of retsina over his head. He knew it should have hurt, that a white-hot pain should have flashed through his skull. But the only thing he felt was an intense reverbera tion that echoed in his head and sounded like a horn.

"Wake up, Indy."

He opened his eyes and winced at the bright, cruel light. "Oh, God," he moaned. The blast of a horn outside their window hammered against the inside of his head. "What the hell's going on out there?"

"That's our ride to Delphi. Hurry up and get ready. But drink this first."

He sat up in bed, rubbed his face, and saw that Dorian was already dressed. She handed him a coffee as thick as syrup in a cup not much larger than a thimble.

"No ouzo in it, I hope." At dinner they had finished the retsina and after the meal had sampled another Greek invention, a liqueur that reminded Indy of the Pernod he drank on occasion in Paris. His head now pounded with the after effects of the combination.

"Not a drop. I promise."

He grimaced when the horn sounded again, but a few minutes later he was dressed and ready to leave. He reached under the bed for his bag, but couldn't feel it. He crouched lower, spotted the bag—and something else. He stretched his arm, patting the floor, and pulled out a boot. Its mate was behind it, and they looked like military issue.

"Indy, let's..." Dorian stopped in the doorway. "What're you doing?"

"I was just getting my bag." He dropped the boot, and looked at her.

"In case you're wondering, it belongs to my housekeep er's son. He died in Turkey. I'll be waiting outside." She turned away.

Indy kicked the boot under the bed, and grabbed his bag. Funny place to keep a dead soldier's boots, he thought. When he stepped outside, two men with rifles were standing in the back of the truck. As he climbed into the front seat next to Dorian, he asked who they were.

"Guards."

"Expecting trouble?"

"Just being prepared."

Within minutes, they were bouncing over a gravel road as they headed into the hills outside of the city.

The springs on the truck were in poor condition, and each bounce jarred Indy's head.

The truck's engine roared whenever they accelerated, making conversation difficult. "This road. . ." he heard Dorian say, and saw her lips moving, but he couldn't hear anything else.

"What?"

"This road ... of Oedipus."

He frowned, shook his head. What possible connection could there be between the road and Oedipus?

Dorian leaned over and shouted. "This road we are driving on hasn't changed much since the time of Oedipus."

He believed it.

Dorian gave up on conversation and Indy stared out at the gray, stony hills and pines. It seemed that every day since they'd left Paris, the trip had assumed a new dimen sion. First, his relationship with Dorian had shifted dra matically. Then he'd discovered that she might be persona non grata in her own country.

The idea that he could be getting caught up in political machinations that he didn't comprehend disturbed him. She had said they should be open with each other, but she apparently was open only when it was opportune.

Now, he was starting to understand Conrad's suspicions about Dorian. Even Shannon, who hadn't even met her, was right about one thing. Traveling with Dorian was an adventure, and he had the feeling he hadn't seen the end of it. Hell, they hadn't even reached Delphi yet.

But he'd wanted a challenge, and maybe even some danger. That was what adventure was about, after all. But he also wanted to stay alive. No doubt about that.

Every so often he glanced back to see if they were being followed. But there were only clouds of dust, spewing

from under the wheels of the truck. Dorian finally leaned close to him. "Would you stop worrying? We've got two guards with us. If there's any problem, they'll handle it."

He nodded, slid down in his seat and closed his eyes. Soon the drone of the engine lulled him to sleep.

He dozed, was jolted awake, dozed again, a rhythm as pre dictable as the tick of a clock. By early afternoon, they climbed the lower slopes of Mount Parnassos, and his anticipation increased with the altitude.

"Almost there," Dorian said, gazing through the wind shield at the mountain peak.

Indy touched her thigh; she nudged it away. "We have to act professionally while we're at the ruins.

Here, you're my student, that is all. Do you understand?"

Her expression was hard, cast in stone. Indy gave a quick, nervous laugh. "Oh, c'mon, you afraid of a scandal because I'm younger than you?"

"This isn't funny, Jones, and age has nothing to do with it. It just doesn't look right for a professor to be sleeping with her student."

Look right to whom? But he didn't ask. He suddenly wanted to tell her that he'd never experienced anything like their lovemaking. It was more than mere sexual passion. It was the fulfillment of his longing for a woman who was different from the others he'd known. Yet, he wanted her more than ever. She was as seductive and enigmatic as the mystery of Delphi itself, and he needed her. But he didn't say anything of this, either. He was afraid she would laugh, that she'd call him her sweet student of love or something equally humiliating.

"There." She pointed. "See it?"

Indy leaned forward and saw a mountain terrace that seemed to literally hang in space, in a pocket between ominous craggy peaks. It looked small and insignificant compared to the mountain.

Dorian told the driver to stop for a minute. They got out and gazed up at Delphi.

"I guess I was expecting it would be larger," he said.

"Its size had nothing to do with its importance. Think of it, Indy. For a thousand years, kings and statesmen, military leaders and merchants, climbed the sides of this mountain, bearing questions for the oracle."

He recalled her saying in class that the predictions were often obscure and ambiguous. If that was so, how could it have lasted so long, and impressed so many?

"Did anyone ever keep track of the accuracy of the predictions?"

"Why do you ask?"

"If I were resting my future on some old lady's bab blings, I'd want to know how accurate she was."

"You Americans." Dorian laughed. "You think the world is like one of your baseball games. You want everyone to have a batting average. I doubt if anyone kept such records, but of course the tradition of the oracle would never have survived for so long if the predictions were usually wrong."

"I'd bet the successes had more to do with the knowl edge of the priests, than the oracle."

She said nothing in response. Her enigmatic smile was her answer.

They climbed back in the truck and ten minutes later rounded the final bend and arrived at Delphi. At eighteen hundred feet the air was a bit cooler here than in Athens. He gazed up at the massive surrounding peaks which rose to more than eight thousand feet, and then down at the sharp drop of the landscape to the valley below.

The truck stopped and they stepped out. Most of the buildings were merely foundations and rubble, the result of centuries of earthquakes and man's own destruction. But just the sight of the tilted Doric columns of Apollo's Temple so near the steep face of the mountain sent chills along Indy's spine. Here he was at the most famous religious site of antiquity, a place once considered the center of the world, a place of earth and stone and, he was certain, of secrets still hidden.

"What do you think, Jones?"

It bothered him that she rarely called him Indy any more, but he let it go. What mattered was that he was here, at Delphi. "It's not just a myth anymore. It's a real place, at least, it was."

"It still is a real place. Don't forget that."

He was about to say that right now it was more real than the Sorbonne when he saw a fat man hurrying toward them. He was trying to run, Indy thought, but his corpu lence made his effort nothing more than a waddle. As he neared them, it was obvious he was excited.

"Dr. Belecamus, I'm glad you're finally here," he said, sucking in breathfuls of thin air. "We've been expecting you for a couple of days."

"I told you I would come as fast as I could." Indy heard a trace of annoyance in her voice, and sensed there was animosity between them. "Jones, this is Stephanos Dou mas, the current chief of archaeology here."

Indy pegged him to be just a few years older than he was. He extended a hand, but the man just nodded and continued talking to Dorian.

"Something incredible has happened," he exclaimed. "You must come quickly and see for yourself."

"What are you talking about?"

"It's the crevice in the temple." He gestured with his hands. "There are vapors rising from it. Vapors—like those the oracle breathed."

