Paradox: On the Sharp Edge of the Blade

by E. S. Martell

  The others resumed their desultory conversation.

  Logan turned and trudged across the grassy sand to the tent. Once there, another problem arose. He didn't just want to open the flap and burst in, and there didn't seem to be any way to knock on a tent. He shuffled his feet and then said loudly, “Anyone home?”

  A female voice answered, “Come in.”

  He lifted the tent flap and stepped inside. The tent boasted a double cot and a desk. The woman at the desk looked a little familiar, but she had her head down, studying some papers. When she looked up, his heart fell. It was Mandi!

  If she was the student supervisor, he'd be confronted with his inadequacy in martial arts daily.

  She recognized him, at least. Her lips curved in a cursory smile and she asked, “Are you checking in?”

  When he nodded, she added, “Now there'll be someone for me to practice sparring with. Oh, wait. I forgot. You're too easy to beat. Not too much challenge there. Maybe we won't spar after all.”

  He could feel his face flushing, but said nothing.

  After an uncomfortable moment of silence, she opened a notebook and asked, “Name?”

  “Logan Walker,” he answered.

  She referred to the notebook, frowned, and turned a page, then another one. Then she looked up, shook her head, and said, “You're not in here. Are you sure you're supposed to be here? This dig is only open to a limited number of students. You're not one of them.”

  He tried to smile as he thought, Damn that Dameron. He didn't even try to put my name on the list.

  She looked accusingly at Logan.

  He shrugged and said, “I was a last-minute addition. I guess Professor Dameron didn't have time to put my name down.”

  Mandi scowled, and added, “Okay. For now, you're assigned to tent seven. There are already five people in there. Pick up a cot at the supply truck over by the parking lot and get your stuff arranged. We're having an organizational meeting after supper. That'll be about six-thirty, so don't miss it. Meanwhile, I'm checking with the professor about you. You'd better hope he says you're supposed to be here.”

  She turned away, dismissing him.

  Logan looked at her back for a moment. Too bad she was so good looking. Her attitude was a real turn-off. He turned and pushed the tent flap aside.

  He located tent number seven and poked his head inside. There were five cots and a bunch of personal gear. Clothes and shoes were scattered randomly around along with empty food containers. It looked like his tent mates weren't concerned about attracting insects. He sighed and slouched over to the supply truck.

  Supper was minimally interesting. Logan didn't like the food, and it seemed like everyone else already knew each other. No one paid him much attention. In response, he sat at the end of a table, near the edge of the dining fly, and kept his head down. Trying to mix with a group of new people wasn't anything he enjoyed. He need not have worried, though, they were all busy talking with each other.

  As he watched the group of almost forty students, he noticed that Mandi had an in-group of three friends that most of the rest of the students aspired to impress.

  he thought. Who knew that archaeologists were such suck-ups? There were only five guys who didn't seem to be trying to get in with the social power structure. It was sickening, really,

  The five were uniformly overweight and grubby in their dress. He knew the type. They were probably good enough students. One or two of them might be brilliant, but they'd given up trying to socialize long ago. He'd probably get on well with them, but so far, they'd ignored him too.

  People stiffened attentively as Dameron strode up. The meeting was about to begin.

  Dameron had a way about him that set Logan's teeth on edge. Whether it was justified by extreme intelligence, or simply unwarranted arrogance, his presentations always made Logan want to throw things.

  “I know you've all been anxiously awaiting my presence,” he started. “I'm here now, and you'll find that everything is perfectly organized and under control. I'll have my student dig supervisor, Mandi, hand out work assignments. You'll be expected to begin at eight a.m. sharp. Breakfast will be served at seven a.m. If you miss it, you'll have to wait for lunch. There will be no morning breaks until lunchtime. That will be at noon. You'll have precisely thirty minutes to eat. Then I expect you to be back at work on your assigned tasks. There will be a fifteen-minute break during the afternoon. That will be at two p.m. After that, you'll work until five. Supper will be at six, so you'll have time to clean up first.” He paused, and looked around as if daring anyone to object.

  “I will expect you to spend at least two hours every evening writing up and documenting your findings. The junior students and those who have not previously been on one of my digs will be paired with an experienced student. That way I won't have to waste my time training you on documenting and reporting. Mandi will determine work assignments. She's got an initial set of jobs for each of you, but she is free to vary those as she sees fit. In general, though, everyone will get a chance at each and every job. If your performance at a particular job stands out after the first two weeks, you may be assigned that task for the remainder of the dig.”

  He turned to Mandi and said, “That's all I've got for now. Give them their assignments, answer any questions, and then report to me in my tent.” He strode off without a backwards glance.

  Mandi took her time reading through the initial assignment list, passing out info packets as she spoke. She was a little more helpful than Dameron in that she answered questions about the various jobs.

