by Andre Norton
"Baldies," Ross stated. "And one of them is probably lying up on one of those cliffs somewhere now, watching our reaction through a high-tech field glass and gloating. Damn."
"We can't know that," Ashe said. And, to Kosta, "What exactly happened? Did you see or speak with anyone?"
"No," Kosta said. "We chose this empty warehouse, cleared out recently from the looks of things, because it was the very last, the farthest from the city. No people around. Those over there—" he indicated one of the other warehouses, the closest about five hundred yards away, the others lying along the gentle hills in the direction of the city "—we kept them in sight most of the time. The people in that one were all busy with their fish. That was another reason we chose this location." He smiled grimly; when the sluggish air moved, it carried a strong smell of fish. "We did not think this place would be watched."
Ashe nodded. "Baldies might assume that time travelers might come here first and hide equipment. We probably ought to have foreseen that."
"With all our things disguised?" Eveleen asked.
No one answered. She looked around, then sighed. "Yes, we probably would have been on the watch here, too—if we expected unwanted visitors showing up from the past."
"We had just finished unloading the camp gear, and had started setting it up," Kosta said. "Then went back together so we could make the last trip in one session."
"Told you I should have stayed," Stavros muttered in Modern Greek, his big hands tight on the hilt of the knife he wore at his side, his brows a single furrowed line.
"We don't know how many any more than we know who," Ashe reminded everyone. "All right. Then we go immediately to our fallback plan: the men will sleep on the boat with the gear." He pointed to their disguised equipment. "Eveleen, you are in charge of finding us an observation base within the safety of the city."
Eveleen nodded.
"Then let's eat," Ashe said, "and get moving."
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SHORTLY AFTERWARD THEY sat on a grassy crag overlooking Akrotiri, eating the barley-and-lentil flatbread that Eveleen had bought hot from the oven, crumbled goat cheese on the top, and for dessert fresh-picked grapes. Ross and Kosta had carried the precious gear back to the boat, where Kosta stayed on guard.
The setting was pretty, a green little shelter carved by runoff, the view spectacular, the food actually quite tasty, but no one was in a good mood.
"So they're here." Ross spoke finally, surprised he felt more satisfaction than any other emotion.
Of course. It was because the presence of the Baldies gave them a purpose, a direction, a goal. Something definite to aim for, accomplish—and then get out.
Stavros grinned, a brief, somewhat martial flash of teeth that was easy enough for Ross to interpret: Stav, and Kosta as well, welcomed more than feared the prospect of the Baldies trying to find and get aboard their ship.
Ashe, noting Stav's reaction, did not hide his snort of amusement. He said, "Just as well you'll be working off some of that hotheadedness with me up on the mountain."
Stavros and Ross both grinned. Ashe gave Ross a wry look, then turned back to Stavros. "And you can begin working it off by getting the gear up there."
Stavros laughed. "With all respect, I shall permit a donkey to bear it instead."
"And you get to coax the donkey. My guess is that'll be work enough," Ashe retorted.
Stavros opened his palm. "Ah, it is true enough. Even 3,600 years up-time, the beasts have wicked tempers. I do not expect them to be sweeter now."
"So would I if my existence was defined as 'beast of burden,' " Eveleen put in. "Well, I'm ready to go."
Ashe said, "Let's get back to the ship and get a good night's rest. Tomorrow will be rough."
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TOMORROW'S ROUGHNESS BEGAN shortly after midnight, when blue lightning ripped through the stifling heat. With the first crack of thunder came hail. It drummed on the canopy, which was made of treated cloth indistinguishable from contemporary material—except that it was quite waterproof. Stavros, on current watch, could just be heard swearing as he hastily got under cover.
As abruptly as it had started, the hail turned into rain, a gritty, eye-stinging rain full of volcanic ash. Despite the canopy's shelter the normal working of the boat let the water seep in, and some dripped down onto Ross's face. In the reflected blue glare of more lightning he saw the others in their hammocks, eyes open, faces bespattered with dirty, stinging drips of rain.
