Indiana Jones & the Peril at Delphi

He yawned as he entered Petrie Hall. Much of the material he was teaching was new to him so he was a student as well as a teacher. At best, he was a week ahead of his students. Some days he was thankful for the sylla bus, which provided him with a general outline of topics to be discussed for the week. But other times, he felt restricted by it. If he taught it again he could already see ways of improving the class. There was no guarantee of that: He wouldn't know for another couple of weeks, when the summer session ended, whether or not he still had a job.

Landing the job so soon after graduating had been a surprise. In fact, he would have been content to remain in Paris, and look for a position at one of the city's universi ties while he continued his part-time job in the archaeology lab at the Sorbonne. But Marcus Brody, an old family friend and a curator of an archaeology museum, had given him the lead for the job. The native Londoner had wired him that one of his contacts at the University of London had informed him about an opening for a summer teaching job in archaeology that could become full-time in the fall.

He hadn't thought he had much of a chance, but he'd applied, mainly to show Brody he appreciated the help. While the position was for an introductory course, its emphasis was on Britain's megalithic monuments, a topic which he'd examined only superficially in his studies. A week later he was asked to come to London for an interview, and a few days later he received a letter telling him that he'd been hired.

Although the interview had gone well, he was convinced that Brody must have more influence in professional circles than he'd imagined.

As he entered the classroom, his eyes fell on the good-looking redhead who sat in the center of the front row. He soon discovered she was an engaging, intelligent woman a few years younger than him, but she also made him uneasy and aware of his limited knowledge of British archaeology. She spoke up often, too often, interrupting him with a question or comment, or answering questions he posed to the class as if she were the only one present. But that wasn't the only reason he was wary of her. Her name was Deirdre Campbell, and she was the daughter of Joanna Campbell, the head of the department and his boss.

"Archaeology is one profession where you can take pleasant walks in the countryside, and still be working,"

Indy began as he stepped up to the podium. "In fact, we have a name for it. It's called fieldwalking."

He looked over the rows of bowed heads taking notes. Deirdre, however, sat back in her chair watching him. He explained that fieldwalking involved looking for deviations in the landscape. Slight undulations could indicate the remains of an ancient ditch or the site of a medieval village. Changes in the color of the soil or the density of the vegetation is another indicator. If the boundary of a field shifted for no apparent reason or the shoreline of a body of water followed a peculiarly straight line, it might mean the presence of an ancient wall.

Indy looked up to see a hand raised in front of him. It didn't take her long to get started. "Yes, Deirdre?"

"What about Stonehenge?"

She spoke with a Scottish lilt, pronouncing it 'Stoon heenge.' Indy looked blankly at her. "What about it?"

"Well, fieldwalking (field-wooking, she said) didn't do much good there. People had walked all over Stonehenge and the surrounding area and didn't see the certain changes in the landscape because they were too close to them."

Thank God he knew what she was talking about. There was nothing in the syllabus about the use of aerial photog raphy, but he'd been preparing for an upcoming lecture on Stonehenge and had read about the photos taken of the

ruins.

"Good point," he said and quickly explained what she meant. Near the end of the war, a military airport was built a short distance from the ruins, and photographs taken by a squadron of the Royal Air Force in the summer of 1921 revealed some surprising details. It was discovered that the grain in an area leading away from the monument grew darker in colors than the surrounding grain. Yet, it was impossible to see the difference from ground level.

"Does anyone know what would cause this to happen?"

Of course Deirdre did.

"It shows that the ground had been dug up in those darker areas, and the roots of the plants were able to penetrate the tough layer of chalk that's just beneath the top soil."

"That's right," Indy said. "In September of '23, Crawford and Passamore began studying these darker areas, using the pictures as their only guide. They discovered the exact entrance to the ruin and a straight road which reached nearly to Amesbury, eight miles to the north. Stonehenge may very well be the first archaeological site anywhere that has taken advantage of aerial photography. I'm sure we'll see a lot more of it. But we can thank the Royal Air Force for furthering our knowledge of Stonehenge."

Indy looked up to see Deirdre's hand again. He knew most teachers would love to have a dozen bright students like Deirdre in class, but she was getting out of hand.

"What about the controversy with the military authori ties?" she asked.

Even when she posed a question, she phrased it in a way that showed she already knew the answer.

What the hell was she doing, testing him for her mother? This time he was at a loss. In spite of all the time he spent preparing his lectures, he knew there were things he was missing, and this must be one of them.

