Artifact

by Gregory Benford

  “So in hard times it’s easier for them to opt for the Marxist-style authoritarian bamboozle—gimme dat ole time religion?” John asked.

  “I’m afraid so. Kontos doesn’t look much like Thomas Jefferson.”

  “C’mon, you two,” George said. “You’re depressing me.”

  They ambled out into the slanted light of afternoon. At the edge of town a balcony hung over the cliff, mute testimony to the eruption and slides of 1956. Claire breathed deeply of the crisp, tangy air. Hermes, god of wayfarers, was with them.

  They took the meandering cliffside path back toward the hotel. John admired the sweeping view and said, “So this was Atlantis, huh?”

  Claire could hardly let this pass. “No, that’s Sunday supplement archeology. Crete was Atlantis. The Egyptians got confused somehow. They told the Greeks a thousand years later that a great island civilization was destroyed by explosion and sank beneath the waves. Well, Crete got all the dust and ash from here dumped on it, and suffered earthquakes, too—that was the origin of the legend. But Santorini did the job, not a mountain in Crete.”

  John asked, “But Crete is a hundred miles from here.”

  George waved an arm at the bay. “Wonder how many hydrogen bombs it would take to do this?”

  John replied, “I calculated it. Half a dozen of the big hundred-megaton ones.” He turned to Claire. “If it happened all at once. But you said the palace at Knossos burned down twice.”

  “Santorini exploded twice, too,” Claire said. “There were a steady series of small eruptions in between, and the second big one finished them off. It was the largest catastrophe in history.”

  And, she thought, in an odd kind of payment, it left a beautiful island. The other Cycladic islands were part of the limestone range that sloped down through the Peloponnese, yielding sea-facing valleys, which in turn led the ancients to voyage south to Crete. Geology sped history. Santorini was something freshly thrust into that world, a volcanic intrusion.

  She turned to walk down a steep slope to the Atlantean. She searched out her room, counting up floors and identifying it by her balcony’s filigreed wrought iron railing. Tomorrow was time enough to visit the museum, search for some connections to the ivory map. For now she was tired from the strain of the last days. She needed to relax, forget things, lounge in the sunset and doze until it was time for another walk, some shopping, a dinner of the miraculous seafood—

  A man in a black suit walked out onto her balcony.

  He looked out at the view. Claire stopped, looking for cover. There was none.

  “Turn around!” she cried. The two men halted, stared at her. “Back down the path!”

  John’s eyes widened as he looked beyond her. He turned and George followed.

  She said, “George, walk out ahead. Make it look like we’re not together.”

  George hurried ahead. John asked, “Don’t police wear uniforms?”

  “Not always. There are new security branches that don’t.”

  It seemed forever before they regained the top of the hill and descended beyond view of the hotel. She peeked back from behind a bone-dry bush. Her balcony was bare. Well, if the man had recognized them it was finished; they had no place to hide.

  “It could have been the hotel manager or something,” George volunteered.

  “We can’t bet on that,” John said.

  “If they’re looking for us, Phira is too damn small to get lost in,” George said.

  Claire said decisively, “It’s better than standing in the open. Come on.”

  At the first new path they turned inland. It was bizarre, she thought, hiking through lovely countryside, discussing how to elude the police. Surreal. They increased their pace, warily studying every native who came within even distant view.

  “Look,” John said. “I picked up our passports when we left for lunch. George has his already. We can just go to the airport, wait for the first plane—”

  “Naw,” George put in. “That airport’s a dinky little thing. We’d stand out, the police’d grab us right away. Besides, I don’t think there’s another tour ship till ours.”

  “And they’ll have that covered,” Claire added.

  John said, “Then let’s take the Attika back to Crete.”

  Claire shook her head. “They’ll watch that, too.”

  “We’re trapped,” George said.

  John thought for a moment. “Not if we can rent a boat.”

  “To sail ourselves?” George asked. “I can’t.”

  “Me either,” Claire said.