  When she was done, Logan wandered over to his assigned tent. He was wondering if he'd be better off jumping on his motorcycle and leaving. His initial assignment was to help clear off over-burden. In short, he was supposed to wake up in the morning, check out a shovel, and dig – all day.

  His previous experience digging with a shovel was small, but he had a vivid imagination, and he was sure that he wouldn't enjoy using the tool.

  The other thing that he found bothersome was that he hadn't been paired with a more experienced student. Mandi told him that there was an odd number of people, and that Dameron had instructed her that Logan would be the odd man out. He'd said something to the effect that Logan was a last minute, unplanned addition, and he'd just have to live with the negative aspects of that.

  Logan entered the tent and found a card game in progress. His five tent mates had dragged the cots into a square and were busily engaged in an animated game of gin-rummy. Their conversation was simultaneously loud and nonsensical, perhaps stimulated by the half a case of beer they'd gulped in the five minutes since the organizational meeting had ended.

  Logan slipped past and lay down on his bunk wondering if he'd have to put up with this behavior every night. Finally one of the players said, “Gin!” loudly. He glanced over to see who had won. The winner happened to be staring directly at him and their eyes met.

  “Hey, guy, what's your name?” the student asked. The others turned to stare curiously at Logan.

  “Uh, Logan Walker,” he answered. They didn't look threatening. Far from it. They basically looked like his roommates: nerds. All slightly overweight and sloppily dressed. They chorused, “Hi, Walker,” in unison, then turned back to their game without introducing themselves.

  Logan hesitated a moment. They hadn't even asked him if he wanted to play.

  He didn't, in fact. He hated cards. His taste in games was exclusively digital. The noise level rose as the next hand got underway. He sighed deeply, and turned his back. There was a battery-powered lantern hanging from the ridgepole, and that provided enough light to read by.

  He dragged out the packet that Mandi had given him. It seemed that some of the initial work had already been done. The site already had a series of test pits dug, and a grid was set up, laid out by twine tied to stakes. Initially, the site needed to be phased.

  As he understood it, that meant it had to be reduced to a contemporaneous horizon. He
thought that implied it needed to be leveled out, but he was a little vague on the actual concept. Anyway, that was where his shovel and he came in. There was at least eighteen inches of sandy soil that had to be cleared before they arrived at the level where the artifacts were supposed to be distributed.

  Logan put down his book, and drifted off to sleep to the background of the others arguing over their cards. His last thought was, I guess I'm lucky. I've had a lot of practice sleeping with noisy roommates.

  Mandi stuck her head in the tent and shouted, “Rise and shine, diggers! Breakfast time. You'll have to be ready to dig in forty-five minutes, so get moving.”

  Logan jumped, and set up. He'd slept through the night. The others had finished playing sometime after midnight. He'd awakened briefly as they settled down, but then had gone back to sleep.

  The other guys were groaning, and tossing about. Tim sleepily said, “I'll bet she's just like last year. A slave driver.”

  The others just groaned.

  Logan climbed out of his bag, pulled on his worn-out jeans and a tee-shirt, then headed out to breakfast. None of the others had even sat up when he left.

  Breakfast consisted of greasy scrambled eggs, grits, and fried bacon. Apparently archaeologists didn't worry about the latest fad diets. Anyway, it suited Logan. He went back for seconds, ate quickly, and was done before any of his tent mates showed up.

  He walked over to the supply tent, checked out a shovel, and then turned to look at the dig site. He'd barely glanced at it before, but now that he was ready to start work, he surveyed the area more closely. Someone had already driven stakes and strung some twine in a grid pattern over the entire area.

  As he looked, a wave of something like dizziness came over him. The feeling was paired with a sense of deja vu. The barren spot didn't look right for some reason. There should be a fire over there, near where the palm-frond shelters were. Logan stopped, dumbfounded. Where did that come from? There was no way that he could know anything about the place.

  He wiped his hand over his forehead. Maybe he was coming down with something, but, no, he was sweating in the sun, not feverish. He shrugged, and headed to where he was supposed to start digging. he thought. Maybe I was remembering somewhere else,

  The feeling returned as he walked past the spot where he'd imagined the fire. This time, it was more immediate and intense. Then it was paired with an irrevocable sense of desolation or loss. He'd never experienced anything like it. He was shaking by the time he reached his starting spot. Still shaking, he drove the shovel blade into the soft earth.

  Noon found him nursing blisters on both hands. He studied his palms. The blisters had formed in minutes and then broken. Now they were raw, open, throbbing sores on the bases of his fingers and thumbs. , he thought. Who knew I'd be so out of practice with a shovel I've used one before, but that was just stripping shingles off a roof, helping my dad.

  It turned out that all of his tent mates were also assigned to the shovel crew. They showed their experience, though. Logan saw that they'd brought gloves. That was something he hadn't planned on.

