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of an astonishing and sensational new discovery at Stonebarrow Fell; one that will lend credence to Professor Marcus’s unorthodox theories. When queried about these rumors, the American scholar would only smile.

The expected arrival on the scene of Professor Gideon P. Oliver, an internationally known authority on skeletal analysis and reconstruction, is believed by informed sources to suggest that the alleged new discovery consists of one or more human skeletons. Professor Oliver, it is believed, will play a significant role in the inquiry into his countryman’s behaviour.
     
    Gideon stared at the last paragraph a second time, then dropped the paper and looked up.
    "How in the hell did
I
get involved? How could the… the…" He glanced at the masthead. "…the
West Dorset Times
even know I was coming?
Nobody
knew we were going to Charmouth."
    This was virtually true. Gideon had talked about it with his old friend and teacher Abe Goldstein, but Abe was living in quiet retirement in Sequim, Washington, six thousand miles away. No one else could possibly know. They had not even made reservations at a Charmouth hotel, trusting instead to plentiful vacancies in the off-season.
    "I’ll be damned," he said. "Nate, I give you my word I don’t have anything to do with any inquiry. I didn’t even know there was one."
    Again there was a burdensome silence. Against the one small window an unseasonable bluebottle fly buzzed and thumped sluggishly. Nate, who had been studying Gideon closely all the time he’d been reading, appeared to come to an abrupt decision.
    "Okay, okay, I believe you. I’m sorry, pal, maybe I’m getting paranoid." He toyed with the old dagger blade, picking at the rough, green patina with thin, hairy fingers. "That damn WAS. They’ll do anything to make me look bad. I’ll bet anything they’re behind it."
    Paranoid,
Frawley had said, and now Nate had said it too. Gideon began to wonder if there wasn’t something to it. He glanced at Frawley and was met with the sort of knowing look that is generally said to be "fraught with meaning."
    "Nate," Gideon said, "you know the WAS is a serious group of archaeologists. I don’t think—"
    "Don’t give me that bullshit. Dammit, Gideon, I’ve got them so shook up with what I’m finding here they’d do anything to get me canned—so they can have all the credit for good old England. Bastards!" His hand closed around the blade, and for a second Gideon thought he was going to ram the fragile implement into the table, but he only gripped it a moment and tossed it down. "Hell, what am I getting so excited about? It’s the same old story." He grinned suddenly, his teeth very white against his dark face, and tapped the newspaper. "I gave ’em as good as I got, though, huh?"
    "Yes, it’s great to see you out there winning friends for America."
    Nate laughed, throwing back his head and barking at the ceiling. It was too loud and it went on too long, and in his throat the arteries stood out like fat worms. Again Gideon found Frawley’s doleful eyes fixed meaningfully on him.
    Nate leaned over and slapped Gideon’s arm. "Let me tell you, pal, I’m really glad you’re not with them. I’d hate to think you were on their side."
    Gideon returned his smile but was obscurely troubled. Were there sides? Whose side
was
he on? Nate’s theory was cockeyed and deserved refutation, no question about that, but the man had once been close to him, and Gideon couldn’t help being concerned. Abe Goldstein had been right, as usual; Nate Marcus was in need of being kept out of trouble.
    "Nate," Gideon said softly, wishing that the mournfully attentive Frawley would go away, "this whole Mycenaean business…. Are you sure you’re not getting yourself out on a limb? An inquiry by Horizon—that’s serious stuff; it could affect your whole career."
    "Everything I said is true," Nate said fervently. "Listen, I can
prove
the Mycenaeans brought the Bronze Age to England." He stared