9

THE RETURN

Panos, the stonemason, ambled along the main street of the village, en route to the platia, the grassy park at the end of the village. As he passed the restaurant, he nodded to the familiar old men who squatted on a long wooden bench outside the crumbling wall. Except for the amber komboloi beads they fingered, they reminded him of cats, purring with contentment in the midmorning sun.

Several feet from where they sat, a pair of rough-hewn wood beams were propped against the wall, where the brick had buckled and bulged and sent a spider web of cracks along the tarnished white stucco. Damage from the recent earthquake, he thought. But life continued on. Earthquakes and tremors were hardly more remarkable here in the village of Delphi than a heavy thunderstorm. A part of life: birth, death, earthquakes.

One of the old men called out and asked him about his mother's health. That was about all the old man ever said to him any more. He was in the village, but no longer of it. He was another visitor, like the people who came to see the ruins. Only the old men knew him; they remembered Panos from another time.

So he talked about his mother's health in terms they could understand: "She feels much better now that her son and grandson are here again." He smiled. "She says she goes up and down."

The old men laughed. It was what everyone in Delphi said when you asked how they were. We go up and down. That was life on the mountain. Up the mountain and down the mountain.

The sight of the old men always made him feel good. They were the standard-bearers of the village. It seemed they had always been there by the restaurant, waiting, watching, occasionally talking. He knew, though, that there had been a time when they were active, vital men, working and traveling up and down the mountain. Car penters, craftsmen, merchants, shepherds.

But that was before the shift, when the village was moved from atop the sacred ruins to its present site.

Now the men were like the ruins of Delphi itself, their aged bones no longer able to support an active existence.

He kept walking down the road as the men muttered among themselves. They were probably saying something about the accident so many years ago in which Estelle had died. Or, more likely, they were repeating an old story about what had happened afterwards. Estelle had been walking along a mountain trail carrying her infant son, Grigoris, when a landslide had buried both of them. Panos, who had been several yards ahead, had managed to dig Grigoris from the rubble. Miraculously, he was unhurt. But when Panos reached Estelle, he cried out in agony and grief. Estelle, his beautiful young wife, was dead, her skull crushed by a boulder.

That was the year of the shift. Thirty years ago, he thought. The year the archaeologists arrived. The year everything changed.

But out of Estelle's death rose a new life—his own. He was transformed, changed by her death, by the shift of the village and by Milos, Estelle's father. As long as he had known him, Milos had been called the Crazy One, and

afterwards he became even more crazy. But Panos learned to look beyond Milos's craziness, and slowly he came to realize that he was a seer and a guardian of ancient knowledge.

Panos crossed the platia and took a seat on his favorite bench. The square itself was small and unimpressive, but the view of the valley made up for it. After Estelle's death he had spent endless days sitting at this very place and imagining himself soaring like a raven out over the valley. It was there in those days that Milos had approached him and told him that it was time for him to learn the secrets of the Order of Pythia.

Nearby, two men in blue work clothes were whitewashing the base of an old oak tree to protect it from insects. He'd never seen either of the men, which was odd since he knew virtually everyone who lived here.

Although he'd resided in Athens for several years, he still returned to Delphi several times a year to visit his mother and to be near the sacred site.

He watched the men until the one closest to him looked his way. Panos nodded to him, greeted him, and asked how he was doing. The man paused, took off his cap, and wiped his brow with his forearm. He said he was fine, but that he'd never sweated in such cool weather before. "The sun is hot, but the air is cool."

"That's how it is on the mountain. It's not like Athens," Panos said, quickly recognizing the man's speech as that of the capital. "How long have you been here?"

"Since yesterday. The government sent me." He puffed out his chest and spoke in a voice filled with self-importance. He watched Panos to see if he was impressed.

But Panos let him down. He laughed, and shook his head. "So now the government sends men to tend the trees after we have an earthquake. Next thing they will move the village again."

The man's voice turned defensive. "I am here because the king is coming to visit Delphi next week."

"Coming here?" Panos was skeptical.

The man smiled, because he knew something that Panos, the local man, did not. "Yes, of course. He will be coming to inspect the damage at the ruins, and he will stay for two nights." The man put on his cap, and turned back to his work.

Panos stared out over the valley, considering what he'd heard. He knew the king had a mountain retreat a couple of miles away, but he rarely visited it. Now he was certain the prophecy was right. The timing was perfect.

"Papa. There you are."

Panos looked over his shoulder to see Grigoris hurrying across the square towards him. His son, now grown, was almost a duplicate of him: muscular, with slender hips and dark curly hair. No doubt he'd just heard about the king's visit, and was expecting to surprise his father.

"You won't believe it, Papa. It is happening already."

Panos rose from the bench, took his son by the arm, and led him away from the workmen. "I know. Come on."

"How could you know? You've been here. I just talked to Stephanos outside the camp."

Panos stopped, and turned to face Grigoris. "I told you to stay away from the ruins, and it's the first thing you did when I left this morning."

"I didn't go into the ruins. I stayed outside. She didn't see me. Neither did the foreigner. I was very careful."

Panos shook his head; his son tried his patience. Grigoris had made a mistake in Athens when he'd let himself be seen at the Acropolis. Then, before Panos could stop him, he'd complicated matters by chasing the pair.

"I said I was sorry about what happened. How many times do I have to apologize? I'm not a child anymore. Now will you listen to me?"

"What would you have done if they had stopped and waited for you?"

His son rolled his black eyes, exasperated. "I told you I was just trying to scare the outsider. Maybe I would have told him to stay away from here."

Panos stared at Grigoris a moment, silently reprimanding him. "This is no reason to apologize to me.

Apologize to yourself." He was about to invoke one of the sacred directives: "Know thyself," but Grigoris interrupted.

"Father, the veil has parted. The vapors are rising again from the temple."

"What?"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you."

"Are you sure?" There was always mist around the Temple of Apollo in the mornings and on many occasions he'd imagined that the vapors were rising again and the prophecy of the Return had been fulfilled.

"I didn't see it myself because you told me not to go into the ruins. But it must be true."

Panos knew that Stephanos thought Grigoris was naive; maybe this was one of his jokes. "We'll see," he said.

"What are we going to do?" the younger man asked anxiously.

"We've waited many years. We can wait a few hours or a few days longer."

Panos thought back to the prophecy. After Estelle's death, Milos had predicted the Return and had given all the clues. At the time, Milos had been the last surviving member of the Order of Pythia, but over the years he had slowly passed the knowledge to Panos. Finally, the time had come for Panos to invoke his authority as the new leader of the Order.

He would talk to Stephanos himself, but he already sensed it was true. It was finally all coming together.

There was no longer any reason to fear Dorian Belecamus because of her power at the sacred site. It was clear now; she was the one.

She would be the new Pythia; he would be the inter preter, and the first prophecy, he was certain, would be for the king himself.

10

Ichor Rising

A lantern rested on a wooden table, illuminating the interior of a primitive thatched hut. Next to the lantern lay a thick book which was open to a page filled with ancient Greek script. It was the text of a stone tablet, which had been salvaged from Delphi's archives, and its author was Plutarch, who served as a priest at Delphi in the first century a.d.

For the past several minutes, Indy had been slowly translating the inscription on a piece of paper.

Although an English version was available on the next page of the book, he wanted to test his abilities.

There were only three words that he wasn't certain about, and he'd guessed their meaning from the context.

He blew on the paper, drying the ink, and laid the fountain pen on the table.

