Frawley heard the coolness in his voice. The hand fell from Gideon's arm, and the sober face, which had been staring directly up into Gideon's, retreated with its sour tobacco smell.
'Well, it's only that you should know that, in all candor, Nate isn't quite himself. He's been very...” He pursed his lips, chewed his words. “What I mean to say is that he's, well, terribly determined to prove he's right about the Mycenaeans bringing the Wessex culture with them to England.'
'You don't agree with his theory?” Gideon asked.
Frawley looked aggrieved. “Do
It was a fair if surprisingly direct question. “No,” Gideon said. “It made a little sense in the thirties and forties, when no one realized the extent of Bronze Age commerce. But now it seems pretty simplistic to invent a three- thousand-mile sea voyage when long-term trade contracts explain things a lot better.'
'Well, there you are,” Frawley said, vaguely mollified. “But that isn't my point. What I'm getting at is the idea —I think I might well say the fact—that this... obsession of his is getting in the way of his objectivity. All this defending himself, and this fighting with the Antiquarian Society....Well, I think maybe it's affected his judgment, made him a little...well, paranoid.'
The hand darted out briefly to touch Gideon's arm again. “Now, I don't mean to imply he's not doing a top- notch job. No, sir, no way, not for a minute. What I'm trying to say is'—here the sincere and shining eyes were turned full on Gideon again—'that he needs help, your support. He's made some wonderful contributions. He's a wonderful person, a great man.'
What, Gideon wondered, was this all about? A little judicious, not-so-subtle backstabbing by the loyal, passed- over senior faculty member? But why to Gideon? What did he have to do with it?
Frawley drew himself up, manfully putting the lid on his emotions. “Shall we go in now, Gideon?'
[Back to Table of Contents]
FOUR
* * * *
FROM Jack Frawley's tone, Gideon half expected to walk into the parlor of a funeral home, and was relieved immediately at the friendly, familiar clutter and jumble of an archaeological workroom. Most of the small interior was taken up by two pushed-together old tables on which were several newly put-together pottery sections, the beads of glue still fresh on them; a few blackened, unidentifiable scraps of metal; and five or six small paper bags labeled with thick, black numbers. There was also a corroded but impressive bronze dagger, next to which lay the golden nails that had studded its hilt and the few rotten slivers of wood that were presumably all that remained of the hilt itself. Obviously, it had been a productive dig so far.
Squeezed around the table were five or six folding metal chairs, and on one of them, near an electric heater, sat Nate Marcus. Frawley's warning notwithstanding, he looked very much like himself: small and wiry, intense and sarcastic. He was a man of extraordinary hirsuteness. Black and vigorous, his hair always seemed to be in the process of taking him over, gleaming blue-black and gritty on his spare cheeks, dipping low on his forehead in a thick, simian wedge, meeting above his eyes in a woolly, Cyclopean eyebrow that sent fuzzy feelers halfway down his nose. In the V of his open collar a glossy tuft sprouted like a nest of tangled wires.
I know just what he's going to say, Gideon thought, and exactly how he's going to say it.
'Look who's here,” Nate said flatly. “What a terrific surprise.'
'Hi, Nate. It's nice to see you.'
'Sure.” Nate folded his arms. “Have a seat. Have some coffee.'
'Thanks,” Gideon said, unsure of himself, feeling as if he were accepting not a cup of coffee but a challenge.
Frawley scuttled to a corner. “I'll take care of the coffee,” he said, heavily jocose. “That's an assistant director's primary responsibility.” He busied himself with the coffee things that are as omnipresent as calipers or acetone in archaeology workrooms all over the world.
Nate stared at Gideon, his eyes inexpressive. “Okay, Gid, what do you want?'
Even for Nate this was pretty brusque, and there was an increasing prickle of irritation at the back of Gideon's neck. Or was he being unduly sensitive? He had been irritated by Leon; he hadn't liked Sandra; he found Frawley odious; and now Nate seemed even ruder than usual. Maybe Gideon was just having one of his misanthropic days and it was all in his mind. On the other hand, he reassured himself charitably, he hadn't disliked Barry, had he? No, it wasn't his perception; there was something uneasy, something off-key in the atmosphere of Stonebarrow Fell.
'I don't want anything,” he said evenly. “I was traveling in the area with my wife, so I thought I'd say hello. And Abe Goldstein wanted me to give you his best.'
There was a ponderous silence while Frawley brought back three mugs of coffee clutched insecurely in his white hands. He set them carefully on the table. “There we go. See, even assistant directors are good for something.” He sat on Nate's other side, around the corner of the table.
Nate continued to glower at Gideon. “You thought you'd drop in,” he finally said.
'Yes.'
When Nate just kept staring at him with a crooked, unfunny smirk on his face, Gideon stood up, puzzled and angry. He had paid his duty call and had no wish to be glared at by a contentious and hostile colleague who might once have been a friend, but who clearly had no use for him at the moment.
'You don't have anything to do with the inquiry?” Nate said sharply as Gideon pushed his chair back. “Is that what you're telling me?'
