Indiana Jones and the Dance of the Giants

by Rob MacGregor

  He greeted the students, noticing the blonde who always snapped her gum, the serious young men in wool suits and ties, and the girls in sweaters with ponytails and ribbons in their hair. His eyes fell for a moment on the good-looking redhead who sat in the center of the front row. Of all the students, she was the one who most interested him, but she also kept him on edge. She spoke up often, too often, interrupting him with a question or comment, or answering questions he posed to the class as if she were the only one present. But that wasn't the only reason he was wary of her. Her name was Deirdre Campbell, and she was the daughter of Dr. Joanna Campbell, the head of the department and his boss.

  He opened his notebook to the lesson he'd prepared the day before yesterday. "Archaeology is one profession where you can take pleasant jaunts in the countryside," he began, "and still be working. We even have a name for it. It's called field walking."

  Indy looked over the rows of bowed heads of students taking notes. Deirdre, however, sat back in her chair watching him. He explained that field walking involved looking for deviations in the landscape. Slight undulations could indicate the remains of an ancient ditch or the site of a medieval village. Change in the color of the soil or the density of the vegetation was another indicator. If the boundary of a field shifted for no apparent reason or the shoreline of a body of water followed a peculiarly straight line, it might mean the presence of an ancient wall.

  He looked up to see a hand raised. It didn't take her long to get started. "Yes, Miss Campbell?"

  "What about Stonehenge?"

  She spoke with a Scottish lilt, pronouncing it 'Stoon-heenge.' Indy looked blankly at her. "What about it?"

  "Well, field walking" (field-wooking, she said) "didn't do much good there. People have walked all over Stonehenge and the surrounding area and didn't see any changes in the landscape because they were too close to them."

  Thank God he knew what she was talking about. There was nothing in the syllabus about the use of aerial photography, but he'd been preparing for an upcoming lecture on Stonehenge and had read about the photos taken of the ruins.

  "Good point," he said, and quickly explained what she meant. Near the end of the war, a military airport was built a short distance from the ruins, and photographs taken by a squadron of the Royal Air Force in the summer of 1921 revealed some surprising details. It was discovered that the grain in an area leading away from the monument grew in darker colors than the surrounding grain. Yet, it was impossible to see the difference from ground level.

  "Does anyone know what would cause this to happen?" he asked.

  Of course Deirdre did.

  "It shows that the ground had been dug up in those darker areas, and the roots of the plants were able to penetrate the tough layer of chalk that's just beneath the topsoil."

  "That's right," Indy said. "In September of twenty-three, Crawford and Passamore began studying these darker areas, using the pictures as their only guide. They discovered the exact entrance to the ruin and a straight road which reached nearly to Salisbury, eight miles to the north. Stonehenge may be the first archaeological site anywhere that has taken advantage of aerial photography. I'm sure we'll see a lot more of its use in years to come. But we can thank the Royal Air Force for furthering our knowledge of Stonehenge."

  Indy looked up to see Deirdre's hand again. He knew most teachers would love to have a dozen bright students like Deirdre in class, but she was getting on his nerves.

  "What about the controversy with the military authorities?" she asked.

  Even when she posed a question, she phrased it in a way that showed she already knew the answer. What the hell was she doing, testing him for her mother? This time he was at a loss. In spite of all the time he spent preparing his lectures, he knew there were gaps in his knowledge, and this must be one of them. "Sorry. I'm not sure what you mean."

  "That's understandable," she said in a knowing voice. "You haven't been in England long, and I hear they don't report our British doings very thoroughly in your newspapers. But it was quite a controversy here. Near the end of the war, the authorities wanted to knock down Stonehenge, because they felt the stones might be dangerous to low-flying airplanes."

  "You're kidding."

  "Not at all. It was quite a stink."

  Indy noticed several heads bobbing in agreement. "Well, I'll have to look into it." He cleared his throat again. He was embarrassed, and angry with Deirdre. She was acting as if this were her class. He needed to straighten her out, and quickly.

