LITMIR.BIZ

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two wires from the box down to the disc. Finally, he took out a set of headphones, plugged them into the black box, and put them over his ears. Rising to his feet, Tom held the disc a few inches above the loose flagstones on the floor, and took a few steps ahead, moving the device in a slow sweeping motion, like a scythe. Tick! he heard suddenly. He took another step forward. Tick! Tick! Tick! Tom snatched off the earphones, set down the device, and got down on all fours for a closer look. His rubbed his finger in the dirt between two flagstones and felt some kind of metal object. His pulse quickened as he dug in with his fingernails to undercover whatever it might be—an ancient coin perhaps or a gold bracelet fallen between the cracks. Scratching at the dirt until his fingers were almost raw, Tom finally exposed the metal object: a rusty hairpin.

      Well, at least the Metallascope works, Tom sighed. He was just reaching for the earphones again when he was startled by a voice behind him: “Lose something?”

      Tom scrambled to his feet and looked around. At first all he could make out in the dim light was a silhouette, a tall man wearing a broad-shouldered suit and a fedora. “Excuse me?” said Tom, not really in the mood for conversation.

      Stepping forward in a shaft of light, the man doffed his hat, revealing a square jaw, graying temples, and sad eyes. “I asked if you lost something,” he said. Glancing at the headphones on the floor, he added, “I suppose you didn’t hear me come in.”

      “I guess not,” said Tom absently. He held up the hairpin. “I didn’t lose anything. But this is what I found.”

      The man reached out for the hairpin, inspected it carefully, and handed it back “Someone’s lost treasure,” he said without smiling. “You found it with that gadget there, I suppose?” he asked.

      “That’s right,” said Tom. He picked up the device and demonstrated how to hold it. “It’s called a Metallascope. It detects metal objects on the ground or just under the surface.”

      “I thought so,” said the sad-eyed man. “They’ve got those in the army now, for detecting mines.” Holding his hat in front of him, the man gave Tom a long looking over. “You don’t look like a military man,” he said.

      Tom unconsciously brushed his sandy blond hair out of his eyes. He didn’t really feel like having a chat, but this fellow seemed to insist on a conversation. So Tom decided he could keep it up for a least a few minutes, out of politeness.

      “No, I’m not,” he said. “I’ve over here from America. Doing some research for a book.”

      “Good to meet you, son,” the man said, reaching out his hand. “My name is Huffman, Joseph Huffman. One doesn’t meet too many Yanks over here, with the war on.”

      “Tom McCord,” said Tom, shaking hands. “I came over several months ago,” said Tom. “When I crossed the sea, it didn’t look like there was going to be much of a war. After Poland fell last autumn, nothing much happened. ‘The Phony War,’ we called it in the States.”

      “That’s what the papers called over here too,” said Huffman. “But now that the Huns have gone up to Denmark and Norway, it’s starting to look like the real thing.”

      “I guess Hitler has overreached himself this time,” said Tom. “It’s one thing to overrun Poles and Danes. But I don’t suppose the little corporal and his Wehrmacht will be any match for the French and the British.”

      “We’ll see about that,” said Huffman solemnly. “That’s what they said back in 1914. They told us we’d be home by Christmas.” Huffman mused to himself a moment, then turned back to Tom. “So, tell me about this book you’re writing,” he said.

      Tom had been trying to wind up this conversation, but suddenly he grew more animated. “It’s a guidebook to all the Arthurian sites in Britain,” he said. “I’ve already been to Tintagel, where legends say Arthur was born. And down to Bodmin Moor, where Arthur got his sword from the Lady of the Lake. And, of course, I’ve been spending a lot of time in dank, dusty archives.”

      Huffman gave Tom another long looking-over and pointed to the Metallascope. “Surely, you don’t need that thing to locate books,” he said with a wan smile.

      Tom was feeling that this little chat was turning into an interrogation, and he wasn’t sure how much more he wanted to say. “It’s not all book research,” he explained. “I’ve studied archaeology too. I’m over here looking for Celtic artifacts. I’d like to prove once and for all that there really was an actual king named Arthur.”

      “And how do you propose to do that?” asked Huffman. Perhaps realizing that this question sounded too aggressive, Huffman added in a softer tone: “I fancy myself a student of archaeology too. They’ve been trying to settle that question for about a thousand years now, haven’t they?”

      Tom noted the British habit of ending a statement as if it were a question, and he wasn’t sure if he was expected to answer. But he tried to explain: “There’s a recent theory by Professor Collingwood at Oxford, backed up by a colleague of his named Tolkien. They’ve shed a lot of new light on who the historical Arthur might have been. As the Empire fell apart, the Romans pulled out of Britain in the fifth century, leaving the Celts on their own. The Britons fought among themselves for a few generations, until they realized the true threat was coming from the east, from waves and waves of Teutons arriving from across the Channel.”

      “Same thing we’re worried about now,” said Huffman.

      “Something like that,” answered Tom, warming to his topic. “Collingwood argues that a Celtic leader named Arthur could see that the only way to stem the pagan tide was to do as the Romans had done—to organize troops of cavalry. The Angles and Saxons were strictly foot soldiers, lightly armed with shields and spears. So Arthur must have trained companies of horsemen, adopting hit-and-run tactics. He seems to have harried the Saxons up and down the land, keeping them out of the western kingdoms for half a century.”

      “That’s all very interesting,” said Huffman, sounding not very interested. “But you still haven’t explained this,” he said in a surprisingly direct tone. “How is hunting up hairpins in Glastonbury going to help you find King Arthur? And how did you get hold of your own military equipment?”

      Tom didn’t like Huffman’s tone, and he decided it was time to go. “I told you, I’m writing a guidebook to all the Arthurian sites. And while I’m here, I’m looking for artifacts.” Tom picked up his knapsack and slung it over his shoulder, as he added a few words of explanation. “I rented the metal detector from a specialty shop in London. It’s a simplified civilian model. I was testing it out in here, to see if I might find an old hinge, a metal latch, something to suggest a buried entrance.”

      Feeling that he’d said enough, or more than enough, Tom strode toward the doorway. Huffman gave a slight whistle and suddenly there appeared in the entrance a burly man with a red face. He stood right in the narrow exit with his arms folded across his chest, wearing a wrinkled shirt and a baggy tweed jacket.

      Tom had played fullback in high school, and his first instinct was to bowl the man over and not look back. But he didn’t like the odds, and he wasn’t sure who else might be outside. He turned back to Huffman. “You’re not letting me leave?” he asked.

      “I wouldn’t put it that way,” said Huffman with unconvincing friendliness. “It’s just that we were having such a lovely chat. This is my associate, Mr. Durham. He has some interests similar to yours and mine.” Durham nodded his head without unfolding his arms.

      “Mr. Durham,” continued Huffman, “allow me to introduce Mr. Tom McCord from America. He’s over here looking for King Arthur.”

      “Last I heard, the bloke was dead,” said Durham gruffly.

      “Perhaps not dead,” said Huffman cheerfully. “The legends say he was brought right here, to the Isle of Avalon, to recover from his wounds. He’s supposed to

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