"Well?" Dr. Campbell asked.
"I'm sorry. I missed something."
The professor smiled, and glanced at her daughter, then back to Indy. "I asked you how you were finding British archaeology compared to Greek."
"I guess it's a bit like the difference in the languages. But once you're fluent you can easily go back and forth between the two."
"And are you fluent, as you say, in the British form?"
He wondered how much Deirdre had told her mother about the class, and if she had mentioned the admonition he'd given her for dominating classroom discussion. "I'm working on it."
"That's a fair answer to an unfair question, at least unfair coming from me," Dr. Campbell said.
"Not at all," Indy said, and tried to think of something to say so he could gracefully take his leave.
"By the way," Dr. Campbell said, leaning toward him, "I've heard rumors that some peculiar things have happened to people who hold the Omphalos. So much so that they don't allow it to be touched, anymore. Did anything like that happen to you when you found it at Delphi?"
Indy smiled, and shrugged. "People's imaginations run wild, you know. They think they're touching the Oracle of Delphi, or something, and it goes to their heads."
He gazed across the room, looking at nothing in particular. From his own experience with the Omphalos and those of others, he knew that the person holding the stone underwent some sort of transformation in thoughts and feelings. In his case, he'd seen his future as if he were living it in fast motion, and some of what he'd seen had already come to pass.
In spite of the wonder of it all, he never wanted to hold the Omphalos again. Things like that were not supposed to happen, and besides, when the experience was taking place and immediately afterwards, he'd felt as if he were losing his mind. He certainly wasn't about to talk about any of that with Joanna Campbell.
"Professor Jones, are you all right?" Deirdre asked.
He snapped out of his reverie. "I'm sorry. I was trying to remember how it affected me and to be honest, I can't recall much of anything."
"Well, I can understand that," Dr. Campbell said, "considering the circumstances." She turned to Deirdre. "There was an attempt to overthrow the king of Greece right there at Delphi, I understand, and one of the Greek archaeologists was somehow involved. Isn't that right?"
"There were a couple of harrowing moments. Well, my friend is waiting. I should be going now." He stood, and nodded to Dr. Campbell, then Deirdre.
"Professor Jones," Dr. Campbell said before he could get away, "one more thing. Do you know of the connection between the Greeks and the ancients of this island?"
Indy smiled uneasily. "I'm not sure what you mean, Dr. Campbell."
She regarded him a moment. "Think about it, Jones. I'm sure you know. It's part of your background. Nice to see you."
"I'll see you tomorrow," Deirdre said and flashed a brilliant smile.
"You will? Oh, in class. Of course." He nodded to both women again, backed away, and headed to the door.
Shannon was waiting outside. "Thought you were going to stay for another dinner."
"Sorry. Let's get out of here."
They headed down the wide avenue, making their way past a crowd on the corner where everyone spoke Italian. No matter what the hour, the streets of Soho bustled with crowds, and it seemed the languages varied from street to street. They crossed Greek Street a minute later, and Indy was actually surprised when he didn't hear anyone speaking Greek.
Shannon, meanwhile, was lost in another world. He snapped his fingers every other step as if he were hearing some tune inside his head. "She's a real looker, that one."
Indy looked around. "Who?"
"Who'd ya think? The redhead."
"Oh, Deirdre. She's more than that, Jack. She's one of my students, the brightest of the bunch. In fact, it's almost as if she's competing with me in class."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know. She acts like she knows as much as me, if not more."
"Maybe she does."
"Thanks a lot, ol' pal."
Shannon tapped him on the shoulder with his fist. "Just kidding. But if she knows so much, why is she taking the class?"
"That's what I asked her. Says she needs the credit. But I wonder if she's spying on me."
"Spying, for whom?" Shannon sidestepped a man wearing a topcoat and bowler hat who was making furtive gestures toward a woman who was leaning against a wall. She wore a short, frilly dress, and her eyes were painted so boldly that they seemed to cover half her face.
Nearby, another Soho prostitute motioned to Indy. He glanced momentarily at her, looked away. "Her mother, of course. I'm on probation. I won't know if I've got a full-time job until September."
"I think you're letting your imagination get the best of you. The girl's probably just a good student. Ever since you had that run-in with Dorian Belecamus, you don't trust any women you meet."
"That's not true. And stop throwing out her name like you're waving a red flag in front of me."
"You know what you ought to do?" Shannon said, ignoring Indy's burst of anger.
"What?"
"Take her out. Get to know her better. She can put in a good word for you. Hell, if she's going out to dinner with her mother, she's probably not seeing anyone."
"Jack, for God's sake, that's probably the worst thing I could do. Going out with a student is no way to prove anything, except that I'm willing to gamble my chances at a job."
Shannon seemed unconvinced. They walked on in silence, each with his own thoughts. Indy intentionally tried not to think about Deirdre. Instead, he puzzled a moment over the question Dr. Campbell had asked as he'd left. He wasn't even sure whether she was referring to the Celts, or the ancients before them, and he had no idea how they were connected with the Greeks. Another gap in his knowledge. But what was the point of her question? To test him? Maybe it was something important he should know. He'd better find out.
