The Third Gate

20

The discovery of the skeleton had another effect beyond boosting the spirits of the searchers and raising the level of excitement across the Station-it also heralded the approach of Porter Stone himself. Arriving sometime late that evening under cover of darkness, he called for a Station-wide meeting the following morning. All work-even the diving itself-would take a thirty-minute recess while Stone addressed the expeditionary team.

The meeting was to be held in the largest space on the Station: the machine shop in Green. As Logan stepped into the shop at precisely ten o’clock, he looked around curiously. Metal racks stretched from floor to ceiling on three of the walls, containing every imaginable part, tool, and piece of equipment. Several Jet Skis sat on lifts in various stages of disassembly. A half-dozen other large sections of engines and diving equipment were arrayed on metal tables. In one corner sat what looked like part of the ruined generator, its flanks blackened and ugly under the bright work lights.

Logan’s glance shifted from the room itself to those standing within it, waiting for Stone. It was an incredibly diverse crowd: scientists in lab coats, technicians, divers, roustabouts, cooks, electricians, mechanics, engineers, historians, archaeologists, pilots-a throng of some one hundred and fifty people, all gathered here at the whim of a single man: a man with a crystal clear vision of what he wanted to accomplish and with the iron will to see that vision through.

As if on cue, Stone stepped into the machine shop. The crowd broke into spontaneous applause. Stone moved through the multitude, shaking hands, murmuring fragments of sentences to people who stopped him. He had abandoned the Arab garb for a linen suit, but if he had been wearing a leather bomber jacket and a pith helmet he would have looked no more the adventurer: something about his tanned, heavily weathered skin and the way his tall, lean body moved with an almost animal grace seemed to exude exploration and discovery.

Reaching the back of the room, he turned to face the group, smiling broadly, and raised his hands. Gradually, the crowd fell into a restive silence. Stone glanced around, still smiling, allowing the drama to build. And then at last he cleared his throat and began to speak.

“My first experience as a treasure seeker,” he said, “took place when I was eleven. In the Colorado town where I grew up, there was a local legend about a band of Indians that had once lived in the fields just outside town. Boys like myself, college students, even professional archaeologists had visited those fields again and again, dug holes and test trenches, swept the area with metal detectors-all without finding so much as a single bead. I was among them. I must have wandered over those fields a dozen times, eyes on the ground, searching.

“And then one day I raised my eyes from the ground. I looked-really looked — at the place for the first time. Beyond the fields, the land fell gently down to the Rio Grande, about a mile away. There were stands of cottonwoods along the river, and the grass was lush and thick.

“In my youthful mind’s eye I traveled back two hundred years. I saw a band of Indians, camped on the river’s edge. There was water for drinking and cooking, abundant fish, sweet grass for the horses, shade and shelter beneath the trees. Then I looked at the dry, barren field in which I stood. Why, I wondered, would Native Americans make their camp here-when another, more favorable spot was so close by?

“So I hiked the mile down to the river and began poking around in the dirt and grass by the riverbank. And within ten minutes I discovered this.” Reaching into his pocket, he drew something out and held it up for the crowd to see. Logan saw it was an obsidian arrowhead, perfectly flaked: a real beauty.

“I went back to that site many more times,” Stone continued. “I found more points, along with clay pipes, stone pestles, and a host of other things. But nothing, before or since, has ever filled me with such excitement as the discovery of that very first arrowhead. These days, I never go anywhere without it.” He replaced it in his pocket, then glanced at the throng, his eyes roving from person to person, before speaking again.

“It wasn’t just the thrill of discovery. It wasn’t just uncovering something of beauty, something of value. It was using my intellect, my ability to think outside the scholarly box, to unravel the riddles of the past. All the many others before me had accepted as gospel the stories of where those Native Americans had camped. I, too, started out that way-but then I learned an important lesson. A lesson I’ve never forgotten.”

Putting his hands in his pockets, he began to stride back and forth as he spoke. “Archaeological excavation, my friends, is like a mystery story. The past likes to keep its secrets. It doesn’t want to yield them up. So it’s my job to play detective. And any good detective knows that the best way to solve a mystery is to bring as many tools, as much evidence, as much investigation, to bear as possible.”

He stopped abruptly, ran a hand through his white hair. “As you know, I’ve done this many times before-with results that speak for themselves. I’m doing it again here and now. I have spared no expense on research or equipment-or talent. All of you standing before me are the best at what you do. I have done my part-and, with the discovery of this skeleton, almost without doubt the personal bodyguard of the pharaoh Narmer-we find ourselves once again on the very cusp of success. I am convinced we are days, mere days, from finding the tomb-and in so doing, learning more of those secrets that the past tries so hard to conceal.”

He glanced again over the silent group. “As I said, I have done my part. Now-now that we are so close-it is time to do yours. Our window of opportunity is short. I am relying on you all to give me one hundred and ten percent effort. Whatever your position here-whether you lead a dive team or you wash dishes in the mess-you are an integral, a critical part of a machine. Every last one of you is vital to our success. I want you to remember that in the coming days.”

Stone cleared his throat once again. “Somewhere beneath our feet are the unguessable treasures that Narmer gathered around himself, that he placed in his tomb to accompany him into the afterlife. Our discovery, and our study, of these treasures will not only make you all famous-they will make you rich. Not necessarily in monetary terms, though of course that is part of it. But most important, they will expand our knowledge of the earliest Egyptian kings a thousandfold-and that is the kind of richness that we, as the detectives of history, can never get enough of.”

There was another burst of applause. Stone let it continue for fifteen seconds, then thirty, before finally raising his hands again.

“I won’t keep you any longer,” he said. “You all have jobs to do. As I’ve said, over the next several days I’ll be wanting, and expecting, your very best. Are there any questions?”

“I’ve got one,” Logan heard himself say into the silence.

As a hundred and fifty heads turned to look at him, Logan wondered what on earth had made him speak up. It was something he’d been mulling over privately-but he hadn’t intended to voice his speculations aloud.

Porter Stone didn’t appear to have expected any questions, because he had already turned away to speak with March. At the sound of Logan’s voice, however, he turned back, searching the crowd.

“Dr. Logan?” Stone said, spotting him.

Logan nodded.

“What’s on your mind?”

“It’s something you said just now. You said that Narmer gathered his treasures around himself, placed them in his tomb, so they could accompany him to the next world. But I was wondering-isn’t it possible that, in building such a remote and secret tomb, he wasn’t simply amassing his valuables but hiding them, protecting them, as well?”

Stone frowned. “Of course. All kings tried to protect their earthly goods against vandals and tomb robbers.”

“That wasn’t the kind of protection I meant.”

There was a brief silence. Then Stone spoke again. “An interesting conjecture.” He raised his voice, spoke to the assembled group. “Thanks again for your time. You may all return to your stations now.”

As the crowd began to break up and move away, heading for the machine shop exit, Stone turned once again to Logan. “Not you,” he said. “I think we should talk.”