"Okay, let's see," he mumbled, and held the paper closer to the light. As far as he could tell, the script was a response to a question about why the prophecies of the oracle were often ambiguous. He read his translation in a low voice:

"For it was not just a question of some individual person consulting the oracle about the purchase of a slave or some other private matter, but of very powerful citizens, kings and tyrants with mighty ambitions, seeking the gods' advice on important issues. To anger or annoy such men by harsh truths which conflicted with their desires would have had its disadvantages for the priests of the oracle."

Indy turned the page, and saw that there was more of the text. This time he translated it verbatim without writing the words. Like a child learning to read, he slowly read the text, stumbling over words here and there.

"As for the answers... given to ordinary people, it was also sometimes advisable that these... should be concealed from their oppressors or... hidden from their enemies. Thus these too were wrapped up in...

circumlocution and... equivocation so that the meaning of the oracle, while hidden from others, could always be grasped... by those whom it concerned if they applied themselves to unraveling it."

It sounded like a politician explaining why he hadn't carried out his campaign promises, Indy thought as he turned the page. He scanned the accompanying English translation, and smiled. He was pleased with his accuracy, and confident he could translate the tablet that awaited him in the fissure. Now, if Dorian would stop wasting time, he could get on with it.

He pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it. Without exception, the vapors rose from the crevice for twelve minutes before they dissipated, but the length of the quiet periods was slowly increasing. The first time they'd measured an interval it had lasted three hours and five minutes. The next time the vapors had risen, three hours and eleven minutes had elapsed. It hadn't taken long for them to realize that each interval was lengthening by six minutes. But now, their third day at Delphi, Dorian was still insisting they continue taking the measurements.

Indy had been watching the fissure since 1:00 P.M. The gases had risen at 4:16 P.M., and had been quiet now for four hours and five minutes. If the schedule that had been established continued, the vapors would rise in eighteen minutes, at 8:39 p.m.

Ironic, he thought. He'd left his studies in midsemester for what seemed like the chance of a lifetime. But so far all he'd done was play watchdog for a hole in the ground. He shook his head in disgust. At least he could look forward to dinner. He'd be relieved at nine, then he would head into the village.

He held his hands out over the charcoal brazier which heated the hut. When he was satisfied that he was as warm as he would get, he pulled aside the cloth which covered the door. He reached for his hat, which lay on the table, but his hand hit the lantern and tipped it over. It rolled toward the edge of the table. He lunged for it and caught it just as it was about to roll onto the floor.

He carefully stood it up in the center of the table, eased his hands away. "Now, stay there." He took a step back ward, and his heel knocked over the brazier. Hot coals catapulted across the dirt floor, and bounced toward the walls.

He cursed, and scurried about kicking one coal after another toward the center of the hut, then out the door. He glanced around; he sniffed.

Smoke.

Flames suddenly raced along the base of the wall. Indy slapped at them with his jacket, then finally found the coal and kicked it out the door. He stomped out the sparks, and flapped the cloth door to get out the smoke. But the rush of air ignited a spark he'd missed, and the wall was ablaze again.

"Aw. . ." He yelled, grabbed a gallon jug of water from the floor, and doused the fire. When he was sure every spark was out, he lowered the lantern and examined the damage. Several square feet of the wall were blackened and the hut smelled of smoke, but the structure still seemed sound. The last thing he wanted to do was end his watch by burning down the hut.

But on second thought, Dorian probably wouldn't mind.

The hut, which was made of branches, feathers, and beeswax, was an attempt to recreate the first temple of Delphi. It was part of a plan promoted by Stephanos Doumas to connect the present with the past and make the ruins more accessible and interesting to non-scientific visitors. It had been constructed outside the temple by Doumas and his assistants shortly before the earthquake, and had survived unscathed.

Upon their arrival, as Doumas led them over to the crevice, Dorian had stopped at the hut, looked it over, then asked Doumas what it was. She laughed when he finished his explanation. "So you're becoming a tourist promoter as well as an archaeologist. Is that what I taught you when you were my student?"

"Well, not exactly, but—"

"In fact, what I taught you, Stephanos, is that tourists are a costly nuisance. Tourist promotions take away money that might go for research, and if left to their own devices tourists destroy our work."

Doumas was taken aback by the criticism, but he quick ly recovered. "Well, a very important tourist is coming here, Dr. Belecamus. None other than the king, and I'm sure you'll agree it is a good idea to please him."

Dorian had turned away from the hut, and gazed toward the temple for several seconds. Indy was surprised by how well she hid her feelings. She must be thinking that the king's trip to Delphi was related to her family's tenuous political situation, and her return.

When she looked back toward them, she was smiling. "So everything is happening at once. The vapors are rising, and the king is coming."

"And you are here," Doumas added.

"Yes. I am here. Now, tell me more about these vapors."

Doumas said the vapors had risen three times that day, each eruption about two and a half to three hours apart.

"Okay, we'll transform the hut into a lookout station, and monitor the vapors," she said.

When Doumas protested that the hut wasn't built for occupation, she reminded him that he had called her about the earthquake damage and requested her assis tance. "As long as I have come all the way from Paris for that purpose, let me do my job the way I see fit, Stephanos. Is that understood?" Doumas quickly backed off, and from that moment on there was no question that while Dorian was in Delphi, she was in charge.

Indy put his hat on and stepped outside. Moonlight washed across the ruins, illuminating the columns of Apollo's Temple, the rubble and remains of ancient walls. Beyond the temple, the abrupt rise of the mountain face was hidden in shadow and left a sense of foreboding. He rubbed his hands together, fighting off the chill, and headed toward the temple.

He thought about what he'd read in recent days about Delphi, and tried to imagine what it had been like to visit the sacred shrine at its height of power. The temple had been built in the middle of the fourth century B.C. after an earlier temple was destroyed by an earthquake. In the decades and centuries that followed, a regular routine had been established. Visitors seeking knowledge of the future would first sacrifice a goat or a sheep, and if a reading of the entrails boded well, they were allowed inside the temple. If the person was wealthy, the entrails no doubt read very well, Indy figured.

Upon entering the portal, they first saw walls inscribed with bits of wisdom, such as "Know thyself" and

"Everything in moderation." Beyond the portal were statues of Poseidon, Apollo and the Fates. Other treasures of the interior included a statue of Homer and the iron chair in which Pindar sat when he came to Delphi to sing odes to Apollo.

Below ground level were the central chambers of the shrine. A huge gold statue of Apollo guarded the entrance

to the inner sanctuary, known as the adytum. In the inner sanctuary was the tomb of Dionysus and the tripod on which Pythia sat and inhaled the mephitic gases which supposedly rose from a fissure in the earth. Nearby was the Omphalos, a black, cone-shaped stone, which was regarded as the navel of the world, and was always near Pythia when she spoke.

But all that was gone, lost, stolen, or destroyed, he thought as he crossed the Sacred Way, a wide path which wound through the ruins. He stopped where a rope blocked entry to the temple. Until more was known about the vapors, no one was allowed to go beyond this point.

Before the rope had been put in place, Dorian had carefully measured the crevice. It was about nine feet across at the widest point, and about thirty feet long. The ground on either side of the fissure had buckled and thrust upward so that the crevice was bordered by mounds of dirt and rubble. But it was possible to approach the crevice only on the side nearest the temple entrance. A trench about twenty feet deep bordered the opposite side.

