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them seemed to be occupied by one university department or another.
    Shane found the Archaeology Department with no trouble and mounted the steps to the entrance. It was dark and gloomy inside with walls painted green and beige. There was no carpet in the hall and as he moved forward, the polished floorboards creaked ominously.
    He passed a large notice board and came to the office. He noticed another door a little further along the corridor and saw that Crowther’s name was neatly painted in white on a small wooden plaque. He knocked softly and went in.
    Crowther was sitting at a desk by the long window, his back half turned to the door as he held a piece of flint up to the light. ‘Yes, what is it?’ he said and there was impatience in his voice. ‘I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed this afternoon.’
    Shane walked forward slowly until he was standing on the opposite side of the desk. ‘Hallo, Crowther,’ he said. ‘It’s been a long time.’
    Crowther swivelled sharply in his chair and a look of incredulity appeared on his face. ‘By all that’s wonderful - Martin Shane. But this is impossible. You’re dead, man. You died seven years ago.’
    Shane shook his head. ‘That’s what everybody keeps telling me. I’m beginning to wonder if I’m really here.’
    Crowther sat gaping at him, the piece of flint still held between finger and thumb. ‘What have you got there?’ Shane asked.
    ‘An arrowhead one of my students found on a site we’re excavating, Neolithic, I think,’ Crowther replied automatically and then he laughed. ‘But what am I burbling about? Sit down, man! Sit down and tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself since the worst years of our lives? The last I saw of you, you were lying on a stretcher with your head split open. They told me you were dying.’
    Shane pulled a chair forward and unbuttoned his coat and grinned. ‘They told you wrong. It was pretty bad, but I managed to pull through. It took years in hospital though.’ He reached for a cigarette. ‘What happened to you? I thought you were dead until I checked at the War Office a few days ago.’
    Crowther took out a pipe and started to fill it from a leather pouch. ‘When they dug me out after the bombing I was pretty well unharmed. Wilby and Steele were both injured and the Chinese took them away in a field ambulance. I never saw them again.’
    ‘And what did they do with you?’ Shane asked.
    Crowther shrugged. ‘Oh, the usual thing. I joined a column of prisoners and they sent us north. It was rather a long walk. With winter coming on, I can assure you it was anything but pleasant.’
    Shane looked around the room and smiled faintly, ‘You seem to have done all right for yourself since. The porter told me you were Doctor Crowther now. When did that happen?’
    Crowther shrugged. ‘A couple of years back. I did some research and it happened to come out right, that’s all.’ He grinned. ‘I’m married now, you know. Got a little girl. You must come out to dinner one night and meet my wife.’
    ‘I’d like that,’ Shane said. He got to his feet and walked to a glass case containing specimens. As he examined them he said, ‘Do you ever see any of the old bunch?’
    Crowther shook his head. ‘I visited Charles Graham when I first came home. It was such a harrowing experience, I’ve never cared to repeat it.’
    ‘I know what you mean,’ Shane told him. ‘I called on him this morning. What about the other two? Do you ever see anything of them?’
    ‘Not socially, if that’s what you mean,’ Crowther said. ‘I met Reggie Steele in town one day and he asked me to have a drink with him, but I was in a hurry,’ He laughed. ‘To tell you the truth, I wasn’t particularly keen.’
    ‘Why not?’ Shane asked, suddenly alert.
    Crowther shrugged. ‘It’s the old story. The man one knew in the army seems a different person out of it.’
    Shane looked across at him strangely. ‘Doesn’t what happened