"Sorry. I'm not sure what you mean."

"That's understandable," she said in a knowing voice. "You haven't been in England long, and I hear they don't report our British doings very thoroughly in your newspa pers. But it was quite a controversy here.

Near the end of the war, the authorities wanted to knock down Stonehenge, because they felt the stones might be dangerous to low flying airplanes."

"You're kidding."

"Not at all. It was quite a stink."

Indy noticed several heads bobbing in agreement. "Well, I'll have to look into it," he muttered and cleared his throat again. He was angry with Deirdre. She was acting as if this were her class. He needed to straighten her out, and quickly.

She must have sensed his unease, because she only spoke up a couple more times during the remainder of his lecture. As the class came to an end, Indy said the next time he would be talking about Stonehenge.

"We've al ready discussed menhirs and dolmens, and now you can add trilithons to your vocabulary. Your assignment is to

read all the articles entitled, 'Excavations at Stonehenge,' by Colonel William Hawley that have been published in the Antiquaries Journal since 1920. Hawley, as you should know, is the archaeologist in charge of the current digging at Stonehenge. We'll talk about what he's found so far and the implications.

By the way, does anyone know what he found under the so-called Slaughter Stone?"

After a few seconds, Deirdre raised her hand, but this time only to shoulder level. Indy waited a moment longer for other hands, but there were no others. "Go ahead, Deirdre."

"He's found some flint tools and pottery shards, and also stone mauls and deer-antler picks. But I think the item you're referring to is a bottle of port left by another archaeologist, Colt Hoare, a hundred years ago."

Everyone laughed.

"Very good. You stole my joke. See me after class, will you, Miss Campbell? Class dismissed."

As they filed out of the room, Indy gathered up his notes and thought about what he would say. When every one but Deirdre had left, he remained behind his podium as if he were about to continue his lecture for a class of one. She approached the podium with her hands folded in front of her over a notebook. She was a petite woman, an inch or two over five feet. Her long auburn hair had curls that twirled down over her shoulders. Her skin was pale, and her eyes were the violet of heather. She wore just a touch of makeup.

There was something contradictory about her appearance. She was frail, but savvy; innocent, but sophisticated. Looking at her for some reason made him think of an oxymoron his father used to quote when his mother was agitated about something trivial. 'O heavy lightness, serious vanity!'

"You're Scottish, aren't you, Deirdre?" he began.

"Yes, I am."

"So am I. Well, I mean my father is, or was. He was born in Scotland." Bad start.

She stared directly into his eyes, challenging him, a slight smile on her lips. "Is that why you asked me to stay after class, so we could discuss our ancestries?"

He cleared his throat. He was nervous. She was the one who should be, but wasn't. "I want to ask you if you. . ."

"Yes?"

He looked down at the podium. "... if you would mind... Deirdre, why you're taking this class? I mean you seem to know the material, and your mother is certainly more knowledgeable about British archaeology than I am."

"But you're the one teaching the class. She's not. I can't get credits through heredity."

He knew that if he angered her it might get back to her mother and it could be the end of his chances for being rehired for the fall, but he had to say something. "Deirdre, listen, I'd appreciate it if you would give the others in the class a chance to talk."

Her eyes blinked rapidly, "What do you mean?"

"I think you might be intimidating them."

"Oh? No reason for it. They're certainly free to say anything they like."

"Yeah." Indy looked down at the podium again as if his notes would give him an idea of what to say.

"Can I make an observation, Professor?"

Now what? "Go ahead."

"It seems to me that you are the one who is intimidated."

He shrugged. "Not intimidated, just a bit irritated."

"Why?"

"Look, this is my first teaching job. I've never been involved in any fieldwork here. I'm not English."

"You don't have to apologize to me for not being Eng lish. Remember, I'm not either."

Indy didn't join her laughter. "And your mother is my boss."

"You don't have to make an accusation out of that fact. If you want to know, I'm enjoying your class. I think you're doing a terrific job, and I've told Joanna, my mum."

"Why, thank you."

"She keeps teasing me about you." She smiled awkwardly, her face reddened. "I better go."

He watched her leave. He smiled to himself. A real oddball, that one. He liked her, he decided. But then he'd known that from the first day of class.

INDIANA JONES AND THE DANCE OF THE GIANTS will be available in May 1991 wherever Bantam Books are sold.