He wondered if Dr. Campbell was the professor Marcus Brody knew, the one who had told Marcus about the teaching job. She, in fact, had made the final decision to hire him. The turning point in the interview, oddly enough, had been related to his name.
"Indy Jones," she'd said, and smiled. The two other professors had chuckled, and one asked if he was any relation to In-e-go?
In-e-go who? he'd almost asked, but caught himself. In the days before the interview, he'd spent hours immersed in the study of texts on the ancient ruins of Britain, and remembered reading about Inigo Jones, architect general to King James I and Charles I.
"Oh, I don't think so. There're lots of us Joneses, and no relative of mine would think that Stonehenge was built by the Romans. Of course, that was three hundred years ago, and so much has changed in what we know of the ancients." The comment, he thought, must have pleased Dr. Campbell, and sealed her decision.
Finally, they reached the club. An evening of jazz was just what he needed. It would be his first night out since he'd arrived in London. How he'd changed since he and Shannon were in their last year at the University of Chicago. They'd been so caught up in their discovery of the underground world of jazz that had suddenly blossomed in Chicago that they'd both nearly dropped out. For Indy, the experience had filled a craving for adventure; for Shannon, it had been a more serious endeavor that had changed him forever, and eventually altered his future. He'd given up a secure job as an accountant in a growing trucking company for the uncertainty of a life as a jazz musician.
As they descended the stairs to the basement nightclub, Indy sensed someone watching him and glanced over his shoulder. He saw a man on the sidewalk moving toward him. He was tall and slender, with dark hair neatly combed back, and narrow eyes, and he was about Indy's age. It was the man he thought had been following him to the university. The man walked past the club, and down the street without a glance back.
"Did you see that guy?" Shannon asked, opening the door.
The smell of stale bee
r and smoke wafted over him as they stopped in the doorway. Indy heard a clatter of glasses, the babble of voices. "What about him?"
"I saw him on the street outside the restaurant while I was waiting for you, and I'm sure I've seen him hanging around Russell Square outside the flat."
Indy stared after the man who'd disappeared from sight. "It's probably nothing, just a coincidence," he said with a shrug.
But he didn't believe it.
4
Between the Shelves
All morning Indy cursed himself for staying out too late. Even though he didn't have any classes today, he was holding court in his office. According to the guidelines of the course, he was required to approve each student's term paper topic in advance, and he'd listened to one after another for nearly two hours. He felt drained, and it wasn't over yet. Although he'd been encouraging students for the past three weeks to see him as soon as possible, nearly half had waited until the final day.
He looked up at the lanky kid standing in front of him. "Stonehenge."
"What about it?" Indy asked.
"That's my topic."
"Sit down. You can't just write about Stonehenge. You've got to be more specific."
"Okay." He stared at Indy. "I'll write about the early investigators."
"Still too general. Pick a century."
"Seventeenth."
"Okay. Now select two researchers from that century and compare and contrast what they deducted."
"Do I have to select them now?" he whined. "I'd rather wait and think about it."
Indy smiled, and rubbed the back of his neck. Obviously, the kid didn't have any names in mind. "Just make sure that the two you pick did their work during the same century."
"Got it." He stood and hurried out of the office.
Indy massaged his temples as he waited for another student. "Next," he called out, then leaned over and craned his neck as he looked toward the outer room. When no one appeared, he leaned back in his chair. "Hooray," he said softly.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. Just enough time. He would take the underground to Ring's Cross Station and meet Leeland Milford's train. He zipped his briefcase, stood up, and was about to walk out when Deirdre Campbell appeared in the doorway.
She beamed a smile. "Hope I'm not too late to talk to you about my paper."
He dropped back in his chair. He was disappointed that he hadn't gotten away. Yet, he was pleased to see that it was Deirdre who was holding him up. "Sit down, and tell me about it."
Her presence seemed to brighten the room; it was as if her pale skin or her shiny, auburn curls gave off a light of their own. Or maybe it was her intelligence. After listening to several students like the last one, who were content to do the least they could to pass the course, Deirdre was a refreshing change. He appreciated her enthusiasm, and was already sorry he'd told her to control herself.
"Thank you," she said, and lowered herself into the chair across from his desk. "It was a surprise seeing you last night."
"Yeah. A surprise," Indy said.
Deirdre looked down at her hands. "I told my mother what you said to me after class yesterday, and she agreed with you. I guess I have been sort of showing off" (shooing off). "She told me I should be a wee bit more blate in class."
"Blate?"
"That's a Scottish word, means 'shy.'"
Indy looked over his wire-rimmed spectacles at her. "I see."
"Maybe I talk so much because some of the English look down on the Scottish as if those of us from the north are ignorant." She raised her eyes, and smiled. "Then again maybe I just wanted to impress you." Her soft-spoken confession was so disarming Indy couldn't take his eyes off her. She was like a flower opening her blossoms and apologizing for her radiance.
"Don't worry about trying to impress me," he answered. "I'm impressed."
She gazed back, and their eyes locked. He had an urge to reach for her hand and lift her up from her chair. He wondered how her lips would taste, how she would feel in his arms. Down, boy, a voice inside ordered. You want to keep this job or not?