No one spoke. At least the hail and rain flattened the sea down substantially; the boat had been rocking fretfully since they'd retired.
The rain continued, a dull, steady roar, and Ross closed his eyes again. He was on the edge of chill; he reached for the fake fur rolled up on a tiny shelf above his hammock, cast it over himself, and as warmth returned, so did drowsiness. Despite the fury of the storm, he was soon asleep.
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WHEN THEY WOKE up, the air was washed clean, the breeze from the west pure and brisk.
Konstantin had prepared breakfast for them before coming below to retire. Fresh-caught fish, grilled over an open fire, and more of the flatbread constituted the meal. Smelling it, Eveleen felt her mouth water. Her head felt clear, and she smiled at the clean blue sky in the west.
A glance eastward, though, diminished her good mood. There was the ubiquitous smoke, slowly drifting westward as the breeze died. The volcanic smog was making a comeback.
As Eveleen ate in silence, she listened to Ross and Ashe talk in low voices with Stavros, planning how they would get the heat resistant suits up the mountain without calling attention to themselves. The proof that the Baldies were definitely here had caused the first rule to be implemented: their cautionary radio silence was now, except for dire emergency, to-tai.
The Baldies were here.
Linnea voiced a worry when the women waded ashore and started up the trail toward the city. "Do you think that attack on our camp was the Baldies, then? If so, why?"
Eveleen gave her head a shake. Of course Linnea had been fully briefed on what little they knew of the Baldies. It was so little, missing any hint of motivation, that Eveleen knew that personal experience would be more convincing than mere reference to old reports. "I can't guess. So far, the Baldies have not exactly been subtle when they see us. If that was them, it could have been a test, or a warning, even. They obviously didn't want to risk being seen, for they could easily have waited and attacked Stav and Kosta. Seen or heard: the men would have set up a shout, and maybe those fishers would have come running. The camp attack was probably done fast and silent."
Linnea nodded and blanched slightly. Eveleen wondered if she was thinking of the Baldies' efforts in human mind control, which had worked with unpredictable results. Ross's scarred hand was one result, though admittedly he had been wearing one of their shimmery-fabric suits when it occurred. "I don't think the Baldies could do their mind tricks with a whole crowd of determined fishers. I think they have to concentrate on us one at a time. And as for the ship being attacked next, Stav and Kosta have it well protected. They won't get it as easily as they got that camp."
"All right, then," Linnea said, in a determinedly bright voice. "So let's see if we can find anything that might answer some of our questions." She smiled. "And at the same time regard this as a shopping opportunity of a lifetime."
Eveleen laughed. When they reached the spot where the trail joined a bigger road, packed hard from years of pounding by biped and quadruped feet, they fell silent, melding into the crowd heading toward Akrotiri.
The clatter of voices rose around them. Eveleen listened to everyday chatter as they neared the great gates. The sacred horns rose up against the sky, silhouetted against the milky blue. Already the volcanic haze was spoiling the pure brilliance of morning.
Linnea clutched her basket protectively against her. It was an ordinary basket heaped with small packages wrapped in cloth and leather
. The ones on top were indeed the food they were meant to suggest; her equipment nestled underneath. Eveleen preferred wearing hers under her clothing, to keep her hands free.
Not that there was any overt threat here. Eveleen realized that Linnea had stopped, and alarm flared briefly through her until she saw Linnea resting her basket on a low wall as she watched a group of magnificently dressed young women parading down the street, their arms full of crocus flowers. Somehow, somewhere, someone had managed to grow flowers, despite the increasingly cruel slaps of Nature all around them.
Eveleen, staring after them, remembered how often she'd read statements about human adaptability. Here was living proof. She realized she'd expected furtive sneaking about, or outright fear, and not people laughing, talking, carrying on with their lives.
A group of younger girls, sudden as starlings, danced around them, singing, their voices high and birdlike in the open air.
