about different dishes, Greek food in general, the local sights. This man was quiet and very still, unusually so. And always alone. “I will get your order,” the waiter said with a nod, and was gone.
The man kept looking through the space the waiter had just vacated, kept looking up at the end of the Sounion headland.
Chapter Twenty-One
ODYSSEUS
Upon reentering the meeting hall several hours later, Caine expected to find it a hive of activity. What he found, when the security guard on his left opened the door and the one on his right ushered him in with outstretched hand, was an utterly still tableau made up of concentric rings of expectant humanity.
The innermost ring of ten persons was incomplete: seated about a round table, their circle was broken by two empty chairs. The next ring was that of the advisors, aides, assistants, and chroniclers who were seated behind their delegates. The last ring-as numerous as the other two put together-were (mostly) men whose eyes could not be seen: square-jawed and sunglassed, the security personnel projected the aura of waiting automatons, creatures who had long ago ceased to move in accordance with their own will. Caine could see the eyes of the other two rings, however-and they were all on him.
Nolan had been waiting beside the door, smiled when Caine noticed him, accompanied him to the two empty chairs at the round table, indicated the one on the right. Nolan stood behind the other, cleared this throat.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you have all heard about Mr. Riordan, and what he found and experienced during his three weeks on Delta Pavonis. Please remember that Mr. Riordan is not here in a political or official capacity. His credentials today are those of a well-regarded researcher and writer who, on the advice of Senator Arvid Tarasenko, was sent to assess conflicting reports regarding advanced life forms and structures found on Delta Pavonis Three. You already have his report-except for one footnote that he will now present to you himself.
“Mr. Riordan, allow me to introduce the bloc representatives gathered here today. Starting on your right: Ms. Hollingsworth of the UK and Mr. MacGregor of Australia; Mr. Sukhinin of Russia and Ms. Durniak of the Ukraine; Mr. Ching of China and Mr. Demirel of Turkey; Mr. Karagawa of Japan, and Mr. Medina of Brazil; and Ms. Visser of Germany and Mr. Gaspard of France.”
Caine noted which delegates offered a nod or some other sign of recognition: both of the Commonwealth delegates, Sukhinin of Russia, Visser of Germany, Medina of Brazil. The last he dismissed: at this point, it was impossible to distinguish warm but impersonal Brazilian cordiality from a sign of personal receptivity. He was similarly undecided about Durniak’s lack of response: she was somewhat young and very intent, probably too focused to even think of personal interaction, at this point. No surprise in Ching’s silence: he was the Great Sphinx of international relations. China’s Foreign Minister for almost eighteen years now, one journalist had quipped that Ching could go days without speaking-even if he was China’s sole representative at a two-nation summit. An exaggeration, but not by much: according to Nolan, Ching had not spoken a word during the first day at Parthenon.
All five blocs. Two representatives from each. The US was conspicuously absent, probably because the mediator-Nolan-was a fairly famous American, and also in deference to providing a seat at the table for the Commonwealth’s newest (and still probative) member state: the UK. Was this the shape of things to come? The first
Nolan’s voice was gentle. “Mr. Riordan, whenever you’re ready.”
“Uh, yes-sorry.”
— and he was there. His own voice became distant; he fell out of the council chamber and emerged into-
— The glare of Delta Pavonis, low on the horizon, glinted off the semi-rigid body armor of the Marines who, face shields down and weapons in an assault carry, preceded him out of the landing craft. Caine could hear the second fire team milling eagerly behind him, ready to follow him down the ramp. Overhead, a transatmospheric fighter orbited lazily. Caine wasted no time, moving through the swirling dust even as the whine of the landing thrusters was still dying away. Every second counted, now-and would until he got back to Earth. He walked past the right-angled dig pits, clambered over the berm, the first group of Marines hustling to keep in front of him.
He popped over the rise, side-footed down to the base-where the head archeologist was waiting, pudgy hands on pudgy hips, rounder, dustier, more gnomelike than Caine remembered. “I’m here,” said the Gnome.
Caine couldn’t decide whether he was more struck by the superfluity or petulance of the utterance. “Thanks for coming.”
Gnome snorted: Caine’s “request” to meet had been, in reality, merely a polite ultimatum. “What do you want?”
Caine debated whether he should try to apologize for the ruse he had used to get information out of the Gnome when they first met, but pushed that aside: there was no time. Gnome was never going to like him, so this had to be all business, pure and simple. So he went straight to the heart of the matter: “I have something you want.”
“Oh? Maybe a time machine, so I can undo the past and
“No, better than that.”
Gnome’s truculence gave way to interest. “How much better? What kind of ‘better’?”
“The kind you really want: a ticket out of this place. Here’s the offer-and you’ve got one minute to consider it.
“Someone has to write up the full report on the collective archeological findings from this dig site. That report will be presented at a global summit, sometime next year. That summit will remain a secret until after it has occurred, but I’m offering you the chance to write the report-and be the first to publish on what’s been found here, and its archeological implications. That means a free trip back to Earth, and-I should imagine-the endowed chair you’ve been craving.” Actually, it meant a lot more than that, but Caine hardly needed to explicate: Gnome’s eyes seemed to grow as large as the round glasses that were in front of them. His lower lip flopped about a little.
“Does that mean you accept?”
Gnome sputtered and nodded. “Yes, yes-what do you want? How can I help?”
“When we met last time, you were about to explain something more about this ruin, about to show me something else, and then you stopped yourself.”
A furtive look returned to Gnome’s face. “I suppose I did.”
“Show me now.”
Gnome nodded and beckoned with a crooked finger. He went to the side of the temple, disappearing around the corner from which he had emerged the first time. Caine followed him down into a narrow slit trench that had been dug along the southern, leeward side of the structure, exposing its foundation for at least twenty meters. Five meters in, Gnome stopped, pointed. “Look.”
Caine looked, saw a hole, about the size of his thumb, maybe a bit narrower. And then he saw the brown, rusty stain rimming it. He reached out, held his hand back, his breath coming short and fast.
“Go ahead,” said Gnome, “all us researchers do. Those of us with any sense of a larger universe, that is. Go ahead. Put your finger in.”
Caine did. He felt around. Felt a smooth, cold surface recessed half an inch from the exterior wall, restrained the impulse to either giggle or yell.
“Rebar,” supplied Gnome. “Eerie, if you ask me. Chemical composition consistent with mid-grade industrial