  “I can do it, I think. At least get to the next island,” John added.

  “This is a dangerous season for sailing,” Claire said, remembering reading that somewhere, a history of Aegean commerce or something. “Unreliable winds, the meltemi I think they’re called.”

  John said sarcastically, “OK, that leaves swimming.”

  “I was merely considering all possibilities,” Claire said stiffly.

  “Where can we get a boat?” George asked.

  “Not here in Phira,” John said. “A cop could stand on the pier and see us coming down those steps for fifteen minutes.”

  “All right,” Claire said. “We have to go across the island.” They had circled around and were re-entering the white-washed streets of Phira. “I’ll find a cab.”

  “Wait a minute,” John said. “Suppose we get to the next island. Then what?”

  “Let’s go back to Crete, hop a flight to Egypt,” George said.

  “And end up with nothing to show for all this running around?” Claire said scornfully.

  “All right then,” John said firmly. “There’s only one way—by sea. Back to the Peloponnese.”

  Claire thought. “And then?”

  “Out of Greece. They’ll grab us at any airport, any commercial ship, certainly at a train station. We have to sail out.”

  They all stopped, looking at each other.

  “Look,” George said, “this is getting out of hand.”

  “You got any better idea?” John asked irritably.

  Another silence. Then: “No.”

  “I don’t want to alarm you gentlemen, but I have one requirement more. I want my notes.”

  “The ones in your bags?” John asked.

  “Correct.”

  “We can’t go back to the hotel,” George said.

  “I’m not leaving my research notes here.”

  “Hey, this is getting—”

  “I know, out of hand,” Claire said. “All right, you two stay here. I’ll do it.”

  John said slowly, “Now, hold on. I’ll help you.”

  “Good! Let’s find a phone.”

  “You’ve got an idea?” John seemed surprised.

  “Certainly.” She started toward an open air restaurant.

  Both men ordered beer in the bar while she called the hotel. The clerk answered. “Hello, this is Miss Anderson, the American? In Room 308? Well, I ordered a taxi to pick us up there in, um, well, right now.”

  “Yes?” The clerk sounded interested.

  “To take us to that town north of here? Oia?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, we’re going to be late. We met some friends here at the Delphi Hotel and we’re having drinks and I don’t think we’ll have time to go to Oia today. So could you tell the taxi man that please, when he comes?”

  “Of course, yes.”

  Claire thanked him and gushed a little more. As she rattled on she heard him whisper in Greek, “Yes, them.” She smiled, finished and hung up.

  They approached the hotel cautiously, down a winding back pathway between brilliant white houses. “This is too risky,” George said.

  “Stay here, then,” John said brusquely. “If we don’t come back, try the airport.”

  Claire watched the two men eye each other. George saw he was being challenged. Still, he shook his head. “I just don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “Fine,” John said. “S
tay here.”

  “No, wait,” Claire said. “George, wait until we get around to the back. See that terrace on the left?—I’ll wave to you from there. Then call the hotel and keep the clerk on the line. That’ll be some kind of diversion.”

  George leaped at this. “Hey, sure.”

  It didn’t take long. She and John reached the back entrance to the hotel easily, encountering only an old woman who tried to sell them a necklace of obsidian beads. There was no one in the first floor corridor.

  “I’ll go up first,” John said.

  “No, I don’t want to stay down here.”

  “I didn’t say you should.” He looked at her quizzically. “I think they’ll pay more attention if they see you first, is all.”

  Claire followed him, breathing more rapidly than the steep, winding stairway explained. The hotel held a prickly silence, the air heavy with the oily smell of lunch long past. She brought the heels of her sensible walking shoes down gently, listening for footsteps from the side corridors as they passed.

  She heard a distant irritated voice. The clerk, talking to George.

  The hallway leading to their rooms was empty. John signaled to her. They each went to their rooms and opened the doors. Nothing. No sign of disturbance. For an instant Claire was sure it was a stupid mistake, that the man on the balcony was innocuous. She hesitated while she thrust a blouse into her bag, thought of calling to John, and then she saw the cigarette butt in the ash tray. The brand was ENOE, and it had been economically smoked down to the barest brown nub. No hotel manager would leave such glaring evidence of intrusion.