Linnea drew a deep breath.
"The saffron makers," Eveleen guessed, remembering her research.
A single nod.
The procession wound its way past them, making for one of the great buildings in which religious ceremonies took place. As they wound their way along the narrow street, they could still hear singing coming from the open windows of a low building that was still left standing.
Pungent smells assailed them: fish, goat, the pervasive stink of burning rock. Dyers stirred great pots, the fires beneath pale in the glary light. Strong herbal odors drifted on the thick, dusty air. At the sides of the street rubble had been piled neatly; men of various ages swarmed about the bigger piles, some putting down big jagged pieces of stone, others taking them to carts and hauling them away—instant recycling.
Eveleen realized that Linnea had become so mesmerized watching the cloth makers, the potters, the seed grinders and bakers, she'd forgotten about their orders to watch for signs of Baldies' presence before the bedazzlement of seeing living, breathing people performing the homey, everyday activities that scholars far on the other side of the mists of time would spend hours speculating about.
Eveleen didn't remind her. Experience had taught her that this sort of academic reverie was actually trustworthy: an expert would see an anomaly at least as fast as, maybe even faster than, the more mission-focused observer. It was just very slow going. After a time, Eveleen got tired of watching bartering and looked around for signs of rebuilding. She wondered why Linnea seemed so intent on these little exchanges of goods for goods, until she finally realized that what Linnea was looking for was evidence of someone writing.
A flare of humor almost caused Eveleen to laugh. Linnea Edel was an unreconstructed academic, even after their hasty training: she was not looking for Baldies; she was on the lookout for someone carving Linear A hieroglyphs into clay, so that she could confirm or refute recent scholarship on its decoding!
Ought she to say something? No. Her instinct was good. If Linnea was watching people that closely, she might notice something Eveleen wouldn't.
On they walked, back and forth up the hill, along narrow streets with hot sun reflecting heat waves in almost visible sheets. Twice minor tremors caused people to halt, to shift their eyes anxiously up, or down, to pause in conversation, but when the earthquake died, work and talk resumed, in several languages.
"... I heard the goddess has still not spoken," an old woman told another in Ancient Greek, as they portioned out water in tiny red-clay cups from a great urn.
"Not for three moons. It is why my sister and her family decided to sail. I believe we must wait and be patient. She has always spoken to us before."
"True, true. She will speak when speech becomes necessary. So I tell my son, who fears for the children. He says times have become so strange, with both fire and water rising from the earth, and rocks falling from the sky, he fears the goddess has departed, leaving us to the fire spirits."
A long sigh was the answer, and the two women turned away.
Eveleen and Linnea walked on, Eveleen watching the movements of the people. Un-self-conscious, busy, socializing as they worked, they all appeared to be genuine Kallistans. Eveleen knew that she must look for anything out of place, but she kept envisioning Baldies shrouded in cloth, lurking about on the edges of crowds. Watching for them? Surely they would not interact with the people any more than she and Linnea must, except in the most superficial manner.We must not stand out, Eveleen thought.We are aliens to the Baldies, which is a kind of protection if we are careful not to make any mistakes. If they are searching for us, we must remain indistinguishable from all these others.
"Grapes?" A gentle hand nudged her arm. "Grapes? Grown well away from the smoke, tasting sweet?"
A young girl looked up into Eveleen's face, gold earrings very much like her own swinging next to dusky-colored cheeks. Candid brown eyes assessed her, and then the girl repeated her question in two other tongues.
Eveleen wet her lips, and then said in Ancient Greek, "I have been thinking about grapes."
The dark brows arched in surprise. "Ah! You will find that mine are sweetest. Here. Taste one." Nimble fingers twisted at a plump grape at the top of the basket.
Eveleen smiled as she glimpsed the older, slightly withered ones beneath.The girl's sales wiles would probably work better on those young men over there, building the ship, she thought. But she tasted the grape, which had the same slightly bitter tang as those she'd bought the day before.
"Eh," she said.