  She must have sensed his unease, because she only spoke up a couple of more times during the remainder of his lecture. As the class came to an end, Indy said that next time he would be talking about Stonehenge. "We've already discussed menhirs and dolmens, and now you can add trilithons to your vocabulary. Your assignment is to read all the articles entitled, 'Excavations at Stonehenge,' by Colonel William Hawley that have been published in the Antiquaries Journal since 1920. Hawley, as you know, is the archaeologist in charge of the current digging at Stonehenge. We'll talk about what he's found so far and the implications. By the way, does anyone know what he found under the so-called slaughter stone?"

  After a few seconds, Deirdre raised her hand, but this time only to shoulder level. Indy waited a moment longer for other hands, but there were no others. "Go ahead, Miss Campbell."

  "He's found some flint tools and pottery shards and deer-antler picks, but I think the item you're referring to is a bottle of port left by another archaeologist, William Cunnington, a hundred and twenty years ago."

  Everyone laughed.

  "Very good. You stole my joke. See me after class, will you, Miss Campbell? Class dismissed. And don't forget, for those who have waited, and there's a lot of you, tomorrow's the deadline for getting your topic approved for your term paper."

  As the students filed out of the room, Indy gathered up his notes and thought about what he would say. When everyone but Deirdre had left, he remained behind his podium as if he were about to continue his lecture for a class of one. She approached the podium with her hands folded in front of her over a notebook. She was a petite woman, an inch or two over five feet. Her long auburn hair had curls that twirled down over her shoulders. Her skin was pale, and her eyes were the violet of heather. She wore just a touch of makeup. There was something contradictory about her appearance. She was frail, but savvy; innocent, but sophisticated. Looking at her for some reason made him think of an oxymoron his father used to quote when his mother was agitated about something he found trivial: "'O heavy lightness, serious vanity!'"

  "You're Scottish, aren't you, Miss Campbell?" he began.

  "Yes, I am."

  "So am I. Well, I mean my father is, or was. He was born in Scotland." Bad start.

  She stared directly into his eyes, challenging him, a slight smile on her lips. "Is that why you asked me to stay after class, so we could discuss our ancestors?"

  He cleared his throat. He was nervous. She was the one who should be, but wasn't. "I want to ask you if you..."

  "Yes?"

  He looked down at the podium. "... If you would mind... Miss Campbell, why are you taking this class? I mean you seem to know the material, and your mother is certainly more knowledgeable about British archaeology than I am."

  "But you're the one teaching the class. She's not. I can't get credits through heredity."

  He knew that if he angered her it might get back to her mother and it could be the end of his chances for being rehired for the fall, but he had to say something.

  "Miss Campbell—"

  "You can call me Deirdre."

  He met her gaze. "Deirdre, listen, I'd appreciate it if you would give the others in the class a chance to talk."

  Her eyes blinked rapidly, "What do you mean?"

  "I think you might be intimidating them."

  "Oh? No reason for it. They're certainly free to say anything they like."

  "Yeah." Indy looked down at the podium again as if his notes would gi
ve him an idea of what to say.

  "Can I make an observation, Professor?"

  Now what? "Go ahead."

  "It seems to me that you are the one who is intimidated."

  He shrugged. "Not intimidated, just a bit irritated."

  "Why?"

  "Look, this is my first teaching job. I've never been involved in any fieldwork here. I'm not English."

  "You don't have to apologize to me for not being English. Remember, I'm not either."

  Indy didn't join her laughter. "And your mother is my boss."

  "You don't have to make an accusation out of that fact. If you want to know, I'm enjoying your class. I think you're doing a terrific job, and I've told Joanna, my mum."

  "Oh, well, thank you."

  "She keeps teasing me about you." She smiled awkwardly, her face reddened. "I'd better go."

  He watched her leave. He smiled to himself. A real oddball, that one. He liked her, he decided. But then he'd known that from the first day of class.

  3

  Roommates

  "I know it's around here. I just ate here last week," Indy said as he stopped midway down a block in the heart of Soho.

  Jack Shannon jammed his hands in his pockets and looked around. "Don't worry about it. I could eat anywhere right now. I'm starved."

