The Stones of the Apocalypse: A Mystery with Global Implications

By Piers Jones

When Professor Beardsley Rowe wrote a paper about the development of human consciousness, he could never have imagined what that would lead to.

From America to Australia’s Blue Mountains and beyond, a series of mysteries unfold which lead the Professor and his feisty research assistant, Lyn Stillman, on a fascinating trail of discovery.

All seeming unrelated, strange occurrences, each underpinned by its own strange history, determine the course of events, propelling the colleagues to one dramatic climax, and then, with the intrusion of elements completely unforeseen, to another, which have deadly implications for the world.

If you love mystery, history and adventure, this is the book for you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Apr 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781922368539

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Armidale, NSW, Australia.

It was a cold September afternoon as Lyn Stillman, PhD student, made her way through the grounds of the University of New England for an unscheduled meeting with her supervisor. She was annoyed with the summons. What could he want? she wondered. It wouldn’t be the first occasion that he had wasted her time with something trivial. Sometimes she suspected he just wanted her company. Well, at least it would be warm in the Professor’s study, she reasoned, as she turned a corner into the biting teeth of the westerly wind.

Associate Professor Beardsley Rowe was the deputy head of the Department of Archaeology, and Lyn, in the final year of her doctorate, was his research assistant.

Beardsley? His mother, having simply encountered the name Aubrey Beardsley, had thought it sounded aristocratic. She may have been less enthusiastic had she been aware of the scope of that artist’s oeuvre. Her son hated the name and was very happy that his students as well as many of his colleagues simply referred to him by his title, Professor.

For Lyn it was his name. She had always known him as that ever since her days as an undergraduate, and for her it imparted a sense of continuity which otherwise was absent from her life; continuity and solidity.

By some criteria the Professor was the ultimate academic. Fifty and single, his interest lay entirely in his work, in publishing the ideas which he derived from his research and communicating those through his teaching. He paid little heed to politics, followed no sport and appeared to have no love life. His emotional needs seemed to be satisfied by his interaction with and concern for his students. Avuncular was how many regarded him.

It was the way Lyn saw him: the fifteen years which separated them was sufficient to allow it. In appearance he was certainly avuncular. A broad kindly face conveyed a sense of reassurance, with that complemented by an ample form which, despite the rounding of middle age, still gave an impression of strength. Lyn was aware that before the Professor’s academic career he had trained as a stone mason. Somehow that seemed appropriate.

Unknown to Lyn, this admiration was amply returned. The Professor could cite many reasons, her academic ability for one; but if he had had to think about it he would have said that his admiration was simply the formal part of his liking for his protégé. He did enjoy her company, and he would admit to having at times used a less than valid excuse for a meeting.

Such, however, was not the case on this occasion. He had just returned from America and it was in relation to that trip that he had requested her presence.

What’s that? he asked. Lyn was barely through the door and settled in her usual chair opposite him when he engaged her in the matter, handing her an object which looked no more interesting than a dark piece of bottle glass.

Well, obsidian, of course, she replied curtly.

Obsidian was one of the most widely used materials in the ancient world. Any first year student of archaeology would have been able to recognise the substance. But it was Lyn’s specific area of study, obsidian trade routes, and she had seen literally hundreds of pieces of the stuff. She was puzzled. This wasn’t one of the Professor’s tests, she hoped.

The Professor was renowned for leading his students to discover some truth for themselves by a particular process of analysis. It was often a frustrating business, for while he contrived to provide what he considered to be an obvious path to an even more obvious conclusion, he could not understand that his mental processes were very different from theirs. What he considered was a valid teaching method wasn’t always appreciated by his students. Why, they thought, couldn’t he just get to the point?

Are you sure? he repeated.

Yes, of course I’m sure. Lyn held the object up to the light in a perfunctory examination, a touch of anger now colouring her reply.

Lyn could not be taken for granted and the Professor knew he was pushing the boundaries. For all their long association there was a singular contradiction in his protégé’s character which remained outside his comprehension. Small and blond, Lyn was also unusually beautiful: unusually, for her looks were enhanced by that indefinable something, that X factor, possessed by a lucky few, which imparts immediate attraction. It was a quality which the Professor could never claim he had become totally immune to. That was the positive; the negative was that Lyn had a very short fuse. Any offence, real or imagined in any number of areas, including wasting her time, could result in an explosion of anger which was withering to its recipient.

It was something which the Professor understood had deep roots, and over the years he had learned the danger areas and was generally able to avoid them. He rarely intruded deliberately and only rarely was a victim.

Rarely, because Lyn in that same time had learned to contain her annoyance with his idiosyncrasies and to humour him.

She was puzzled. It couldn’t be a test she concluded, but there was obviously some purpose to the Professor’s enquiry, and for wasting time the only alternative she could think of was worse. This isn’t another of your weird theories, she sighed in mock exaspera­tion. I hope that you’re not expecting me to spend my precious time pursuing the latest idea you’ve become obsessed with.

Along with his teaching methods, the Professor also had a reputation for his publications. His career had been built on serious and sometimes groundbreaking research in archaeology and he was greatly respected for it, but he frequently strayed well beyond his chosen field. His colleagues worried on his behalf and the department felt that its credibility was at risk with the nature of some of the papers he had produced over the years. Its head, Richard Ogilvie, was his most trenchant critic; the Dick, as he was referred to, taking any opportunity to tell his colleague that if it was up to him he would be out of a job. Unfortunately for him the subject of his displeasure had tenure.