"So let me guess." He cleared his throat, turning businesslike. "You're writing about Stonehenge like almost everyone else."
"No. Ninian's Cave in Scotland."
Indy repeated the name. "Don't think we've talked about it in class. What's there that interests you?"
"It's where Merlin was buried."
Indy clasped his hands behind his neck, and smiled. "Really?"
"Yes." She didn't seem to be joking.
"Merlin, as in King Arthur's counselor?"
"That's right."
"Merlin's a legend, Deirdre. This is an archaeology course, not mythology."
"I've got evidence."
"You do? What kind of evidence?"
She smiled coyly. "You'll have to read my paper. I think you'll find it interesting."
"If what you say is true, I'll find it more than interesting. Astonishing is more like it."
"So you approve of the idea?"
Indy grinned. "What you're proposing is more than a term paper, Deirdre. It's the springboard for a career. If you can prove that Merlin actually lived, you'll achieve more recognition than most archaeologists do in their entire careers."
She rose gracefully from her chair. "I'll get to work on it right away."
Indy watched her leave his office. Maybe she wasn't as bright as he had thought. With any other student, he would have disapproved of the idea immediately. It was far beyond the scope of a term paper for a beginning course. It was a topic for a Ph.D. thesis, and an ambitious one at that. If no one had yet proven Merlin's existence, what could she possibly know that would be sufficient to change minds? He was curious to find out.
As he left his office and hurried toward the underground, a sour thought occurred to him. Deirdre must have told her mother about this so-called evidence of Merlin's existence. Whatever it was, Joanna Campbell probably didn't agree with her daughter. He had the sudden, nauseating feeling he might find himself in the middle of a mother-daughter squabble. Swell. Just what he needed.
The train from Portsmouth, where Leeland Milford's ship had docked, was on time, but Indy wasn't. As he reached the platform, most of the passengers had already disembarked. He glanced past a young couple with two children, a man in a kilt, and a group of schoolgirls in uniforms. Then he saw Milford moving along the platform, a leather bag in either hand.
He wore a long dark overcoat that was distinctly out of season. His head was bald save for a bushy white fringe above each ear, and a mustache that was a thick, white brush drooping over his lips. His eyes were pale blue and watery.
Although he didn't know Milford well, Indy knew he could be unpredictable. He could be open and friendly one moment, cross the next. He grinned as he saw Milford's lips moving, probably in some exclamation about Indy being late. As he neared him, Indy heard him clearly say: "Damn train. Faster on a bicycle. So whylome wont." And then Milford was past him. He'd just kept walking.
"Dr. Milford." Indy hurried after him. "Hello. Dr. Milford. It's me, Indy."
Milford stopped and slowly turned, a frown forming on his forehead. "Ah, Indy. What a surprise." He shook Indy's hand, but without any sign of enthusiasm. "What are you doing here?"
"I got your letter."
"You did?"
"Remember, you wrote that you wanted to meet me at the station."
Milford looked perplexed. "Well, if you say so."
Indy offered to take his bags, but Milford refused.
"I'm fine, young man. Ye shewd neuer tyke to sea or road wid more than ye can handle. Or so whylome wont."
"I'll remember that." So whylome wont was a pet Middle English phrase that Milford used. Indy had learned long ago that it meant 'so they say,' but Milford used it freely in conversation and never explained its meaning.
When they reached the street, Indy waved down a taxi, and they climbed into the back seat. "What are you going to do in London, Dr. Milford? Your l
etter wasn't really clear on that."
"I have certain matters to attend to." He leaned forward, and tapped the driver on the shoulder. "To the British Museum Library, good man. Forward, e'er forward wid thee wind."
The driver turned, and looked between Indy and Milford. "Whereya from, sir, Newfoundland?"
"Just hoist your sails, mate," Indy said, then turned to Milford. "You sure you wouldn't like to eat something before you go to the museum?"
"I ate already. Besides, my true hunger, as always, is for knowledge."
Indy nodded. "It's a good library."
"The best library of its kind in the world, by God," Milford proclaimed. "Everything that has been published in Britain since 1757 is there. Several million volumes, and tens of thousands of manuscripts and ancient papyri. Best collection of writings from the Middle Ages. Virtually anything you want to know on the history of Britain is there."
His description of the library made Indy think again of the comment Joanna Campbell had made at the restaurant. "Dr. Milford, do you know of any connection between the ancient Greeks and the ancients of the British Isles?"
Milford was silent a moment. "That was before my time."
Indy smiled. "I suppose so." In spite of what he seemed to be saying, Indy knew that to Milford "before his time" meant before the Middle Ages, the period of his expertise.
"However, I do remember a colleague of mine talking about that very topic, oh, maybe twenty years ago." He scratched his bald head with his index finger. "It's funny the things you remember, but not so funny the things you forget."
"What did he tell you?"
"Who?"
Indy chuckled. "Your colleague. The one who told you about the connection between ancient Greeks and Britons."
The taxi driver pulled over to the curb in front of the library. "Oh, well, if you want to know, you can find it right inside these doors."
Indiana Jones and the Dance of the Giants Page 3