  He walked over, and asked them, “Hey, any of you guys got an extra pair of gloves you'd like to lend me?”

  The heavy-set student, Rick, sneered, “Walker, you got to learn to take care of yourself. This ain't no picnic we're on and the answer is no. We need all of our gloves for ourselves. You'd better get permission to go into town tonight and get some for yourself, that is, if you last that long.” He finished with a laugh, and the others joined in.

  “Yeah, old Walker here must have thought he had tough hands,” said Tim.

  Franz commented, “Better watch out, tough-hands will probably kick your butt when you aren't looking.”

  They laughed again.

  Finally Rick added, a little more kindly, “Seriously, man, you got to have several pairs of gloves and a box or two of bandages. You'll have blisters on your blisters before this part is done. Didn't ya read the equipment list? Gloves were on it.”

  Logan shrugged miserably, and walked back out to where he'd left his shovel. He couldn't remember having read that he'd need gloves. He picked the implement up carefully, and began to slowly fill the wheelbarrow that sat nearby. He could mostly avoid the sore spots on his fingers if he held the shovel carefully, but pushing the wheelbarrow was worse. The sandy soil caused the wheel to sink in and resist his efforts, and the weight of the load meant the handles had to be gripped firmly, aggravating his sores.

  Logan didn't know how he made it through the afternoon, but it felt like he'd dug several swimming pools worth of dirt by himself. He was so tired by quitting time that he was barely able to eat.

  After supper, he checked with Mandi. She cursorily glanced at his hands, and gave him permission to go into town. As he headed for his motorcycle, he wondered how he'd manage to hold the handlebars.

  It turned out to be less of a problem than he'd feared. The feeling of relief at getting out of the dig site, even for a moment, was enough to take his mind off the blisters. They didn't start bothering him until he had reached the drug store that was located conveniently along the highway.

  It turned out that they didn't carry gloves, although he was able to take care of the blisters with an antibiotic salve that also had a numbing agent. He bandaged the worst ones, then headed for a shopping center the clerk had mentioned when he'd asked. It was a few miles up the road.

  There, he went into a home improvement store where he had his choice of a wide selection of gloves. He opted for some that had reinforced leather palms.

  Back on his bike, he arranged the bag so that he was sitting on it. He normally used a backpack to carry things, but he'd been in such a hurry to leave, he'd forgotten to get it. He knew it was lying under his cot, but that wasn't helping.

  The motorcycle started okay, but sputtered a bit as he turned out of the parking lot. Logan recognized the symptom. It was nearly out of gas. The gauge was unreliable, sometimes working correctly, but other times showing more fuel than there actually was. Fortunately, there was a convenience store that he'd passed just down the road.

  He rolled into the parking lot on the last fumes. His bike hiccuped and then stopped short of the pumps. Sighing, Logan dismounted, and pushed the heavy machine up the slight grade.

  He went in to prepay. He could have used the pump's card reader, but he didn't want to risk having his card info stolen. There had been a lot of credit information stolen recently in the area. The criminals apparently had an unlimited supply of state-of-the-art scanners that fit into gas pump and ATM reader slots.

  He paid, bought a bag of beef jerky, and was back on the road in a few minutes, happily chewing on jerky and cruising at just below the speed limit, heading for the dig-site.

  He hadn't gone two miles before a police car pulled up close behind him. The cop followed for a couple of minutes, and then turned on his lights. Logan groaned, pulled over onto the shoulder, and turned off the engine.

  “License and registration,” the officer said as he walked up.

  Logan fumbled his wallet out of his pocket, then pulled them out. It wasn't as if there was any great amount of money in the wallet, and there was only the one credit card. The barrenness of the money side reminded him of his financial situation. He sighed again and extended the license to the patrolman.

  The officer looked the license over, and said, “Wait here.” He walked quickly back to his unit, climbed in, and sat for several minutes, apparently doing research on the computer. When he returned, he asked, “Where were you earlier today?”

  Logan was puzzled, but explained. “I was at the university archaeological dig down the road about ten miles. I'm a student and I'm participating in the dig. Will be all summer. Why?”

  The officer said, “There was some problem with a motorcyclist over at Yankeetown. You weren't over there, were you?”

  Logan said, “No, I was working until about an hour ago. I came into town to get some gloves and band aids.�
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  The cop held his flashlight directly in Logan's face and asked, “Where are they?”

  Logan scooted back, and pulled the bag out from under his legs, then opened it for the man. As the officer examined the bag, Logan spread his hands, displaying the blisters and band-aids. “See,” he said. “I'm not used to shoveling. I just about wore my hands out.”

  The light flashed on his palms, and the cop said, “It looks like you've never done an hour of honest labor in your life.”

  That wasn't true but Logan was trying hard to be inoffensive. “Not too much physical work recently, officer. I have to study a lot. My grandfather left me a little money for school, so I don't have to work, at least until I graduate.”