  Shannon had arrived unexpectedly a couple of days earlier, taking up the offer Indy had made before he left Paris. But Indy's busy schedule had meant they'd hardly seen each other. Tonight would be the first time they'd talked for more than a few minutes.

  "There it is across the street," Indy said. "C'mon."

  "Doesn't look like much," Shannon sniffed as they crossed the street.

  "So what? The food's as good as anything in Paris. Well, almost."

  The fact that Indy had found a French restaurant which reminded him of the bistros in Paris wasn't surprising. Not in Soho. Thousands of Huguenots from France had settled in the neighborhood near the end of the seventeenth century, followed by Swiss, Italians, Chinese, Indians, and others. The streets were a clamorous hodgepodge with open markets and shops offering everything Marco Polo had encountered on his distant journey, and much more. While the variety of inexpensive foreign cuisine was a main attraction, late at night the offerings along some of the streets were aimed at satisfying other cravings.

  A waiter led them to a table, and Indy ordered a bottle of wine. "Dinner's on me, tonight. This is going to be a celebration."

  Shannon smiled, and stroked his red goatee. "I'm glad you look at it that way. I hope it's not an imposition. I mean, I can find a room somewhere."

  "Don't worry about it. I'm hardly ever home, and if you get in the way I'll let you know. Now tell me how you got this job?"

  "I was just walking down Oxford Street with my horn and saw the basement door of this club propped open. I thought what the hell, and walked in. I gave the owner a little down-home South Side Chicago sweet talk, and blew a couple of tunes for him. Before I could catch my breath, I was sitting in with a couple guys from the house band, and that was it. They told me to start tonight."

  "Great. But what about Paris and the Jungle?"

  "What about it? I'm ready for a change, Indy. The band's doing fine without me. Anyhow, I'm giving someone else a chance to play horn. Louise's man from New Orleans. He's played with King Oliver, and been around. He's hot."

  The wine arrived and they toasted to their future, and to London. Indy spoke hopefully of his chances of remaining in London for another year. He was getting comfortable with the city, and from here he could travel anywhere. The English were actively involved in archaeological digs from Guatemala to Egypt. "It's really the center of things, you know."

  Shannon sipped his wine, and scrutinized Indy, his expression sour. "Sounds like these Brits are brainwashing you. Next thing, you'll be talking about growing up in the jolly old colonies."

  "Jack, I'm just making a point. London is a hub, it's cosmopolitan."

  "Don't think I know that word. How do you say it in French?"

  Indy laughed. "You sure you want to work here?"

  Shannon shrugged. "For awhile. I think I'll improve my playing. Everything was getting too pat for me at the Jungle. I need some variations on the theme."

  Shannon seemed just as disenchanted as ever, Indy thought. The same as he'd been in Chicago, the same as he'd been most of the time in Paris. It was as if the jazz culture demanded a certain mordacious perspective on life. Dissonance. Syncopated rhythm, the accent intentionally out of place.

  They finished their hors d'oeuvres, and their dinners had arrived when Shannon brought up a topic that Indy had been trying to blot from his mind. "You ever hear anything more from the sucker who sent you that box of spiders?"

  "No. Not that I know of."

  "When I got your letter, I thought it was a joke at first."

  Indy took a bite of his broiled cod. "I thought it was one, too, until I opened the box."

  Shannon made a face and shook his head. "Spiders. I would've gone nuts if that had happened to me. But who the hell could have done it?"

  "No idea. But whoever it was had a lousy sense of humor. Those spiders were black widows, and if even one had bitten me, I probably wouldn't be here now."

  Shannon stabbed at his green beans, piled high next to his roast beef. "How do you know they were black widows?"

  "From pictures in an encyclopedia."

  "I wonder where someone in London would get black widow spiders?" Shannon mused.

  "Don't know. If I had any time, I'd look into it."

  Shannon nodded thoughtfully. "Helluva welcome. If Belecamus was still around, I'd guess that she was behind it."