The girl's face altered into intent: now it was time to bargain.
As they embarked on their exchange, Eveleen was peripherally aware of Linnea looking in one direction, a slight frown between her brows.
She finished her bargain more hastily than she'd intended, and held out her hand. The girl glanced down at the little bits of lapis lazuli the scientists three thousand years into the future had furnished for everyday trade, scrupulously took two of the smallest, and stashed them in her skirt.
Then with a cheery wave she was gone, and a moment later Eveleen was vaguely aware of her sweet voice again, "Grapes! Sweet grapes?"
Eveleen dropped the bright blue bits of lapis into the pocket in her skirt, aware of Linnea sighing with regret as she watched the young woman walk away.
"What is it?" she murmured in Ancient Greek.
"If I could just hear repeated, slowly, her words in all those tongues, I could find Ancient Greek cognates in whatever it is these people talk among themselves when traders from the other Cyclades Islands are not around."
Linear A again, Eveleen thought with a spurt of amusement. Detectives on a murder case have nothing on archaeologists for single-mindedness!
But then she realized Linnea was frowning back in the other direction. "What is it?" she murmured, looking at some brightly woven rugs hanging over a dusty stone wall that ended abruptly just above a landslide.
"Is there something odd about that little square over there?" Linnea asked, her chin lifting slightly off to the right.
Eveleen helped herself to one of the grapes she'd stashed in a shawl sling she'd fashioned from extra fabric, and as she chewed she glanced casually up, sweeping the right.
Nothing looked out of place. In booths marked by low stone walls, built round a tiny side square with mats fixed up as temporary shelter, a man was busy beating bronze sheets into tools; several cheerfully naked small children played a game with smooth pebbles; an old, toothless woman expertly spun thread through her fingers. On the other side, several young girls were busy winnowing fava seeds from beans, singing quietly and without much joy.
Distracted, Eveleen watched the girls tossing aside black-spotted, withered beans, their gestures expressive of reluctance, of worry: clearly a poor harvest. The older women watched, one singing. Another was getting the shelled seeds ready for sun drying, her lips pressed together in a tight line. Others ground dried beans with round stone mills, their song soft and soothing.
What else was there to notice? Eveleen looked more closely at th
e people as she and Linnea moved slowly along. Linnea stooped to examine bronze tools being made, then straightened up, shaking her head. The artisan, seeing her, turned his shoulder, and Linnea breathed, "House. Next to the monkeys."
Eveleen did another casual sweep, this time scanning behind the people and along the buildings. The primary building near them was a house with three low windows and one door around which were painted dancing monkeys in a graceful pattern. Above each window there was a long-tailed swallow painted, bright blue, each bird flying upward.
The front of the house looked intact, but one could see through the gaping windows that the roof had fallen in, and no one was inside.
Those swallows definitely caught the eye, Eveleen thought, glancing at the women going in and out of a smaller jury-rigged building adjacent. Next to that was a smaller house, somewhat tucked back, very plain—like so many along the streets. No one went in, no one came out, and there was no one visible in the one window.
Linnea walked on and examined fabric draped over a low window adjacent to the two houses. Eveleen bent over the rough cloth, brightly dyed blue and red in lovely patterns that would appeal to people in modern times, but she forced herself to observe beyond the heads of the spinners sitting inside the window. Now she was looking across the little court.
Then she saw it: people walked in and out of all the few whole buildings along the street, in and out of shacks, lean-tos, tents draped from old walls, and mat-covered awnings— every structure, in short, except that one.
As she watched, one of the pebbles from the children's game bounced in the direction of the mystery house. A child ran to get it, his steps faltered, though there was no apparent barrier, then he reached down and snatched up his stone and retreated in haste.
"Force field?" Eveleen whispered. And, with an inward pang, "I should have seen that."
Linnea turned away from the fabric and murmured as she rummaged in her basket, "You were watching the people, as is right. But we archaeologists ... we are trained to observe the negative spaces, you might say."