Weird theories? I have no idea what you’re referring to, the Professor countered in a tone of innocence.

Oh? Lyn mentally reviewed some of his stranger titles looking for one with which to challenge him. ‘The Phaistos Disk: a template for funerary bread?’ – ‘Caves: the repository of ancient languages’ – ‘On the tail of the dugong, the animal which brought humans to Australia’ – Was Stonehenge roofed? This last she stated aloud, choosing one of the most controversial. What about that?

Well, that was a valid idea. People seem to forget that university is meant to be a place of ideas. The Professor reached behind him and retrieved a yellowing illustration stuck to the wall. The papers liked it. They all covered it.

Yes, but your colleagues didn’t.

"The Dick, don’t you mean? There’s a man who has never had an original thought in his life. I doubt if he’s even allowed himself to speculate about anything. His students aren’t encouraged to. Teach only what has been proved: the perfect representative of stodgy academia.

Academia likes its orthodoxies. The Professor never missed a chance to philosophise. And academics can be the most resistant when those orthodoxies are challenged. Remember when they cleaned the Sistine Chapel and revealed all its bright colours? People were outraged; and guess who screamed the loudest, the art historians and aficionados. All the dark subtlety they claimed for Michelangelo’s art was gone with a wipe, so to speak. The orthodoxy is that Stonehenge was built as an open air observatory, and my paper was heresy.

Your concept had nothing to do with it of course. Lyn was looking at the illustration: A dome made of wicker fifty feet high. You couldn’t have come up with anything more bizarre.

It was withies not wicker and it was pure genius; the dome was the point. The article was called ‘Was Stonehenge roofed?’ not ‘Stonehenge was roofed’. It was a speculation concerned with what might have been possible with the materials and technology of the time. The Stonehenge people had baskets and what is a dome but just an inverted basket? Build it of withies and in a continuous spiral, the same way as a basket, and it would be as strong as you’d want. It could have been done. There was a note of wistfulness in the Professor’s final statement.

It’s a pity they didn’t think of it then, Lyn commented.

Yes it was, and that was the purpose of the paper. To encourage people to think more laterally about things and not be limited by what’s gone before.

And is that your intention here, Professor? To present a challenging new angle on obsidian, a substance we’ve all taken for granted? Despite her restraint, Lyn showed her impatience. I’m afraid I haven’t got the time if you want me as your collaborator. She rose with the intention of leaving.

No Lyn, it’s not that. The Professor interposed hastily. I’m sorry, I am prone to my digressions and taking up your time. But that isn’t the case here. I’m not testing you. This, as you rightly said, is obsidian, plain old obsidian. But, what if it wasn’t.

You’re being obscure again, Professor, Lyn cautioned him.

Yes I am. But it’s because I’m looking for a way to tell you about something which I know you’re not going to believe.

Try me.

Alright. The Professor took a deep breath. For a couple of months now I’ve been kept informed about – how shall I put it – some research in America concerning a piece of obsidian, or something chemically identical to it, which it is claimed has some very peculiar and perhaps even dangerous properties.

What? The Professor had Lyn’s full but sceptical attention. What properties? Obsidian’s my field; if anything like that had been discovered I’d know about it. It would have been published – if it had been credible that is. Who’s doing this research?

The Professor smiled. I warned you that you wouldn’t believe it. Nothing’s been published and I doubt if it will be for a long time. The research is being done at NASA, although I gather, not officially. My contact is a Dr Feldman, who’s a professor of geosciences at the University of Arizona.

And why did he contact you? Lyn’s scepticism was displaced in the moment by a slight feeling of pique.

Well, oddly, because of a paper I published many years ago on the origins of human consciousness. You’re probably unaware of my research in that area. I wrote it in my sabbatical year.

No. That one escaped me.

"Well, in it I postulated that the evolution of consciousness and the subsequent development of human thought was not a slow incremental process but that it occurred in bursts which lifted it from one level to the next; and those bursts, I thought, could have been created by some outside influence. The Renaissance, it could be said, was one such jump in history, though not one easily studied. There are too many factors in the development of the Renaissance and identifying an initiating source was an impossible task.

"However, as I went back in time and could look at societies which were less complex and more isolated, the anomalous jumps were easier to identify.

"You really should read that paper. I searched for the essence of genius in those societies in every conceivable area. Sunspots or some form of solar activity was my first thought, because of the effect of solar radiation on the genes with that being a factor in evolution. But I could find no satisfactory correlations. I looked at the water people were drinking from studies on teeth, and the minerals in the food they were eating from their bones. Huh, I even tried to determine the head coverings they might have been wearing, caps of mud, that sort of thing, in reference to the temperature of their brains.

But it was useless and in the end I had to drop the subject and move on. However, I remained convinced that the genius force would show up somewhere and in some field of research.

It sounds as though you were on the same track as Arthur C. Clarke – the obelisk in 2001. Despite herself, Lyn was intrigued enough to wonder where this was heading. I suppose this is where NASA comes in, she added half facetiously.