  In seconds they had their bags and George’s. They hastened down again, flushed with success.

  When they circled around to George he had already arranged a taxi. She was jumpy, looking in all directions, and John forcefully opened the door of the cab and ushered her in. They set off for the eastern shore of the island, urging the driver to hurry.

  The small village of Perissa had a short quay of weathered concrete and rock. A single shack stood at the entrance, and the man there responded drowsily to her questions, getting slowly to his feet.

  Was there a man who could take them on a long cruise, several days, to the islands, perhaps north? The dock attendant was unsure. Perhaps the boat near the end, did you see? It was for fishing but the owner lived aboard; it could be that he would do such a thing. But the boat, it was only so big, not for so many people. Not for Americans, who were used to living with the best, yes?

  She assured him they were interested anyway. The man promptly sat down and resumed reading his newspaper. The headlines bore gaudy accusations against the USA.

  They walked along the quay, where a fishing boat lay with nets strung high, airing in the sun. This was a working vessel, its name, Skorpio, half obscured by discoloration. Rusty winches and a hoist needed oil. It lay stern on to blue and yellow diagonals painted on the concrete.

  John pointed to them. “If they use standard harbor markings, those mean this area’s reserved for visiting boats. Must be a fisherman from another island.”

  Claire said, “There aren’t any significant islands south of us. He must be heading north from here, then.”

  “Good. Before we go aboard, let’s plan. We’ve got cash—show him some. I want to get under way fast.”

  “He’ll need supplies, though.”

  “We can help him bring them aboard.”

  “The police won’t know we came here. We have a little time.”

  “No we don’t. If they come back from the Delphi and check our rooms, they’ll see our luggage gone. One phone call to that dock man back there and we’re finished.”

  “Oh.” She scowled. It was all going so fast. What had started as an adventure, a thumbing of her nose at Kontos, was deepening, never giving her time to rethink. She remembered assuming light-heartedly, only a day ago, that surely if they were caught, the police would simply send them out of the country. But now there were new laws and restrictions in Athens and she hadn’t had a chance to read a newspaper, to consider what that meant. Could they be charged with something serious? Kontos knew they were still in the country, he had alerted the police. What would he do if they were brought in to him?

  Claire had thought they’d gotten away with something. Now she saw that things were only beginning.

  CHAPTER

  Four

  After midnight you got a feeling for the different densities, even the different colors of darkness.

  John stood on the narrow fantail of the Skorpio and felt the murmuring darkness of the living sea around them. Beyond, a few hundred yards away, the looming lamp-black mass of the cliff swallowed the sea’s mutter and gave back a faintly tinny echo of waves and slapping surf. Above, thick clouds made a clotted inky silence. Beneath this blanket a faint luminous ivory-yellow line of foam marked where waves creamed hollowly among the fallen boulders of the thin, ash-gray storm beach.

  They would land a little to the right, where a path wandered down to the grainy sand. He had studied it yesterday afternoon through the captain’s binoculars, trying to remember exactly where everything was at the camp site on the other side of the hill. It had been odd to ride at anchor only a few hundred yards away from the site, but secure in the knowledge that no one ever paid any attention to the sea around the hill. Or so they thought.

  By the time they had reached the coast of the Peloponnese the captain, a Mr. Ankaros, had begun demanding more money. The ship’s radio had carried static-spattered news of more government measures. Foreign nationals were asked politely but firmly to leave within two weeks. Exceptions were allowed, but the intention was clear. The regime formally ratified its exit from NATO, denouncing the alliance’s policies as restrictive and warlike. Currency restrictions were tightened further. On the international front, there was another border dispute inside ever-shaky Russia, and the United States had begun operation of its High Orbit Laboratory.