A wispy thread of vapor curled upward from the mound. He checked his watch. 8:39. Four hours and twenty-three minutes after the last rising, and right on time. Within seconds, the vapors thickened and billowed above the crevice.

What would it be like to inhale the gas? Most likely it was just water heated to a vapor by the molten earth below and forced up the chasm to the surface. Hell, he was fed up with vapor watching. He'd sample the gas, and prove that it was harmless. If he felt the least bit nauseat ed, he could just back away and inhale fresh air.

He glanced back across the ruins, then pushed down on the rope and stretched a leg over. The air around the top of the mound was a violet hue now. His heart beat faster as he raised his other leg. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe it was a poisonous gas.

Get it over with. Do it.

"Jones, what're you doing there?"

He lowered his leg, straddling the rope, and looked back to see Dorian stepping out from the shadows of the hut. The moonlight fell across her, illuminating one side of her face. Awkwardly, he stepped back over the rope. He rubbed his hands together, and smiled as she approached.

"It started again. Right on time."

"So I see." She moved closer to him. "But you didn't answer my question. What were you going to do?"

He tried to think of an excuse. But there was no point. "I was going to take a closer look."

"I thought I made it clear to you that I don't want you or anyone going in there when the fumes are rising.

We don't know anything about the gases."

"Maybe it's ichor, Dorian."

He could see her face clearly now: she wasn't amused. Ichor was the ethereal fluid that flowed through the veins of the gods. "This is no time to be flippant," she snapped. "The pursuit of archaeology requires rational thought and a step-by-step process."

"If you want me talk rationally, that's fine. The fact is, we won't know anything until someone just goes in there and inhales the gas."

"And you'd like to be that person, I suppose."

"I'm willing to try it, because I think we're wasting our time."

"No," she said firmly. "That's not the way we're going to do it." Just then the vapors faded, turned wispy and vanished. Dorian noted the time. "Where's the clipboard? Aren't you keeping track of the time?"

"I left it in the hut, and I am keeping track." He told her the times the vapors had risen.

Dorian shook her head. "Jones, if you're going to be come an archaeologist, you have to learn patience.

The age of the treasure-hunting archaeologist-adventurer is over. Archaeology is a slow, painstaking process. We study the most minute details, the fragments, the rubble, the garbage of the ages. That is how we advance our under standing of the past."

"I'm sure that's true. But in this case, we've got to look at the geological point of view. The longer we wait, the greater the chances of losing the tablet to an aftershock or another quake."

"I'm well aware of that." Her voice had gone hard and cold. "Tomorrow morning, I'm going to tie a goat near the fissure and we'll watch its reactions."

"A goat?" He laughed. "That's appropriate." In the legend of the original Delphic Oracle, a goat had first inhaled the fumes of the rotting carcass of Python, and gone crazy. Later, shepherds discovered the fissure and many of them, intoxicated by the fumes, had fallen into the crevice.

"I thought you'd like that."

But Indy wasn't through challenging her. So what if she got angry with him. It would be better than being ignored. Ever since their arrival, she'd been cool towards him. Not only had she ceased being his lover, but she barely acknowl edged him. He wondered if there was another man, possibly someone who lived in the village. After all, she'd worked here for years before moving to Paris.

"I bet you're hoping these gases are the real thing, that they cause people to go into trances and see the future."

"Jones, you're insolent and you also underestimate me. I have no preconceived notion about the vapors.

I'm not trying to prove anything."

"What if the goat doesn't react?"

"Then we'll get on with our business."

"Which is?"

"I've decided that you should be the one to go down into the crevice. Of course, you don't have to do it if you

don't want to. It's up to you, I'm giving you the first opportunity."

"I'll do it," he said without hesitating. "The sooner the better."

"Good. I'm glad to hear it." Her dark eyes sought his, and he felt as if she were staring through him. In a softer voice, she added: "I'm sorry if I've ignored you, but I've been very busy."

"That's understandable. I guess. Do you have many friends in the village?"

"Why do you ask?"

He shrugged. "You said you've been busy."

"Busy working, not socializing. If you haven't noticed, most of the villagers are very aloof from those of us who work at the ruins."

"Why is that?"

"It's a tradition of sorts that goes back to when the village was moved from the ruins to allow us, the archaeol ogists, to excavate."

She smiled and was about to say something when he took a step closer to her and reached for her hand.

She abruptly drew back, and addressed him in a formal voice. "You can go to dinner now. The moussaka is great tonight. I'll take over the watch until morning."

Still cold, he thought and even though she had warned him how she would act toward him, it still hurt. He watched as she retreated to the hut. He was about to leave, but decided to wait. He knew she wasn't quite through with him for the evening. It didn't take more than a few seconds.

"Jones," she yelled. "Why is it smokey in here?"

He walked over to the hut as she stepped out and told her what had happened.

She nodded, hands on her hips, and walked around the outside of the hut. Then she moved close to him.

"You should have let it burn," she whispered. She leaned forward, kissed him lightly on the lips, and the barrier that had risen between them wavered for a moment.

"You'd better go."

"All right. Let me get my books just in case the fire starts again."

She laughed, and he felt closer to her than he had since they had arrived. He stuffed the books into his canvas knapsack and paused at the entrance of the hut.

"You anxious about the king coming here?"

"Anxious? Why no, I'm elated."

11

TAVERNA INTRIGUE

As he ate dinner, Indy paged through his books, taking care not spill any of the spicy casserole onto the pages. Until the tablet was recovered and cleaned, he wanted to spend every spare moment studying old Greek script. He would prove to Dorian that her choice of an assistant was a worthwhile one.

Occasionally, he picked up scraps of conversation from the villagers dining around him. Most of it was about the king's visit, how long it had been since he was last here, and possible reasons why he had waited for an earthquake to return. The villagers, for their part, cast curious glances Indy's way from time to time, but otherwise ignored him.

As he was finishing his dinner, he took out a pencil and made some calculations. If the vapors continued rising at the same intervals, they would appear again at 1:08 a.m., at 5:43 A.M., and then at 10:24 A.M. Dorian had said she would send the goat into the vapors early tomorrow. So 5:43 must be it, and he would be there. Nothing would keep him from missing it.

It was almost eleven when Indy gathered his books to leave. Despite the hour, several tables were still occupied. Across the street at the taverna, he heard the wail of a wind instrument he didn't recognize. He was tempted to go over for a drink, but he decided against it. Even though he'd spent hours doing very little during his stint in the hut, he was tired and ready for bed. Slinging his knapsack of books over one shoulder, he gazed upward at the twinkling constellations and headed down the road. He imagined himself an ancient Greek scholar en route to wondrous Delphi. And what would the ancient scholar learn from the oracle? That he would create a great work of scholarship, marry the daughter of a king, become a great teacher? But why wouldn't the bright young scholar realize that the oracle was a tool of the priests, that what he was told was nonsense? Probably because he didn't want to know, didn't want to pay the price of knowing.

As Indy was about to enter the Delphi Hotel, the door swung open and a slender but muscular kid of about fifteen stepped out. His hair was short-cropped; his fea tures classical Greek. "Hello, Nikos."

"Indy, you're not going to your room yet, are you? It's Saturday night. Come to the taverna with me."

"You're a little young, aren't you?" His dark eyes darted about, taking in everything on the street. "What do you mean?" Nikos asked.

Indy frowned at the kid. Back home it was illegal for anyone to drink. Here, a teenager was heading to the taverna at eleven o'clock. "You like retsina?"