It is, as a matter of fact. NASA is interested in any objects that reach the earth from space – meteorites in short – because of the insight they provide into the nature of the universe beyond the earth and even perhaps the solar system. You remember the excitement when it was thought that evidence for life on Mars had been found; it wasn’t found on Mars but in a meteorite in the Antarctic. I wasn’t aware that there are hundreds of types of meteorite.

You’re not going to tell me that some are obsidian, Lyn commented, anticipating the obvious. I’ve never heard of anything like that.

I’m not. But that’s exactly what a farmer in the US claimed he’d found after a meteor shower.

It was probably tektite. That’s a natural glass which can be formed in a meteor strike. It’s sometimes mistaken for obsidian.

That was NASA’s thinking, but their analysis proved the substance was obsidian and so they dismissed its presence in the area as coincidental. What followed, however, was extraordinary. The Professor then related for Lyn the account of the matter which he had received from Dr Feldman.

And that’s where things now stand, he concluded, echoing Feldman’s own ending. With a token shrug of embarrassment he signalled to Lyn that he would understand her disbelief.

There was a long moment of silence. Well, what do you think? he asked eventually.

I don’t know what to think, Lyn replied, her response support­ed by a frown. Throughout the Professor’s account she had wanted and had tried to maintain her scepticism; and she was trying still, but that meant dismissing all she had heard as a lie. The Professor wasn’t lying, but were the scientists in America? It would seem impossible, but could they have been deluded by a series of coincidences? But then … suddenly a more uncomfortable but plausible explanation occurred to her. Why did this Dr Feldman contact you? she asked. How would he have known about your research?

"Oh, that’s the second part of his story, though it was the start of things for me. It was the result of a coincidence.

Shortly after the stone was locked away – and I should say no longer available for Tim’s assistance, the boy asked his father to help him with a school assignment, the topic being human development in Ice Age Europe.

I get it.

"Yes, in searching the internet Feldman came upon my paper and of course made the connection between my speculation and his strange stone.

You know, I think half the reason for him getting in touch was to have contact with someone, especially an academic, who might be sympathetic. It is, he told me, extremely frustrating for him and his colleagues to be in possession of this knowledge and have no-one to share it with.

And is that why you have told me?

It’s part of the reason. But obsidian’s your expertise, and, as you said, you’re the one who should know about this. The Professor paused. But I should have asked you directly if you believe any of it. If not there is no point in continuing on and wasting your time.

I don’t like to say this, Lyn replied hesitantly and with a touch of embarrassment, but I think you could be the victim of a hoax. These scientists have stumbled on your paper and have concocted this story as a joke at your expense. That’s the most plausible explanation.

The Professor laughed. Ah Lyn: the perfect scientist. But give me credit for having thought of that. The first thing I did was to confirm that there had been a meteor shower in that area on that date. Then I contacted Dr Feldman by phone and heard his story first-hand.

Alright, Lyn countered, he could have been prepared for that and it doesn’t rule out the possibility of a joke.

No, it doesn’t. But would I have paid for a trip to America if I hadn’t been convinced of the man’s sincerity? Feldman invited me to visit him at the university if I was ever in America and I took the first opportunity. I talked to him and his colleagues, and Tim as well, and I am utterly convinced they were telling the truth.

Did they allow you to see the obsidian?

Yes. The Professor looked slightly abashed. I have to say that it didn’t look any different from ordinary obsidian.

Huh, no glow, or extraordinary effects. I might be persuaded if you had experienced those.

So, still sceptical?

What choice do I have?

Well, it might help if you were to hear the account of things first-hand. In anticipation of this conversation, I have arranged for Dr Feldman and his colleagues to talk to you. The Professor cocked his head to his phone and with Lyn’s assent proceeded to dial. He then was relieved to observe that she was immediately engaged, asking innumerable questions of those involved, including, it seemed by her tone of voice, Tim.

Alright, she said, putting down the phone, I’m prepared to be open about the matter but I’m not about to relinquish my scepticism.

I wouldn’t have expected anything else, the Professor replied. So, how do we start?

We explain what we can as rationally as we can.

Ok. Then leaving aside where it came from for the moment, what can we say about the glow and the effect on the brain? Obsidian sometimes contains other minerals, doesn’t it?

Yes, iron, magnesium, boron. Those can give a colouring but they can’t cause it to glow.

Alright. Could it be possible to imagine that this obsidian contains something which might have electromagnetic or electrochemical properties? The brain, after all works on electricity and chemicals and it can be affected from the outside.

Yes, it can, Lyn agreed.

The Professor was encouraged. You know, when I was first told about this it brought to mind a story I remember from my nephew’s school, although it can’t really be equated with Tim’s experience.

Not about glowing obsidian, I assume.

"No, but an extraordinary brain change. A boy there who was studying piano had his proficiency in the subject literally transformed at a blow. Like Tim, it seems he was a pretty ordinary student. But that was before a diving accident which left him in a coma for three days. Anyhow, the point is that when he recovered and was apparently back to his normal self he discovered that his ability on the piano had improved extraordinarily – to his amazement and everyone else’s. ‘I just naturally know what to do now,’ he said.

It sounds a bit like Tim, don’t you think?

A bit. Perhaps your intelligence booster was nothing more than a club and cavemen whacking each other over the head. There might have been something in those old jokes.