  "Well, she's not," Indy said curtly, cutting off the topic. Dorian Belecamus had been his first archaeology professor at the Sorbonne in Paris, and she had lured him into accompanying her to Delphi, Greece, to work with her as an assistant. She'd given him a taste not only of field experience, but also of treachery. She'd schemed against him, using him in a plot against the king of Greece that had nearly cost Indy his life.

  But Indy had made a significant discovery at Delphi. He had found and recovered an ancient, sacred relic, known as the Omphalos, which was now in New York on display in Marcus Brody's archaeology museum. In spite of Belecamus's perfidy, her violent death, and his narrow escape from the same fate, the experience had convinced him that archaeology was the career he would pursue.

  "How's the fish?" Shannon asked.

  "Fine. What about your dinner? You haven't said a word about it."

  "It's acceptable. This beef is raw, but the sauce is good."

  "Jack, the beef is supposed to be like that. If it was overcooked, it wouldn't have any flavor. Anyhow, since when are you a connoisseur of fine foods?"

  Shannon set his fork down. "What the hell's wrong with you? You haven't been here all evening. Now you blow up at me."

  "It's nothing."

  "Something's on your mind. Let me guess, it's a woman, right?"

  Indy sipped from his glass of water. "I got a letter from Leeland Milford today."

  "God, that crazy old coot? How's he doing?"

  "Good, I suppose, and he's not crazy. Just a bit eccentric."

  Shannon laughed. "Yeah. A bit."

  Milford was a retired professor, a noted authority on medieval England, and a friend of Indy's father. Shannon had met him when he and Indy were college roommates and Milford was in town to give a lecture. He had struck Shannon as odd because during dinner Milford had twice forgotten who Shannon was, once when Shannon had returned to the table with coffee and later when he'd taken out his cornet. Each time, Indy had had to reintroduce him.

  "What did he have to say, or haven't you interpreted his pig Latin yet?" Shannon asked.

  "It's Middle English, not pig Latin, and he didn't write his letter in it." Besides his forgetfulness, Milford also had the disturbing habit of shifting into Middle English during conversations, even when the topic had nothing to do with
his expertise. "He says Dad is still angry about my going into archaeology. He thinks I'm wasting my life, and everything he taught me. In other words, nothing's new."

  "So what can you do? You've got your own life to lead."

  "Try telling my father that. Anyhow, I got the letter just in time. Milford is arriving here tomorrow and wants to see me."

  "Lucky you," Shannon said. "Mind if I skip that one?"

  Indy laughed. "I figured you would. I'm going to meet him at the train station, and we'll go out to lunch or something."

  "Better brush up on your Middle English for the professor emeritus."

  Indy didn't answer. He was staring toward the entrance of the restaurant as two women were escorted to a corner table. It was Joanna Campbell and Deirdre. His eyes were drawn to the younger woman. Even from across the room she looked radiant. She wore a navy blue flapper dress with a large, white sailor collar, and a bow in front. The dress was tight around her hips and fell to midcalf with a white fringe at the bottom. A matching floppy hat with a down-turned rim covered her head, and her auburn hair curled over her shoulders.

  Shannon peered across the room, following his gaze. "You know her?"

  "Both of them. It's my boss and her daughter. I better go over and say hi."

  "Meet you outside."

  Deirdre spotted him first. "Professor Jones. What a surprise." She extended a hand and he took it for a moment. There was a mystique about her that he couldn't quite define, something hidden that added to her beauty, the source of her strength. It was almost an effort to shift his gaze as she gave his hand a quick squeeze.

  Dr. Campbell extended a limp, elegant hand. Her black hair was glazed with silver threads. Her features, like her daughter's, were finely chiseled. She looked distinguished as ever, and a bit mysterious tonight in a black dress, a cape, and a red silk scarf that fell to her thighs.

  As they exchanged small talk about the restaurant and neighborhood, Indy had to concentrate on appearing interested in what Dr. Campbell was saying. It was as if there was a magnetic attraction that pulled his eyes, and his thoughts, to Deirdre. He wondered what she was thinking, and what she was going to say to him next.