"I don't drink," Nikos answered. "My father won't let me. But I can still join the music and dancing.

Please, come with me. You will see how we enjoy ourselves."

Nikos was a desk clerk at the hotel, which was owned by his father. He had grown up in the tiny village, but had been exposed to numerous foreigners and had learned English, German, and French.

Indy glanced back toward the taverna, hesitating, but Nikos insisted. "Give me those books. I'll put them be hind the counter. And you can have some fun, too."

He shrugged. "Okay. But just for a few minutes." He handed the kid the knapsack and watched him disappear back into the hotel.

Indy didn't want to offend Nikos. He was a valuable source of information, and almost the only person who said much of anything to him. Besides, a drink before bed would be fine, but one would be enough. He wanted to be in his room by midnight at the latest.

Nikos spoke English with Indy and asked a lot of questions about America. One time he'd wanted to know if it was true that there were cities with streets filled with automobiles, and if every house had a radio.

Another time he'd asked if America was larger than Greece and Turkey together. Indy answered his questions as best he could, and in return Nikos had provided him with some inside information about what was going on in the village and at the ruins.

From Nikos he'd learned that Dorian and Doumas had argued about him. Nikos hadn't heard everything, but had told him that Doumas had complained about his being unqualified to work at the ruins and that his presence was an offense to all Greek archaeologists. Doumas had been infuriated when Dorian had held her ground. Now Indy knew the reason for Doumas' outrage. She must have told him she wanted Indy to climb into the crevice and get the tablet.

"Let's go," Nikos said as he came out the door again, "Tonight you will have some fun. Did you go to tavernas in Athens?"

Indy shook his head. "Didn't have time."

"The best ones are at the Platia Phlomouson Hetairae." Nikos strode along beside him, swinging his arms.

"The square of the music-loving courtesans," Indy said.

"Yes. Your Greek is very good."

As they neared the taverna, Indy heard the faint but shrill whine he had heard earlier. "What's that noise?"

"That's not noise, Indy. That's music. It's an askomandra, you know, kind of like a bagpipe. But it's made from a sheep skin."

"Never heard of it. They play any jazz around here, kid?"

"Jazz? What is jazz?"

Indy chuckled to himself. "Guess not. Next time you're in Chicago, I'll take you to Dreamland to see the jazz bands."

"Dreamland is in America?"

"Some people think so." Indy opened the door, and they entered the taverna.

"Good. I want to go to America," Nikos yelled above the cacophony.

In the center of the taverna, men were dancing in a circle of the thump of traditional Greek music and the wail of the askomandra. Indy glanced around, feeling out of place. But almost instantly a waiter in a white, blouselike shirt and vest appeared and handed him a drink.

"Ouzo," Nikos said when Indy held up the glass and looked at its clear contents.

"I was thinking about a beer."

Nikos gestured with his hand, moving it back and forth as he shook his head. "No beer here. Only ouzo, retsina, raki and aretsinoto."

"Of course," Indy said, and frowned at the drink. "When in Delphi, do as the dolphins."

Several men around them watched Indy. "He's from America," Nikos announced loudly. They nodded, and gestured with their glasses as if showing him how to drink.

When he took a swallow of the anise-flavored drink, two of the men slapped him on the back, as though congratulating him on some rite of passage. Nikos looked on proudly.

One of the men, who was elderly and wore a battered Greek sailor cap, stepped forward and mumbled some thing to him. Indy shook his head, unable to hear him above the din.

Nikos leaned close to Indy's ear, and spoke loudly. "He's a crazy old man. He talks about the old gods."

"What did he say?"

Nikos shook his head.

But the old man was insistent. He tapped Indy on the chest and spoke again. Indy glanced at Nikos.

"Something about Pythia."

"What about Pythia?"

Nikos spoke to the old man, who glanced at Indy, and mumbled again.

"Well, what is it?" Indy asked when Nikos didn't say anything.

"I told you he is a crazy old man. They call him the Crazy One."

"But what did he say?" Indy demanded.

"He says Pythia has you in her grasp and. . ."

"And what?"

"... and she will swallow you like a little mouse. That is what he said."

Indy grinned and leaned down to Nikos. "Tell him I haven't met her yet. But when I meet the daughter of a snake, you can bet I'll know it."

Another old Greek moved in front of the Crazy One, clasped Indy on the shoulder, and spoke in a slurred voice. Nikos said: "He invited you to visit his home to sample his homemade retsina."

"Thanks." Indy smiled and nodded at the old man. "The stuff tastes horrible."

The man, who didn't understand a word, nodded in agreement.

Indy and Nikos both laughed. "A friendly bunch here," Indy said, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth, his smile faded. The circle of dancing men broke up and dispersed, and he suddenly had a better view of the other side of the taverna. Seated at a table near the wall was Doumas, and with him was a familiar looking man with curly hair. The sight of the man made Indy feel uneasy, and he tried to recall where he'd seen him. Then he knew. He was one of the men who had chased him and Dorian at the Acropolis. He was sure of it.

"Nikos, who is that talking with Doumas?"

Nikos craned his neck. "His name is Panos. He is from Athens, but he was born here. He comes to visit his mother. He brings his son with him."

"How does Doumas know him?"

"Stephanos knows everyone."

He wanted to see how the man would react to him and suggested they go over and greet Doumas.

Nikos shook his head. "I don't think that is a good idea."

"Why not?"

"Panos is not friendly, especially to people like you, foreigners I mean."

"Well, it's a big world. He'll have to get over that." Indy worked his way through the crowd, but Doumas spotted him and rose to his feet, stepping between him and Panos.

When Indy had first arrived, Doumas had made a point of showing off his knowledge of Delphi, and archaeology in general, at every opportunity. Then, by the second day, when he found out that Indy was not even an archaeology graduate student, he had simply ignored him.

"Evening, Stephanos," he said casually. "Who's your friend? Don't think we've formally met."

"Mind your own business, Jones."

Indy shrugged. "Okay." He started to turn, but instead sidestepped around the rotund archaeologist, and pulled Panos to his feet.

"Hi there."

The man looked surprised. He shook his head. "No English."

Indy poked him in the chest. "I know you," he said as the music started up again. "We were playing tag at the Acropolis just the other day."

Doumas grabbed Indy by the shoulder. "Jones, what the hell are you doing?" he shouted over the music.

He jabbed an elbow into Doumas's gut, and shrugged out of his grip. "You were chasing me and my friend. Why?" He spoke slowly and loudly, but Panos just shook his head again and tried to wrench his arm free.

"Indy, watch out," Nikos yelled, but it was too late. Indy saw a blur out of the corner of his eye. It wasn't Doumas, but someone else, younger, slender—and in that instant the newcomer's fist slammed solidly into Indy's jaw.

He staggered back, crashing through a new circle of stomping dancers. Someone caught him under the arms; he was turned around and pushed away. Voices shouted in Greek, and the wailing askomandra wrapped around him. Fragments of faces leered. Eyes and noses shifted posi tions like a cubist portrait.

Then he saw the man again, a younger version of Panos. The stranger pulled back his arm for another punch, but this time Indy reacted faster, and crashed his fist into the man's nose.

Nikos suddenly was at his side. "Come, fast, we must go."

Indy was almost out the door when the skin rose on the back of his neck as he heard a commotion behind him. He turned to see the man he'd struck charging toward him, a knife raised above his head. The man slashed as Indy raised his forearm, but his blow fell short as Doumas's meaty arms wrapped around the assailant. He was lifted off his feet, spun around, and pulled away.