There might, the Professor chuckled, but this has more possibilities. What if the obsidian did in fact come from space and that meteors of the stuff have at various times arrived throughout history at the salient points? That would fit in with my proposition. This could be one of the most important discoveries of all time, and not just for history. Huh, he paused with a heavy exhalation of breath, there’s all that potential and it just sits in a safe with its guardians just waiting for something to happen – and me with them. It’s so frustrating.

What if I told you you might not have to? It was Lyn’s turn to be obscure.

What? The Professor could only stare at his colleague.

What if I said that I had heard of something like this before?

Well, where did that come from? I thought that you had no knowledge of anything like this. I thought you were dubious about the whole thing.

I was, and still am. But I now have a vague recollection of something I read in a Sydney paper months ago.

Oh? The Professor continued to stare.

"It was in the Telegraph, I think, just a quirky little article buried somewhere on an inside page about a cleaner at the Australian Museum who claimed she’d seen one of the stones on exhibit glowing after she’d turned the lights out. The museum gave the explanation that some of their minerals can luminesce that way, but the cleaner insisted that the stone was obsidian – that’s what caught my eye – and she knew obsidian didn’t have that property."

She knew? queried the Professor. That sounds odd for a cleaner. In fact, it all sounds a bit trivial. I wonder why the paper bothered with it. I think we need to look at this article and see exactly what it said. It should be on the internet. What month was it?

The article was duly found and the basics of Lyn’s story were confirmed. It also provided some very interesting detail. The cleaner, one Shona Murray, had an honours degree in geology. That was why she was so sure of her facts. She had looked at the stone for some time, fascinated by the glow that was emanating from it.

The glow she reported was green and not red. I wonder if that’s significant? the Professor observed calmly, suppressing the excitement that he felt. "It sounds as though it could be like Feldman’s stuff and it certainly warrants investigating. What about it, Lyn? We should arrange a meeting with this Shona Murray as soon as possible.

Huh: a cleaner with an honours degree in geology. My handy­man has an honours degree in art history. What a waste.

CHAPTER 2

A fortnight later and the two colleagues could be found in Sydney making their way to the Australian Museum. They had arranged to meet Shona Murray there and also the head of Minerals at the museum, Dr David Parrott. They were to see him at 12:30, giving them ample time to talk to the cleaner and to have her show them the stone in question.

Tall with long dark hair was how Shona had described herself and they had no trouble in identifying her standing quietly apart from the throng of the regular visitors progressing through the museum’s forecourt. Striking, was how the Professor would have described her, prompting him to whisper to Lyn as they approached, Not my idea of a cleaner.

Shona Murray?

The Professor made their introductions then sensing a degree of unease in the contact suggested that they adjourn to the coffee shop; he himself felt a certain awkwardness in the meeting. I believe you have an honours degree in geology, he said once they had found a table and ordered. It was sensible he thought to open the discussion with an acknowledgement of her qualification.

Yes, first class honours. Shona smiled wanly. And I suppose you’re wondering why I was working here as a cleaner?

Well, it had crossed my mind, the Professor replied, attempt­ing in his own smile to convey empathy.

It’s all connected. I could say having that my degree was the starting point for everything, and it probably contributed to the ending as well. There was an angry intensity in Shona’s response. You probably don’t know that I was sacked as a cleaner for saying what I did. It’s destroyed the pleasure I always felt coming to this place.

I didn’t know you were sacked. Perhaps you could tell us your story from the beginning – if you want to.

It was about year ago. I applied for a job here in the Minerals section. I was well qualified, but right from the outset of the interview I knew I wasn’t going to get it. Two of the people on the panel I could tell favoured me, but the third was David Parrott and for some reason he took a set against me. I have no idea why. Perhaps I wasn’t deferential enough, me, merely having an honours degree where he has a doctorate. I actually intend to do a PhD myself but I wanted to have a break from study for a while.

Did you say that in the interview? asked the Professor. Perhaps Dr Parrott didn’t want someone who was going to move on. That can be a valid reason for discounting an applicant.

Of course I didn’t, Shona retorted sharply. I’m not stupid. I know how the game is played, Professor Rowe. My impression was that he didn’t want a woman. Perhaps he feels intimidated by bright women; some men are, I’ve found, especially in academia.

Yes they are thought the Professor, looking at Lyn and exchanging a surreptitious smile when she caught him. Bright, beautiful women could be a real challenge.

Anyhow, Shona continued, I was pretty angry after the interview. I needed the work for a start, so when on my way out I saw an advertisement for a cleaner, I thought, why not? It was a scratch income and it would allow me time during the day to pursue a research project of my own. Also, she gave a self-deprecating smile, it might sound petty, but I hoped my presence here would be a niggle to Parrott. Huh, I couldn’t have known it would end up the other way round. I ran into him a couple of times when I was starting my shift and I had the feeling that my situation amused him. I had actually decided to leave on the day I saw the stones glowing.

Stones? Lyn queried, cutting into Shona’s flow. There was more than one?

Yes, two; although I should say two pieces, a large and small one. But they were originally the one piece, obviously.

And they were both glowing?

Yes, both.

And that was after the lights were turned out? Lyn was impatient to establish the facts about the substance for herself.

No, the lights weren’t out. That was Parrott’s fabrication later on. It was a ridiculous claim: I wouldn’t be vacuuming in the dark, would I? No, the glow coming from the stones outshone the lights.

What was it like?

