'You sound irritable, Fran.'
'I'm confused. By you,' she retorted. 'I know, I know. Pencroft's office in a few minutes. They called here looking for you. All very mysterious, the way they had the substitute teacher already set up for your class. Care for a cup of tea while you tell me what is going on?'
'I'll take coffee. Lukewarm. No time for a hot mug. Besides,' Jones sighed, 'I haven't so much as a nudge as to what's going on.'
The coffee mug was in his hands almost at once. He never understood how she could do that, have his coffee ready at whatever temperature he requested. He checked to see that he had his glasses with him.
'I do wish you'd get something more appealing than those black wire rims,' Frances sighed. 'You look like a mongoose when you wear them in your class.'
'It keeps the beautiful young ladies at a proper distance,' Jones laughed. He glanced at his watch. 'Here.' He handed her the coffee mug. 'Time to march.'
'Good luck.'
He stopped in his tracks. 'What?'
She was flustered. 'Indiana,' she said softly, her tone so personal it was intimate. 'The last time you were called in by Pencroft in this manner, well, you know, it was that trip to the Amazon, and—'
'Let it drop,' Jones said brusquely. He didn't need reminders of the stunning young woman to whom he'd been married only a short time. My God, he mused as he walked along the hallway to Pencraft's office. It's been four years since Deirdre was killed and it still hurts like it was yesterday. . . .
He put aside everything but what he would hear from Pencroft as he entered the old man's outer office. 'Go right in,' Sally Strickland told him. Obviously even the secretary here was on edge about something. She hadn't bothered to smile or offer her usual friendly greeting. He stayed with the mood, nodded, and went into Pencraft's office.
'Close the door,' Pencroft said unnecessarily. Indy edged the door shut with the heel of his shoe. The old man was testy for a reason, and it seemed to be a signal to Indy: Watch it; exercise care. He turned to take measure of the third man in the room.
If there was one word to describe the stranger, Indiana Jones had it immediately: severity. Whoever, whatever he was, this man was a true professional.
Demeanor, selfconfidence, piercing eyes, the cut of the suit, the catlike relaxation while the man remained fully alert, mentally
and physically . . . it was all there, and he had even managed to rattle Pencraft's cage of selfassurance.
'Professor Henry Jones,' Pencroft said stiffly, 'this is Mr. Thomas Treadwell.
Mr. Treadwell—'
Treadwell came to his feet in a single gliding motion, right hand extended to grasp Indy's. Once again, Indy was filled with the strength and presence of this man.
He spent a few precious seconds absorbing all that he had noticed by removing his glasses from his shirt pocket and cleaning the lenses with his handkerchief.
'Treadwell, is it?' Indy said casually. 'Is that your real name, Mr., um . . .'
He let it hang.
'It's real enough,' Treadwell said. Indy knew from his tone that he had all the proper cards and papers, identification to choke a horse if necessary, to 'prove' he was Treadwell.
'Well, I see we've got a catandmouse situation here,' Indy said to both men. Then he directed his gaze to Pencroft. 'Do I find out where our visitor is from?'
Pencroft nodded. He had only a scratch of information himself and he didn't like it. You could feel and smell security
in the room. Anyone who regarded Pencroft as simply a doddering old professor was making a mistake of grand proportions. Long before his permanency at the university he had served the British army well, rising to the rank of brigadier through a halfdozen wars, large and small, before retiring from enough wounds to kill several men. Like Indiana Jones he knew when a professional was at hand.
'I won't play any games with you, Professor Jones,' Treadwell answered. 'I'm military intelligence. Not Scotland Yard, as I'm sure you already deduced on your own. You have certain body language that speaks aloud.'
Indy smiled and nodded, waiting.
'For the record, I'm required to impose the highest level of secrecy on what you're going to be told,' Treadwell continued. 'I know that you're an American citizen, and I won't go through the formal blather of papers and all that. Your word will suffice for us.'
'Wait, wait,' Pencroft interrupted. 'I'll be hanged if I'll sit here with a parched throat.' He pressed a desk buzzer.
'Sally, tea. And brandy. A good measure of both.'
They waited until the tea was poured and mixed with brandy and Pencraft's secretary had departed. Suddenly a radio blared from the outer office. Indy lifted an eyebrow toward Pencroft, and the old man smiled. No one would hear their conversation with the racket outside.
'First,' began Treadwell, 'I don't expect you to believe what I'm about to tell you.'
Twenty minutes later Indy knew the other man was | right.
Treadwell related a story more fantastic than anything Indy had ever heard.
And he had trailed Indian spirits in South America, crawled through the tomb passageways of the pyramids, faced voodoo doctors and shamans who performed feats all science would consider not incredible, but impossible. He had seen the ghosts of ancient giants at Stonehenge, trod the thin vaporous lines that seemed to separate this world from other dimensions. He had—well, pay attention, he commanded himself harshly.