Indy looked around, and saw everyone in the taverna

staring at him. He smiled weakly. "I think it's past my bedtime." He backed out the door, and felt his jaw.

Nikos hurried to his side as he walked away. "Are you all right, Indy?"

"Think so. Are the tavernas in Athens this much fun, kid?"

"Jones," a deep voice called out. Indy turned and saw Doumas standing at the door of the taverna. His face was red and sweaty, and he was jabbing a finger at him. "You don't belong here. If you want to see Paris again, stay out of Greek business."

Indy unlocked the door of his hotel room, opened it a few inches, and laid his books on the floor. He glanced over his shoulder, making sure Nikos hadn't followed him. Then, instead of going inside, he slammed the door shut, and moved down the hallway to the back stairs. Outside, he walked around the side to the hotel stable and mounted one of the camp's horses.

He had to get to the ruins as quickly as possible. Delphi was a trap. Doumas must be part of the conspiracy against Dorian and her father, and he had to tell her. They had to get away from here, and there was no time to waste.

He couldn't take the road through the village; he would have to pass by the taverna and Doumas or one of the others might see him. He directed the horse around the back of the stable to a narrow trail that led through the woods. He'd only taken the winding path once, and that had been during the day with Nikos.

He knew he would have to rely on the horse's own savvy to find its way back home.

As Indy cantered along, the darkness closed around him like a blindfold. He could see no more than a couple of feet ahead of the horse. The trail rose steeply, then fell, and rose again. He rocked back in the saddle, gripping the reins, and slowed the horse to a trot.

"Easy, boy. Just follow the road."

Suddenly, the trail plunged downward, and the horse skidded sideways and whinnied. "Whoa, whoa,"

Indy yelled, pulling in the reins.

This was a mistake, a big mistake, he told himself. But he wasn't turning back now. He'd make it.

Somehow. As if in response to his thoughts, the horse abruptly stopped. "What's wrong, boy?"

Then Indy saw that the path divided, and the horse was waiting for directions. "Hey, I don't know. Just head for camp. You know, your stable."

The horse blew out its nose, shook its head, and pawed the ground. But it didn't move either way. Just then Indy heard a noise behind him. He turned his head and listened. There it was again. The sound of a horse moving toward them on the trail.

Christ. They were following him. Move.

He jerked the head of the horse to the left, touched its sides, and shook the rein. The horse broke into a trot, and climbed the incline. They must have seen him leaving the hotel and realized what he was doing.

This was definitely no place for a confrontation, and it was probably just what they wanted. No witnesses.

Real pretty. Boy, am I a sucker, he thought as he heard his pursuers closing in on him.

Maybe he should get off the horse, and send it down the trail. They'd chase the horse, and he could get away. Good idea, he told himself, but just as he was about to dis mount, the reins slipped from his hands. He fumbled for them in the darkness, but couldn't find them.

"Hell with it," he said aloud, and started to dismount the moving horse. But at that moment, the path rose, and a thick branch caught him squarely across the forehead, knocking him out of the saddle. He tumbled through the darkness and crashed with a thud to the ground.

He gasped for breath; heard hoofbeats. He rolled onto

his stomach, then stumbled to his feet. He wobbled one step, another, then dropped to his knees. He tried to rise again, but fell backwards. Far overhead, constellations spun in tight, mad circles. He closed his eyes, shutting it all out, and lost consciousness.

A voice. "Indy, are you all right?"

He blinked his eyes open and saw Nikos. "Where'd they go? They were after me, and—"

"It was me. I was trying to catch up to you. I almost rode right over you."

"I feel like you did."

"Can you walk?"

He sat up and rubbed his head. "Who knows. Don't think I broke anything."

Nikos helped him to his feet. "Why were you going back to the ruins at night?"

"I've got to talk to Dr. Belecamus. Where's the horse?"

"Over here," Nikos said, motioning down the trail. "But you turned the wrong way. You won't get to the ruins on this path."

"Show me the way." Indy brushed himself off and walked over to the horse.

"Indy, I think you should watch out for Dr. Belecamus."

"Watch out for her? Why?"

"Because of who she is. You don't know everything about her."

"You're right, I don't." He recalled what Dorian had said about the villagers' attitude toward her. "Let's talk about it sometime. Right now though I've got to get to the ruins."

He untied the horse from a tree, and slung his leg over the saddle.

"Listen to me." Nikos hurried after him. "It is danger ous for you to be close to her."

Indy turned and stared down at him. "What are you talking about?"

Nikos moved nearer and gripped the reins of Indy's

horse. "The Oracle is coming back, and they say Dr. Belecamus is Pythia."

"Who says that?"

"Those men in the taverna. Panos, his son, Grigoris, also Doumas, I think. They are all in the Order."

Indy shook his head. "What order?"

"The Order of Pythia. They are the keepers of the old knowledge."

"And why do they think Belecamus is Pythia?"

"The old man in the taverna, the Crazy One, is the oldest member of the Order, and many years ago he predicted that Pythia would return. He said it would happen after the earth shook and before the king arrived."

"Swell. But that doesn't answer my question. Why is Belecamus the new Pythia?"

"The Crazy One said that Pythia would be a Dorian."

"A Dorian? How many are there?"

Then he remembered something he'd recently read. The Dorians were an invading tribe whose name was synonymous with the Greek Dark Ages around 1000 B.C. They had displaced the mother goddess with male deities, and their influence may have been the reason that Apollo had come into power at Delphi. There had been lots of Dorians, and Belecamus had nothing to do with them. Yet, she definitely was a "Dorian."

"For years, no one said much about the prophecy," Nikos explained. "But then after the earthquake, Doumas contacted Dorian Belecamus, and when she said she would return, Panos was sure the prophecy was about to come true."

"Do you believe it?"

Nikos looked up at Indy, surprised. "No one ever asks me about such things. But I thought it was just crazy talk until I heard the king was coming. You see, it fits."

"How do you know so much about what's going on?" he asked suspiciously.

Nikos smiled, and leaned closer. "That is what I do. I watch, and I listen. There is much to hear and see.

Otherwise, it would be very boring here for me."

"That's nice, Nikos. But whether Dorian is Pythia or not, I've got to talk to her. Those men are a threat."

"No. You don't understand. They are not interested in harming her. They want to protect her."

"Protect her? From what?"

"From outsiders. Like you."

12

IN THE MIST

In the first gray light of dawn, a surly little goat climbed the mound of ancient rubble. It hung its head, shaking it from side to side as though it had no control over its neck muscles. As it reached the top, it leaned forward, straining on its fetter. From where Indy and Nikos stood on the Sacred Way a couple of hundred feet from the mound, it was difficult to tell whether the goat wanted to leap across the crevice, or into it. It was 5:40 a.m., and the vapors were due to rise in three minutes. No doubt the aggres sive creature would get a good whiff.

Indy glanced toward Dorian and Doumas, who were chatting amicably, as if they were the best of friends. He thought about the trouble he had gone to last night just to reach her, and all for nothing. He had rushed to the hut and told her about the men in the taverna and what he'd found out about the Order of Pythia. Dorian had listened quietly until he was finished, then said she was relieved that the mystery of the two men was solved. Now they could go about their business.