It was beautiful: a deep, deep green shining from the interior of both pieces. Shona paused, seeming to indulge a private moment as she relived the experience. It was more than beautiful I should say, it was utterly compelling. As soon as I became aware of it I was drawn to it irresistibly and I couldn’t take my eyes from it until it went out.

And that happened by itself? the Professor asked. You’re suggesting that you didn’t see the glow begin, but did you do anything which might have caused it to go out?

No, not that I can say. It just suddenly went out as if a switch had been turned off, simultaneously in both pieces.

You didn’t notice any mental effect, any alteration of consciousness in yourself while the stones were glowing?

Shona gave the Professor a quizzical look. "There was an effect, certainly, but I wouldn’t exactly define it like that. While the glow lasted I was totally absorbed by it. Then, when it went out I experienced a horrible sense of depression. All I wanted was for the glow to come back again. I was so desperate that I actually began shaking the case hoping I could make that happen. And that of course is when the trouble started. I think an alarm must have gone off because Security soon arrived with Parrott. He must have been working late. He was very angry and my attempts to explain only seemed to fuel that. He called me stupid and ordered me out of the area; then said that I had to report to him the next morning. He likes his little bit of power I’ve found out.

"Well, you can probably appreciate that I wasn’t too happy when I got home. But I didn’t waste the time brooding. I immediately sat down and wrote as detailed an account of the experience as I could remember. It didn’t do me any good of course. Parrott read my report (I’ll concede that to him) but then dismissed the whole thing as rubbish. He queried my credentials as a geologist and perversely linked that to some thefts which had occurred in the department, claiming that that was why I had taken the cleaner’s job. I was meant to be some sort of wannabe. The obsidian was newly on display and he claimed that that was its attraction for me and that I had invented my story to cover the fact that I was trying to open the case. Security investigated and I was the chief suspect for the thefts until it came out that they had started before I had any connection to the museum.

"It was then that I thought of the newspapers. I wanted revenge; I’m quite happy to admit that. I knew I had witnessed something very significant and I felt I should get the credit for the discovery, stealing a march on the museum and Parrott in particular.

Well, I misjudged that too. He came up with his entirely plausible explanation and all I got out of it was the sack. Shona looked at her companions, her eyes slicked with emotion. "It made no difference that I had already decided to leave: it hurt. They said that I had misrepresented myself in applying for my job as a cleaner.

"Well, as I said before, of course I had: discrimination happens at the bottom end of the employment tree as well. They wouldn’t have given me the job if they’d known I had a degree.

It’s been nearly a year and I still can’t forget any of it – the obsidian especially. I want to know what it was that I saw. I had hoped that the newspaper article might bring some response, but of course Parrott’s lies put paid to that.

Yes, I can attest to that, Lyn agreed. When I saw the article I thought that his was the probable explanation. It ended my interest.

Shona returned her a thankful smile, then looked at the Professor. Catching his eye for an instant she turned furtively away as though afraid of the question she was about to ask. So, Professor Rowe, can I claim a response at last? Have I found someone prepared to take me seriously – or what? You didn’t say on the phone exactly what your interest in my story was.

No, I didn’t, the Professor responded with intentional gravi­tas, because I wanted to hear it first-hand and make my own judgement. But I can assure you, Shona, that we believe you, both of us. Your experience is not unique. It might surprise you and it may give you some comfort to know that Lyn and I just recently have heard a story not dissimilar to yours concerning another piece of obsidian. It’s all quite involved and I can’t go through it now. But now that we’ve met you and heard your story I’ll send you a full account. Let me say again, we believe you, and it will mean just as much to us if you believe our story. He paused before adding. And for our investigation it would be a great asset to have a geologist involved.

Thank you, Shona responded simply.

The Professor looked at his watch. Now, we haven’t got a lot of time before we’re due to meet your Dr Parrott, and I’d like you to show us the stones first – if that suits you of course. I wasn’t specific with him about the nature of our visit either, and I now think that it wouldn’t be wise for him to know of our special interest in the obsidian.

From the cafeteria they followed Shona through a high archway beyond which an open wall rose to the museum’s full height and from which ran successive galleries; birdsong, piped from somewhere above, provided the atmosphere. This was the original Victorian part of the museum and a narrow cast iron stair gave access to the minerals floor. It’s down the end, Shona said, leading the way along the gallery.

The display cases had been kept in style, simple oblongs of glass mounted on sturdy wooden frames and all lined up with Victorian precision. The obsidian was in the first they came to.

It was just as Shona had described: two pieces, one about the size of an elongated hand and the other finger sized, clearly broken from the edge of the first. Joined together they would have made an attractive leaf shape but other than that there appeared nothing special about them. They looked no different from normal obsidian, the surface black and waxy with no hint of green to them. After a few minutes’ contemplation the Professor and Lyn moved off to look at other exhibits further along the gallery. It was then they heard a whispered warning from Shona: Parrott.

She had lingered by the case perhaps hoping that the obsidian might somehow come alive and she could relive her experience when her nemesis had suddenly appeared from a side room. He had recognised her immediately. Visiting your little aliens, Shona, he laughed as he truculently made his way along the gallery and disap­peared down the stairs. He paid no mind to any of the other visitors.