  Claire had convinced Mr. Ankaros that they were merely down and out tourists who wanted a touch of the true Greece, a few days of something unusual, a taste of how the real people lived. John wasn’t sure that Mr. Ankaros bought her earnest explanations, but the man did take the money they gave him, and had even agreed to sail them around the Peloponnesian peninsula and on to Italy. They had made a convincing show of swimming in the Gulf of Argos yesterday afternoon, and he and George had gone ashore for a little hiking at the island of Spetsae. Claire had insisted on devoting at least a full day to tourism, to establish in Mr. Ankaros’s mind the impression of a bunch of mildly eccentric travelers, taking in the crisp air and sun of late fall.

  They had carefully urged him further up into the Gulf, eyeing the cathedral-like cliffs until they agreed that they were beneath the tomb site. Then it was a matter of eating the food Mr. Ankaros prepared—fish caught during the day, vegetables bought at Spetsae—along with three bottles of wine.

  John burped suddenly, loudly, and hoped the sleeping Mr. Ankaros didn’t catch the sound. The fisherman had begun to sing before the second bottle was done. The three of them had seen to it that the captain got much more of the strong red than they did, and stayed up late with them. Necessary, yes, but John didn’t like to go off in a small skiff with a head even slightly dulled. They had all slept three hours, fully dressed, and had then silently gathered on the aft deck. John and George slept on the deck anyway, atop the fore and aft hatches, because there was only room for two below. Mr. Ankaros had his own V-berth forward, and Claire was given the privacy of the aft cabin bunk.

  They had barely managed to abide the cramped, smelly boat for the three days it had taken them to get here. The thought of another three days, if not more, to reach Italy was not appetizing. John was glad of this opportunity to get ashore and do something, to start bringing an end to this whole affair.

  It had started out as a lark, but three days at sea with the others had cured him of that. George threw up the entire first day and for the next two either lay on the
deck or complained. Claire had endured stoically, after being violently sick for the first hour out from Santorini. When they had said they couldn’t sail, they meant it. They didn’t know the mast from the mainsail. And three days on even as mild a sea as the Aegean had convinced both of them that they never, never wanted to learn.

  George murmured at his elbow, “How come we’re waiting?”

  “To let the wind shift more toward the bow. I want it to carry our noise away from where he’s sleeping.”

  That was true, but he also wanted to get the feel of the night, see if the weather was turning. It would be just fine if they found a choppy, high sea when they came back to the beach, stranding them. Operating at night was always risky, and doing it with minimum noise was worse. He already regretted going along with Claire’s insistence that they not tell Mr. Ankaros anything. True, he had not been able to think up a plausible reason for their going ashore at night. But as he felt the swelling power of the dark sea the consequences of failure were more real, the risks far larger than their calm, rational discussions ever admitted. His sunny boating weekends off Galveston were ludicrously skimpy preparation for this.

  John sighed. He shook off the effects of food and wine and gaffed the skiff closer. Claire was a slightly darker shadow behind George. “You two get in first. I’ll hold it.”

  They moved cautiously and managed not to thump noisily against the wood. John got in and pushed off with one motion. He fumbled for an oar and backed them off, memorizing the configuration of Skorpio’s running lights for later. George found the other oar and they paddled away, not risking the oar locks.

  It seemed to take a long laboring time to reach shore, navigating by the mutter of whitecaps on rocks. The purple sea shielded the foaming ivory wave line. A vagrant wave caught them amidships, wrenching the boat, and John thought for an instant they were going to go over. But the bow came around and abruptly they were skidding down a curling slope, dim luminescence springing in their wake. A black wedge rose to port and their keel bit in.

  “Out!” John leaped into the surprisingly warm water and pulled the bow forward, using the ebbing momentum of the wave. The others splashed beside him, tugging. On the next wave’s surge they hauled it up onto fist-sized pebbles. John secured it fore and aft with ropes tied to rocks. By the time he was finished George had their equipment in hand and had scouted the shoreline. They quickly found the barely visible path.