Indy was dumbfounded by her attitude. She wasn't concerned about the organization, and thought it was amusing that they would consider her to be Pythia. She had known about the group for years, she said. It was just part of the village culture and folklore and the men were harmless. She also knew that Doumas had taken an inter est in the Order; in fact, she'd encouraged it, since it provided a link between the village and the scientists.

Indy had returned to the hotel feeling like a popped balloon. He was confused, but he realized Nikos was probably right, the Order was more concerned with him, the outsider, than Dorian, the supposed Pythia. As if to show his concern, Nikos had begged Indy to allow him to come along this morning. Reluctantly, he'd asked Dorian for permission, and she'd agreed, stipulating that he be responsible for the boy.

Doumas suddenly shouted and pointed toward the fis sure. Indy looked up, expecting to see the vapors.

For a moment, he couldn't tell why Doumas was so excited. Then he realized that the goat had pulled its stake loose and was pacing precariously along the edge of the chasm. "I'll get him," Nikos called out, and climbed over the rope blocking the entrance.

"No, just leave him," Indy shouted. "Stay away from there."

But Nikos had already darted toward the base of the rubble heap. "Goddamn it, Nikos." Indy chased after him, but stopped several paces short of the mound. Nikos was crouched within a couple of feet of the rope.

"Easy boy. Easy," Nikos said, edging closer as the goat stared down into the abyss. He was about to grab the rope when a low rumble erupted, followed by an ethereal, haunted hiss. Oh, God, another earthquake, Indy thought, then realized he'd heard something similar, but fainter, last night when the vapors had risen.

The goat lost its footing. It slid forward toward the crevice. Nikos lunged, grabbed the end of the rope, and pulled. The sudden tug knocked the animal off its feet, but an instant later it was up and scrambling to the top of the rubble again. Beyond the goat, the first tendrils of vapors rose skyward.

Indy rushed to Nikos' side and grabbed the rope from him. "Stay down," he ordered.

He was about to yank the animal down from the pile, when he remembered their intentions. He huddled low, covering his nose and mouth. He glanced up once and saw the goat standing motionless, enshrouded in a thick, white mist. Its head was bent down and moving slowly from side to side.

Then, without warning, the goat bucked, and the rope snapped out of Indy's hand. He watched it snake away, and looked up to see the goat performing a strange dance, spinning in circles, contorting its body in odd, unlikely positions. It kicked its hoofs, front, then back. It dropped to its knees, and pounded its horns into the ground.

Nikos suddenly bolted up the mound after the rope. "Get back here," Indy yelled, but it was too late. The vapors were thickening, and Nikos vanished into the mist with the goat.

The mist flowed over the rubble and wafted toward him. It was almost as if the vapors were sentient and aware of his position. Indy didn't know whether to go after Nikos, or back away. Then, as quickly as he'd disappeared, Nikos emerged out of the mist, and they both fled the temple.

"Are you all right?" Dorian asked, looking between Indy and Nikos.

"Where's the goat?" Doumas demanded.

"The goat was dancing," Nikos said. "I almost got its rope, but it jumped right into the hole."

"Are you sure? Maybe it's made it to the other side," Doumas said.

"Why did you let him go up there?" Dorian glared accusingly at Indy.

"I did it on my own," Nikos said. "It's my fault. I wanted to show you that I could save the goat."

The mist finally dissipated, but the goat was nowhere in sight. They climbed the mound and Indy followed Nikos

around to the far side, and peered into the narrow gully. It was empty. Then they were sure. The goat was lost.

Dorian laid a hand on Nikos's shoulder after they crossed back to the other side. "It's all right. Did you breathe the vapors?"

He shook his head. "I don't think so. I held my breath."

"Good." She stared into the abyss. "It's a shame, though, about the goat. Now we won't be able to tell whether its reaction was temporary fright or the actual effects of the vapors."

"I think it was just frightened," Indy said. "Just pulling on the rope the way Nikos did might have caused the goat to react that way."

"Maybe," Dorian said. "But you can't be sure." The doubt in her voice was clear. It seemed to him that Dorian was trying to convince herself that the vapors caused some effect.

"The only way we're going to find out for certain that the vapor is harmless is for one of us to inhale some of it," Indy said.

Dorian nodded. "I agree. Next time the vapors rise, I'll do it myself."

"You will?" Now Indy, who last night had been ready to inhale the vapors, wasn't so sure it was a good idea.

"It's time to end the speculation. Besides, I wouldn't do it if I really thought it was harmful."

She turned and strode down the mound and away from the temple.

Indy looked at Doumas, expecting him to protest. But he simply stared after her. In about four and a half hours, they would know.

Panos's expression was fixed with grim determination as he strode along the unpaved, tree-lined road with Grigoris at his side. The confrontation with the foreigner Jones had unnerved him, but it had also pushed him into making a

decision. He knew it was time. Dorian Belecamus must be confronted. She must be told. She must be made to understand.

He squinted against the sun, which at midmorning had risen above the mountain's peak. They passed the turnoff to the stable and workshop, and continued ahead a short distance until they reached a trail where an ancient wall had once surrounded Delphi. The trail would take them above the sacred precinct, and they would make their ap proach from the steps of the theater, which overlooked Apollo's Temple. It was a longer route, but no one would see their arrival.

"She won't listen, Father," Grigoris said as he hurried alongside Panos. "She is an intellectual. She will laugh at you. She will think you are a silly peasant with supersti tious ideas."

"Is that what you think, too?"

Panos was confident that his son was deeply committed to the Order, but nonetheless he tested him from time to time.

Grigoris hesitated before he spoke. "If I had grown up in Athens and attended one of the colleges, I am sure that is what I would think."

Panos gave him a sharp look of rebuke. He had taught his son to answer questions directly, not with obscure comments.

"But I know too much," he quickly continued. "I am not as shortsighted as the intellectuals. I am open to what they would find unacceptable."

Panos nodded in agreement. It was the answer he had hoped Grigoris would give; he beamed with pride.

Some day his son would lead the Order of Pythia. As the high priest of Delphi, and emissary of Apollo, he would grow into a determined, disciplined man. But first he must learn to understand and control his darker emotions. If he failed to do so, Panos knew that the years he had spent preparing his son for his role would be lost.

Whenever he became concerned about Grigoris's tem perament, he thought about the Olympian gods.

They behaved at times as poorly as his son. They were a tempestuous lot, who had come to power through a brutal struggle with their predecessors, the Titans. Apollo, in particular, showed the same sort of aggressiveness that Grigoris did. When Apollo was consulted at Delphi about the viability of undertaking a war, more often than not he had recommended invading the enemy.

The trail turned and they emerged just above the bowl of stone benches that formed the old amphitheater. Below, the temple was blanketed in mist, the way it was in early morning. He could barely see the columns. But this was no ordinary fog; it was too late in the morning. It was the mephitic gases—ichor, the vapors of the gods—welcoming him. Somehow, he had known that the vapors would be rising as he arrived. They were another sign the timing was right.

He gazed a moment at the thatched hut outside the temple, between the Sacred Way and the place where the Sanctuary of Poseidon had once stood. Doumas had told him that it was built in such a way that several men could carry it to the edge of the fissure where he and Pythia would hold court for the king and others who requested their service. Later, when Delphi's renaissance was widely recognized, there would be plenty of money available to build a new temple. As far as Panos was concerned, the remains of the old buildings could be cleared away for the new.