A small nuggety man with a pugnacious cast of features, the Professor observed, camouflage trousers and a bodybuilder obviously; he knew the type. He wouldn’t be surprised if David Parrott was in the Army Reserve and could endlessly bore you with the names and specifications of countless firearms, weapons and other objects of aggression. No wonder Shona hadn’t got the job. He couldn’t have handled her graceful presence in his domain.

Good: forewarned is forearmed, he said quietly to Lyn. You’ll have to excuse me for a little. I need to do some thinking about this meeting before we see Parrott. We’ve still got fifteen minutes. I’ll just say goodbye to Shona and I’ll see you back here. Lyn, he could be sure, would have no trouble amusing herself in a museum.

Good, he repeated to himself as he returned to the ground floor and another cup of coffee. Now, how to approach Parrott? He couldn’t talk to him as an equal, asking him openly about the stones as he had intended, that was clear. He wouldn’t get anything useful that way. So, that left superiority or inferiority, and which one of those positions he should adopt. Superiority: Professor of Archaeology at the University of New England; he could lay that on thick. And, if he chose to, he was sure he could dominate the other purely with a sense of presence as Parrott’s demeanour suggested compensation for a sense of inferiority. But would that be wise? He didn’t want to bring out the man’s sycophantic side as he was sure would happen, where Parrott would try to impress him with a barrage of boring detail on whatever subject was raised. No, inferiority was the way to go. He’d present himself as a bumbling academician, with Lyn his minder in the big city. She could be his niece. She wouldn’t mind; as a joke they had occasionally used the subterfuge before. His agenda would be ill-formed and deliberately frustrating, enough perhaps for Parrott to give them the information they wanted.

At the appointed time they were duly admitted to the Director’s room. Beardsley Rowe, the Professor said, giving an artificial strain to his voice as he extended a tentative hand, from New England. Oh, and my niece, Lyn Walker.

Dr David Parrott, the other replied, grasping the Profes­sor’s hand with excessive firmness. Uh, and this is a colleague of mine, Adrian Hoad. This he added with what appeared to be some hesitancy as he indicated a short stocky figure, similar to Parrott himself, who stood with his back to them on the far side of the room apparently examining samples.

The man turned and they were confronted by a flat ugly face and hard piggy eyes which appeared to scrutinise them rather than give them acknowledgement. Most indelible on this visage was a disfiguring scar which ran from his eye to his chin. Lyn involuntarily shuddered. The reaction appeared to amuse its subject as he turned back to what he was doing.

Uh, he’s just selecting some exhibits, Parrott explained unnec­essarily. Now Mr Rowe, you say you’re from New England.

Yes. I teach there, the Professor replied: in archaeology.

Parrott’s eyes registered a flicker of concern. And how can I help you this afternoon, I don’t have a lot of time.

The Professor was aware of the man establishing his advantage. Oh, I hope this isn’t inconvenient, he apologised. I had to come up to Sydney today and hoped to kill two birds with one stone as, you might say.

Yes? Parrott punctuated impatiently.

Well, we’re proposing to start a summer school at the university for high school students interested in doing archaeology. The intention will be to explain the broad principals of the subject and introduce them to some of our techniques and the materials they’re likely to encounter along the way. Most of those are available from our own modest museum, but we had rather hoped we might be able to obtain some from you. There are only a small number of things we’d be interested in.

We don’t lend our materials except to equivalent institutions, Parrott replied in a superior tone, and I’m sorry, Mr Rowe, I don’t think your museum would qualify.

Oh, what a pity. Then would it be possible to give you a list so I could obtain a description of the items and their provenance. That would help the students greatly, and with that information they could all come down to Sydney and have look for themselves – that would give a boost to your visitor numbers, eh?

I don’t think we need to boost our numbers, Parrott replied coldly. What sort of description are you talking about? The interview was beginning to annoy him and with a few quick answers he hoped he could end it.

Well, the chemical composition of various substances: flint, fossilised wood, some of the copper ores perhaps, obsidian. We deal with those things all the time but we don’t know their chemistry. We’re not true scientists like your lot, Doctor.

It was the Professor’s last try in that direction. He knew that his enquiries were going nowhere. He’d played his man wrongly and had to find a new strategy. Perhaps, he thought, a bit of flattery might work. Above Parrott’s desk hung a large photograph of two figures: Parrott himself and another man, older and taller, with a thin face and a small chin beard. Both were draped in climbing gear and behind them rose the object of their activity, a rock of very distinct shape. That’s Mitre Rock, isn’t it? the Professor commented with admiration (he fortunately knew the place). You were taking on a challenge there.

Parrott was transformed. Yes, that’s right. Tough climbing, level four. Are you a climber, Mr Rowe? I wouldn’t have picked it. The comment was directed at the Professor’s adequate proportions, a deliberate disparagement.

It’s Professor Rowe! Lyn interjected sharply. To that point, playing her assigned role she had tolerated Parrott’s arrogance, but there were limits. Apart from all else the man hadn’t acknowledged her presence or looked once in her direction during the conversation.

Uh, Professor. You didn’t say. Parrott was satisfactorily embarrassed.

The Professor smiled to himself. Lyn’s shot could do no harm at this point. The man needed to be wrong-footed. Climbing, oh just a little, he responded. He didn’t want to get drawn into an area of which he’d had no experience at all. I did some whitewater canoeing in my younger days, he offered, hoping that would maintain the momentum.

