seeing and what has been happening, nobody, absolutely nobody, will believe a word we say.'
'I'm sure, Captain, we don't need to worry. Not with what we are carrying, sir. They won't stop at anything to find us. Berlin won't waste a moment.'
Von Moreau studied the dismal weather closing in, the huge shape growing ever larger. 'Except that no one knows where we are, and that what we are looking at cannot possibly exist. Other than that, my fine young friend, we haven't a thing to worry about, do we?'
Franz Gottler didn't attempt a reply.
2
He's aged. Good Lord, the years have been heavy on the old man. I never thought I'd see him in a wheelchair.
Unless, of course—Professor Henry Jones smiled to himself— he had a rocket tied to the back of it and went flaming about these hallowed halls.
Jones feigned a casual acceptance of the approaching presence of Dr. Pencroft.
Even in the wheelchair and at the age of seventy, Pencroft still carried with him his aura of authority and domination. He had been Chairman of the Department of Archeology of the University of London for more years than most people could remember, and now, with the years amassing against him, his hair a white shock above eyes gleaming behind thick glasses, he left no doubt that he remained in control of his office. The spectacles seemed to narrow his face even more than the constriction of parchmentlike skin. One expected a frail voice to accompany the body; whoever thought so was taken aback by Pencraft's strength and energy when he spoke. There was never hesitation, never a question of his experience and authority.
Professor Henry Jones—who much preferred his nickname Indiana—held old man Pencroft in great admiration. For his part, Pencroft treated Jones with a dichotomy of approach, seemingly intolerant of Jones for being so much younger and for committing the unforgivable sin of being an American, an interloper from the colonies, as it were. It was all facade, for he much appreciated Jones's enthusiasm and knowledge, his almost reckless willingness to pursue any goal set for him, as Pencroft so long ago had been guilty of the same hard drive. More than once Pencroft had intervened against the bludgeon of university authority as it sought to remove Jones from its staff and send him back across the ocean
'where he belonged, along with the crudities and crass manners of the Americans.' Outlander Professor Jones might be in ancient and hallowed halls, but he was an outlander with a brilliant mind and an incredible intuition for finding whatever he sought in the secrets of the past. Pencroft would never admit that he thoroughly enjoyed acting as buffer for Jones; it was like watching himself decades past.
Pencraft's manservant stopped the wheelchair precisely six feet from Professor Jones. For long moments neither man spoke. This was Pencraft's way, to take his time when approaching a situation different from any other in the past.
Gather his thoughts, consider what was afoot, and speak not a word until he knew what he would say, not just at this moment, but in the exchanges to follow.
And certainly, from what Pencroft had been told in a very private conversation, different held a meaning he'd never before encountered.
Indeed, Pencroft didn't believe a word of it. Sheer nonsense and balderdash.
Frightened men and ghosts and goblins; that sort of rubbish. He'd been flabbergasted when the people from Number 10 Downing Street had come to meet with him, and the more those people talked the more grew his own amazement. Not at their outlandish tale, but that the highest levels of government would even bother with such rot. And he'd told them so in no uncertain terms. Representatives of the Prime Minister or not, he almost accused them of being sodden drunks.
They took it all in stride, which itself was a critical clue for the wily old Pencroft. It was immediately obvious to him that they had already gone through the very thoughts he was experiencing as they spun their outlandish tale. So they were quite serious, after all, and if they'd stepped down from their bureaucratic heights to visit Professor Pencroft, they must be desperate indeed.
Which had finally brought him to seek out Professor Jones. More precisely, Indiana Jones, that ridiculous name the man had attached to himself. He knew that Jones's closest friends had shortened his name to Indy, but Pencroft couldn't quite lower himself to do so. He pushed aside the peripheral nonsense in his head.
'What are you doing now?' he demanded suddenly of Jones. The moment he'd uttered the words he regretted the slip. Jones had too much fun with the thrustandparry.
'Unless I am sadly mistaken, sir,' Jones cut back, 'I am occupying a space in this hallway, as you are. It's a rather bleak place to meet, I would say.'
'The devil you say!' Pencroft snapped. He tipped his head to one side.
'Listen to me, you troublemaker,' he went on with a touch of gnarly affection. 'Come to my office. Ten minutes from now and not a moment later.'
'I have a class,' Indiana Jones said quietly, aware that Pencroft knew his schedule.
'You have a class, but you lack class,' Pencroft jibed. 'Ten minutes.' The smile faded. Pencroft coughed with pain, swallowed, and his hand gestured weakly. 'I am quite serious, Indiana.'
That did it. When Pencroft used that name in public he was bloody well serious. Jones nodded. 'I'll get a substitute,' he said. 'I'll be there.'
'I've already arranged for a substitute,' Pencroft went on, pleased with even this diminutive oneupmanship. He waved to his servant to continue on to his office.
Jones watched him as they turned down a secondary hallway.
Pencroft's obvious discomfort intrigued Jones. It wasn't like him. In fact, if he didn't know better he might have judged that the old gaffer had been rattled by—by whatever it was that called for breaking into his teaching schedule.
In this emporium of education you shot your dog before you interfered with schedules. Something very big was up; that much was clear. But Pencroft hadn't given him so much as a hint. Well, he'd find out soon enough.
Jones went quickly to his own office and strode briskly through the outer waiting room where his secretary, Frances Smythe, held up a stack of telephone messages. He waved them away. 'No calls. Nothing, understand?'
The darkhaired woman shook her head. 'No, I do not understand. Elucidate, please.'
