fairly closely to the Capsian culture.” He lowered the can and
cocked an inquiring eye at Zeiblemann.
“Not bad,” said the professor, nodding. He laid the flint in a tray
beside the first and added the identification sheet that Hutfauer
had written out. “We’ll have a closer look tomorrow when the
light’s a little better.”
Hutfauer joined him at the door. The sound of jabbering and
shouting from the level below told them that another of the
natives’ endless minor domestic disputes had broken out over
something.
“Tea’s up if anyone’s interested,” a voice called out from behind
the next tent.
Zeiblemann raised his eyebrows and licked his lips. “What a
splendid idea,” he said. “Come on, Jorg.”
They walked around to the makeshift kitchen, where Ruddi Magendorf
was sitting on a rock, shoveling spoonfuls of tea leaves out of a
tin by his side and into a large bubbling pot of water.
“Hi, Prof-hi, Jorg,” he greeted as the two joined him. “It’ll be
brewed in a minute or two.”
Zeiblemann wiped his palms on the front of his shirt. “Good. Just
what I could do with.” He cast his eye about automatically and
noted the trays, covered by cloths, laid out on the trestle table
by the side of Magendorf’s tent.
“Ah, I see you’ve been busy as well,” he observed. “What do we have
there?”
Magendorf followed his gaze.
“Jomatto brought them up about half an hour ago. They’re from the
upper terrace of sector two-east end. Take a look.”
Zeiblemann walked over to the table and uncovered one of the trays
to inspect the neatly arrayed collection, at the same time mumbling
absently to himself.
“More ifint scrapers, I see . . . Mmmm . . . That could be a hand
ax. Yes, I believe it is . . . Bits of jawbone, human .
looks as if they might well match up. Skull cap. . . Bone spearhead
. . . Mmm . . .” He lifted the cloth from the second tray and began
running his eye casually over the contents. Suddenly the movement
of his head stopped abruptly as he stared hard at something at one
end. His face contorted into a scowl of disbelief.
“What the hell is this supposed to be?” he bellowed. He
straightened up and walked back toward the stove, holding the
offending object out in front of him.
Magendorf shrugged and pulled a face.
“I thought you’d better see it,” he offered, then added: “Jomatto
says it was with the rest of that set.”
“Jomatto says what?” Zeiblemann’s voice rose in pitch as he
glowered first at Magendorf and then back at the object in his
hand. “Oh, for God’s sake! The man’s supposed to have a bit of
sense. This is a serious scientific expedition. . .” He regarded
the object again, his nostrils quivering with indignation.
“Obviously one of the boys has been playing a silly joke or
something.”
It was about the size of a large cigarette pack, not including the
wrist bracelet, and carried on its upper face four windows that
could have been meant for miniature electronic displays. It
suggested a chronometer or calculating aid, or maybe it was both
and other things besides. The back and contents were missing, and
all that was left was the metal casing, somewhat battered and
dented, but still surprisingly unaffected very much by corrosion.
“There’s a funny inscription on the bracelet,” Magenclorf said,
rubbing his nose dubiously. “I’ve never seen characters like it
before.”
Zeiblemann sniffed and peered briefly at the lettering.
“Pah! Russian or something.” His face had taken on a pinker shade
than even that imparted by the Sudan sun. “Wasting valuable time
with-with dime-store trinkets!” He drew back his arm and hurled the
wrist set high out over the stream. It flashed momentarily in the
sunlight before plummeting down into the mud by the water’s edge.
The professor stared after it for a few seconds and then turned
back to Magendorf, his breathing once again normal. Magendorf
extended a mug full of steaming brown liquid.
“Ah, splendid,” Zeiblemann said in a suddenly agreeable voice.
“Just the thing.” He settled himself into a folding canvas chair