Gordon/Franklin 1990! Parrott was off, immediately turning the conversation to his own achievements. Toughest river in Australia. Have you ever done that, Professor? I was taken right to the edge and I don’t mind admitting it, I was scared. Any man who did that and said he wasn’t would be a liar or brain dead. Yeah, you feel the fear and you come out through the other side. Next year, I’m going to the Rio Napo. You know, South America. Much worse than the Franklin. Smooth but treacherous. You can go all the way to the Amazon. There are still cannibals there you know – dangerous.

No doubt, agreed the Professor, happily visualising Parrott in a cooking pot. I envy you. He had played the man well.

Parrott, charged by his endeavours, was now more amenable. So Professor, what were the items you wanted to look at?

I think for the moment information will do. The chemical com­position of some of your minerals and if possible where they came from.

Parrott then happily provided a raft of information about the many irrelevant stones in which the Professor expressed an interest. Last was the obsidian.

I’m not sure about that, he obfuscated. He appeared suddenly uncomfortable and not for the first time shot a look in the direction of his colleague who, absorbed with his specimens, had kept his back turned to them throughout the interview. It was found last century, I think, and has been in storage till some months ago. As far as I know there aren’t any records.

Oh, a pity. The Professor knew he wasn’t going to get any further by pressing Parrott. Well, thank you very much, he said, rising with Lyn. Your information will be very useful.

Professor – just one thing, the Director interposed hastily as he opened the door. What are they keeping from us in the Great Pyramid?

What? I’m not sure what you mean. The Professor was genu­inely stumped.

In the Great Pyramid. They’ve found a new chamber there. They know what’s in it but they’re not telling anyone. Do you know?

So, Parrott was a believer in conspiracy theories. It fitted his profile perfectly. The Professor was tempted to play him along with the veiled suggestion that he did know something, but he had to be careful. Parrott was probably highly attuned to being sent up. Conspiracy theorists generally, he knew, did not possess the type of gullibility that is naïve and kinda quaint. Theirs is a suspicious gullibility which makes them acutely aware of being sent up. The Professor ducked the question. Egyptology is not my area. They probably do know something but I’d be surprised if I got to know about it before you. Now Doctor, I might see you on a mountain or a river somewhere. Goodbye and shan-shui, he concluded, shaking Parrott’s hand enthusiastically.

Uh, shan-shui, Parrott returned, having no idea what the words meant, but feeling his disadvantage and not wanting to admit it.

CHAPTER 3

Annoying, observed the Professor as he and Lyn walked back to the ground floor. I’m sure the provenance of that obsidian is documented. Someone besides Parrott must know. Umm, volunteers. You know, Lyn, sometimes the best general knowledge of an institution is held by its volunteers. The staff can become too specialised in their disciplines or so caught up in what’s new that the public display becomes just so much old furniture to them. The volunteers, however, will pride themselves in their knowledge of it. Details which curators have long forgotten are often remembered and reinforced by the volunteers through their own love of explanation and demonstration.

Yes, Professor, Lyn agreed with tired indulgence.

They made their way back to the foyer and to ‘Information’, where they knew they could find volunteers.

Professor Rowe! Almost, it seemed, they were anticipated.

The greeting came from a middle-aged woman who, with her long thin face and her black uniform, appeared a little vulture-like as she craned out from the desk eager in her recognition – a recognition which, evidenced by the Professor’s weak smile, clearly wasn’t mutual.

Professor Rowe, the woman pushed on regardless. I don’t know if you remember me? I was a student of yours in the 1970s, Joan Collins.

Yes, the Professor did remember. She had been a keen but average student, the sort who would slip into the great pool of anonymity as soon as she passed out of his ken. But Joan Collins: the contrast of the then student with her glamorous namesake was sufficient to imprint her on his consciousness. Yes, Joan. Hello.

Sometimes it’s useful to have a famous name. Joan laughed in her own perception. I loved your lectures, Professor. I’ll always remember that paper you gave about a roof for Stonehenge. That really made me think. It was so different from anything else. Your lectures were so interesting I could have listened for hours.

The Professor glowed. Well, thank you Joan. You know some people consider me longwinded. He resisted the temptation to poke his tongue out at Lyn.

Oh, they’d have to be stupid. Now, how can I help you, Professor?

It’s some stones, two pieces of obsidian in a case on the minerals floor. I’d like to find out their provenance if I could.

Joan reached for the phone. You’ll want Dr Parrott. He keeps all the records for the minerals.

Ah, no good, the Professor quickly countered. We’ve seen Dr Parrott and he says that the records are unavailable, or that they don’t exist.

Mm, Dr Parrott. Joan rolled her eyes. That man can be difficult. He’s often uncooperative with the public – a power thing. She lowered her voice. He’s not liked in the museum, and he’s terribly contemptuous of volunteers. But, no matter, she affirmed brightly, I can tell you most of what you want to know. I’m very familiar with the exhibit you’re referring to. Are you aware, Professor, of the kerfuffle we had at the museum concerning that obsidian?

Yes. I know most of the details. He didn’t want another long account of the incident.