More than anything, Panos was anxious to hear Pythia speak. He knew he would instantly recognize what others heard only as babbling. The cryptic language of the gods was the legacy of the Order. It wasn't taught like an ordinary language, but learned at a deeper level. For sixteen hundred years, generation after generation, centu ry after century, the Order had served as the caretaker of the sacred knowledge and the secrets. At times, the Order had fallen to one or two members, but always the knowl edge and the secrets had survived.

Panos had no doubt that the gods had watched over the Order, guiding its members, always instilling them with the understanding that the Oracle would return one day to the world. The gods and destiny after all were one, and the return of Pythia was inextricable. Now, at last, after all the centuries of awaiting, the new epoch was about to begin.

At that moment, he saw Dorian Belecamus—Pythia— walking away from the hut. He stopped and watched as she entered the temple and disappeared into the mist. He wanted to shout for joy. He had puzzled over how he would draw her into the vapors to prove to her that she was truly Pythia. But she was doing it on her own, and that made him even more confident that everything was work ing out just as it was meant.

He hurried down the stone steps, Grigoris just a step behind him, and as they neared the base of the theater two more figures moved into view, trailing after Pythia. "They're going into the temple," Grigoris shouted.

Then, before Panos could tell him to watch and wait, Grigoris called out to Doumas. He and Indy stopped and turned toward the theater.

"You have no sense of caution," Panos snapped, even though as he said it he knew Grigoris was right. It was time to act, not watch.

"Panos," Doumas yelled. He waved his hands frantical ly. Grigoris charged ahead, and Panos hurried to keep up with his son. When they reached him, Doumas explained what they already knew. Belecamus was in the mist and there was no sign of her. Jones stood several steps away and watched them with curiosity.

If the incident at the taverna had frightened him, he didn't show it.

Grigoris stepped between Jones and the temple. "I'll watch him, Father."

"What's going on?" Jones demanded.

"None of your business," Doumas said. "Do not forget what I told you last night."

Grigoris took a step closer as if to reaffirm that he was the one who had attacked Jones.

Panos turned his attention back to the temple, and asked Doumas the exact location of the fissure. The wide-girthed archaeologist waddled forward and pointed. Just then an eerie shriek pierced the veil of mist.

The sound sent shivers up and down Panos's spine.

"Stay here and wait for me," Panos said, and rushed toward the temple. He climbed over a rope and the remains of the wall, and hastened toward a mound of rubble that was partially enveloped in the mist. He knew that the vapors would only affect those who were suscepti ble to trance states and that as a priest of the Order he was protected. Still, he took a deep breath and held it as he climbed the mound.

He reached the top and glanced around. No sign of her. He expelled his breath, and cautiously sniffed at the air. There was no odor to the mist, and no immediate effect. He took a step forward and gazed down into the yawning mouth of the abyss. His heart plunged in his chest as he realized that the scream he had heard might have been her last utterance as Pythia plummeted into the void. There would be no return. Not in his lifetime. Belecamus was the one; no one else could replace her now. But how could he have been so wrong?

He suddenly felt dizzy, the way he would if he stood quickly after drinking a couple of glasses of retsina.

Dizzy, yet his head was clear. He felt acutely aware, and sensed that something was about to happen.

Cautiously, he took a step back from the chasm; a hand gripped his elbow. He turned, startled, and jerked his arm free. It was Belecamus

and her hands were raised as if she were about to shove him into the hole. Then he saw her face. Her eyes were rolled back, her mouth hung open, and her tongue lolled to one side.

He gaped, astonished. "Do you know who you are?"

Her mouth moved, her head rocked back and forth, but no words came out.

"You are Pythia. You must understand. The Oracle is returning, and you are Pythia."

She took a wavering step forward, shook her head from side to side. Her jaw was working up and down, but no sound came out. Then, with a wild burst of energy, she whirled in a circle, flailing her arms, and tottered near the edge of the crevice. She was going to jump.

Panos grasped her firmly around the waist, pulling her back. "You must accept; you must accept."

She rocked back and forth in his arms. Then, from deep within her, a wail rose, a bellow of uncontrollable pain, of a mother giving birth. She shuddered violently and collapsed.

Panos lifted her, and as he did, he realized that the air was clearing. He carried her away, knowing that the transformation was complete. Dorian Belecamus was Pythia, and the next time the vapors rose she would be drawn into the mist again and he would be there, her guide, her interpreter, and her voice to the world.

13

READINGS

Dorian stood beside a bench in the platia overlooking the valley. She was wearing a cotton peasant dress instead of the baggy pants she'd worn since they'd arrived. Her hands were braced against her hips.

As Indy crossed the park toward her, she reminded him of a Greek statue.

He stopped a few feet away and cleared his throat. "How are you feeling today?"

"Much better." She didn't turn her gaze from the valley.

The intensity in her eyes led Indy to believe she was watching something in particular. But all he could see was scenery. Great scenery, yes, but nothing that he or anyone else would stare at like she was. "What do you see down there?" he asked quietly.

She didn't hesitate. "History... culture... the past." Her voice was soft, distant.

Indy glanced out over the valley. It had been two days since Panos had carried her from the temple. She had slept for eleven hours and when she awakened, a doctor examined her, but found nothing wrong. He'd said she was probably suffering from stress and overwork and needed a rest. However, by noon the following day, she'd gone to the workshop, which was near the ruins, and had stayed until nine.

She seemed detached, as if only part of her were

present. Was it just exhaustion, or the vapors? He'd been thinking a lot about it. It was both, he'd decided.

She must have been fighting off exhaustion for days, and the vapors, or at least Dorian's suspicions about them, had triggered her collapse, a nervous breakdown.

"Well, Jones," she said, turning away from the valley. "We can't just spend our entire morning in the park. We've got work to do."

"You sure you're up to it?"

She straightened her back. "I'm feeling fine. Make that great. I'm feeling great."

The sudden change in her mood, her energy, surprised him. It was as if she'd just awakened from a dream.

"What are we going to do?"

She looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. "Don't you know that we have to get the tablet out of the fissure as soon as possible? We've wasted too much time as it is. I want the tablet cleaned and on display by the time the king arrives the day after tomorrow."

"Aren't you rushing things a bit? I thought archaeology was slow and detailed work."

She smiled at him. "It is, but we have an emergency. Every hour that tablet remains in the crevice, the danger of losing it increases." Now she was sounding as anxious as he had been before she walked into the vapors.

"Why do you want to show it to the king?" he asked. "Don't you think his trip here might be a way of harassing you for coming back?"

She laughed. "Come on now."

"What's so funny?"

"The king may be petty, but he doesn't change his plans and take emergency trips because of someone like me. I really doubt that he even knows I'm here."

"You don't think there's any danger now from your family's political enemies?"

She shook her head. "No, especially not in Delphi.

Don't worry. We're safe, and when the king sees the new find, he'll see that even earthquakes have a good side to them."

Indy shrugged, still perplexed by the sudden urgency to remove the tablet and her benign attitude toward the king. "So what do you want me to do?"

"Everything is being prepared. You'll be making the descent right at noon."

"What about the vapors?" he asked.

She brushed her mane of thick dark hair off her shoul ders. "I've taken them into account. This morning they rose at 9:03 a.m., five hours and thirty-five minutes after the last rising, an increase of six minutes in the interval. The same pattern."

He took out his pocket watch, and started to calculate the next rising.

She watched him a moment, then said: "At 2:44. You'll have plenty of time. All you have to do is set the net in place over the tablet, and chip away the earth at the base of it."