Indiana Jones & the Peril at Delphi

mine.

'My sentiments, too,' Indy said.

'Got something for you,' Conrad said, and he handed Indy a package. 'It arrived just before you got here.'

'What's this?' Indy ripped open the envelope attached to the top of the package, and saw it was a note from the king.

Dear Mr. Jones— I hope you will change your mind and accept the Omphalos. Bury it at sea, if you wish, but please take it far from Greece and Delphi. The days of Apollo's Oracle are long over, and we Greeks must look to our future rather than try to revive our distant past. Thank you.

'What is it?' Shannon asked as the ferry pulled away from the pier.

'A piece of a falling star, I guess.' Indy balanced the package on the railing.

'What are you going to do with it?'

He looked down at the dark blue sea. 'I don't know. I'll have to think about it. But I know a museum curator in Chicago who would be very pleased to have it in his Greek collection. ...'

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rob macgregor wrote Indiana Jones And The Last Crusade, a novel based on the movie script. He is also the author of The Crystal Skull, a novel of adventure and in trigue, and The Rainbow Oracle (with Tony Grosso), a book of color divination. His travel articles have appeared in the Miami Herald, Los Angeles Times, Boston Globe, Newsday and elsewhere. He is also a contributor to OMNI Magazine's 'Anti-Matter' section. Be sides his work as a writer, he has organized adventure tours to South America for travel writers, and led the first group of U.S. jour-nalists to the Lost City in the Sierra Nevada of Santa Marta Mountains in Colombia in 1987. He lives in Boynton Beach, Florida, where he is at work on his next novel.

The adventure doesn't stop here—there's more chil s, adventure, and mystery ahead in the next Indiana Jones adventure—

INDIANA JONES AND THE DANCE OF THE GIANTS

Read an exciting preview of the next novel in the series starting on the next page Everywhere he looked, he saw figures draped in billowy black robes, their heads covered in cowls. They chanted a rhythmic drone, over and over again. It was endless. It was maddening.

He peered through the grey haze, trying to get his bearings. It was either dawn or dusk; he wasn't sure and it disturbed him that he didn't know. He could see that he was inside some sort of temple. It was immense and circular, roofless, with stone pillars arching toward the grey sky.

He didn't belong here; he was out of place. His head stuck out above everyone else's, and he was the only person who wasn't wearing a robe. He looked down at himself and saw that he wasn't wearing anything. Then he realized that he was standing on a flat rock and that was why his head protruded above everyone else's.

What was he doing here? How had he gotten here?

They were looking at him now. Every head was turned toward him. The droning grew louder. There was a rhythm to it, and it pounded against him. Why were they moving toward him? Why wouldn't his feet move?

Why did his body feel like lead?

Now they were rushing at him. They were a sea of black. Their robes flapped at their ankles. He looked around frantically for an escape route. His arms pumped at his sides, his feet blurred beneath him, but he didn't seem to be getting anywhere. They must have drugged him; but who were they?

His head snapped around. They were almost on top of him. Move. Move. Fast. Air exploded from his lungs. A

grinning face leered at him. The sky tilted. The pillars were toppling toward him. And suddenly he was awake, his arms twitching, his feet jerking, a scream poised at the edge of his tongue.

He sucked in his breath, looked around. But he could still hear the incessant chanting. He blinked his eyes, orienting himself. The train. Of course. The cars rumbled over the rails, the sound of the chanting, and someone was pounding on the door of his compartment. He sat forward, ran his hand across his perspiration-soaked brow.

'Who is it?'

The pounding stopped. The door opened and a slender, grey-haired Englishman wearing a conductor's uniform peered in at him. 'Mr. Jones? Sorry if I disturbed you.'

Indy rubbed his face. 'What is it?'

The conductor held up a package. 'It was waiting for you at the last stop.'

'You sure it's for me?' Indy took the flat, rectangular box wrapped in white paper. On it was taped an envelope addressed: Indy Jones. 'Yeah. Probably only one of us aboard.' He thanked the conductor, who smiled thinly, nodded, and retreated.

Indy turned the package over in his hand. It looked like a candy box. It rattled when he shook it. He held it to his nose; it smelled faintly of chocolate. Who would send chocolates, he wondered as he slipped a card out of the envelope. The message was typewritten: Have an enjoya ble trip, and good luck on your new job. Henry Jones, Sr.

He blinked, re-read it. Now how the hell did his father know he would be on this train? And since when did he wire him boxes of candy? Hell, they hadn't spoken for more than two years, not since he'd informed him of his switch in studies from linguistics to archaeology.

Then his frown vanished, and a smile curled on his lips. It was Shannon; it had to be. Jack Shannon knew all about his relationship with his father. The package was a god damn joke, at least to someone with Shannon's jaded sense of humor. He shook his head, and set the card down on the box.

He stared out the window at the grey countryside drifting by. His thoughts turned back to his last night in

Paris. A cloud of blue haze hung in the air of the nightclub as the black woman on stage swayed and sang, her voice deep and sonorous, a perfect accompaniment to the soul ful sounds of the cornet being played in the shadows behind her. As the last notes of the song slowly faded away to the applause of the crowd, the tall, gangly cornet player with the goatee and unruly hair walked off the stage. He shook hands, nodded, smiled as he wove his way through the tables. Finally, he lowered himself into a chair in a table near the corner farthest from the stage.

'You're sounding real good, Jack. You and Louise,' Indy said.

'Thanks. It's really come together in the last six months.'

'I'll miss it.'

Shannon studied Indy's face. 'So you're really going to teach archaeology in London.'

'At least for the summer. I'm leaving in the morning.'

'I don't blame you for wanting to leave Paris. It's getting too hectic. The scene's changed.' Shannon leaned forward and lit a cigarette from the burning candle on the table. 'Sometimes, I look around and there's hardly a Parisian in the Jungle anymore. All tourists. Every night a new crowd. The regulars never show up until the last set, anymore. If they show up at all.'

'Sorry I couldn't make it earlier.'

Shannon waved a hand. 'I'm not talking about you. It's everything. I guess I'm getting restless as well.'

Indy put on his hat. 'You know you're welcome to come and visit anytime you like.'

'I may take you up on that. I'd like to see London again.'

The rural countryside had given way to sooty brick factories and spewing smokestacks, and Indy knew that he'd be in the city in a few minutes. After leaving Paris earlier in the week, he'd spent a couple of days in Brittany, where he'd examined some of the megalithic ruins in the region. Then this morning he'd taken a ferry across the channel and boarded the train.

He ripped the paper from the package. He smiled. French chocolates from Paris. 'Nice going, Shannon.'

He was about to remove the cover and sample a choco-

late when the train suddenly braked for another station and a book slid off the seat. He leaned over and picked up the book. The coyer had flopped open to an epigraph on the first page of the 18th century tome, which