Well, at the time, Joan continued, along with half the museum staff, I went up to have a look for myself, just out of curiosity. I love a mystery. I talked to the cleaner, Shona Murray, about it – she has an honours degree in geology you know – and I half believed her. I was so interested that I did my own research on the stones. Dr Parrott can tell you there are no records but I’ve seen them. As I recall they were obtained by the museum in the 1930s. But they were discovered some time before that, by a man named Collins – no relation of course, but that stuck in my mind. He was a railway worker and said that he found them near the viaducts on the old Zig Zag; you know, on the other side of the Blue Mountains. He took it to the Minerals Institute in Lithgow and it was from there that they came here. May I ask you what your interest is in this, Professor?

Just a little research project. Lyn here is writing her thesis on the sources of obsidian. Lyn received a belated introduction. "There’s not much known about that in Australia and this could be of great help.

One thing Joan, he concluded, if you could keep this from Dr Parrott I’d appreciate it. We wouldn’t want to strain his passion for academic enquiry, would we?

Well, what did you make of that? the Professor asked Lyn as they walked back to the car.

Strange, she replied. I can’t say I liked Parrott, but that other man – what was his name, Hoad, was downright sinister. I don’t think I’ve been so immediately repelled by anyone before in my life.

Yes, I’d have to agree, and Parrott wasn’t comfortable with him being there, that was clear.

Especially, I think, when you were talking about the obsidian.

Yes. You know before we went in there I was prepared to accept that he thought that Shona’s story was rubbish and that was all there was to it. After all, he didn’t remove the stones from exhibition, which you’d expect if he did know about their properties.

I’d say the museum wouldn’t want that, Lyn observed. They’d be a drawcard now. Did you hear Parrott’s comment about aliens? Shona has probably got a lot of crazy supporters out there that she’s unaware of, hopefully.

Yes, I suppose questions might be asked if they were removed. The case is monitored I noticed: there was a camera directly on it. That was probably a result of what happened with Shona, although … it might well be that Parrott is monitoring it himself. If there was any truth to Shona’s report it would be an extraordinary discovery and he’d want to confirm it. Given everything, my feeling is that he does know about the strange nature of the obsidian and wants to investigate it himself. Think of the kudos if he discovered a new mineral. He’d be world famous. I’d say that’s why he didn’t want to give us any information. He is suspicious by nature. If there’s more of the stuff out there he wouldn’t want anybody else finding it.

And wouldn’t we do exactly the same? Lyn felt obliged to comment. If we found something extraordinary in our field we’d want to be recognised for it. After all, Professor, that’s your interest in the obsidian: finding your genius substance. You’d be very miffed if a cleaner happened to stumble upon it amongst your exhibits.

If it was something completely original, I wouldn’t, he retorted defensively. I would acknowledge her as the finder. But you have to concede that there can be a hierarchy of claim in a discovery – and there certainly is in this one. If the obsidian in the museum proves to be the element I’ve been looking for, it will be the culmination of years of research which I think gives that priority over an investigation simply initiated by a chance discovery.

I’m sorry, Professor, Lyn apologised. You’re really annoyed by this, I can see, and I shouldn’t have said anything.

Yes, I am annoyed, he responded, but not with you. It’s just a consequence of thinking about the matter: seeing the obsidian and then being stonewalled by Parrott. It’s all so frustrating: another case of so near and yet so far. I don’t want to have to wait months or even years for Parrott to publish his findings on the stuff – that’s if he ever does. That obsidian could well have the same property as Feldman’s and I feel I should have the right, I could even say, the responsibility, to study it.

Well, Parrott doesn’t know that, Professor. You never told him what your real interest was. Perhaps if you came clean he might be more receptive. You could send him a copy of your paper and the report from Dr Feldman. That might make him realise the importance of this thing and give you access to the stones. You could end up doing something together.

The Professor gave an ironic chuckle. Well, I can tell you now that’s not going to happen. Parrott won’t be meddling in my research.

Lyn restrained herself from further comment and the two walked for a while in silence until the Professor unexpectedly returned to the subject. Still, there could be something in what you say. If I was to inform Parrott that I had discovered where the obsidian came from and that I intended to look for its source that might produce results. He might contact me then or he might be pushed to publicly disclose what he knows. Fear of pre-emption can be a powerful catalyst in these things: remember Darwin and Wallace.

The next day back in Armidale the subject was again a topic of conversation. I assume that was just an idea, Lyn commented. You don’t actually intend to go to the Mountains, do you?

I do. There possibly could be more of the stuff out there. If Parrott won’t give me access to his stones I’ll have to find my own.

But it’s ridiculous. You don’t know that there’s more of the stuff and even if there is it would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack.

I have a starting point, the Lithgow Zig Zag. An Aboriginal trade route may have gone through there or there might even be a volcanic flow in the area. There’s a long weekend coming up. I think I will go then. I need something like this to dispel my frustration. The prospect actually exhilarates me.

Mad Baggins, said Lyn under her breath.

What was that? the Professor demanded.

Bilbo Baggins, Lyn repeated clearly. Running off into the mountains on a whim without even a pocket handkerchief. I know you, Professor. You’ll do this without proper research or preparation. I’m sure that sometimes you think that just by making the initial effort the desired result will come to pass through some miraculous process.

Ah, ‘the moment one commits oneself then providence moves too. Boldness has genius, magic and power.’ Do you know who wrote that, Lyn?

No. Probably some guru from the 1960s.

Wolfgang von Goethe in the eighteenth century.

"Well,