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Subterranean by James Rollins
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(Mass Market Paperback)
- Pub. Date: June 1999
- 432pp
- Sales Rank: 10,733
Reader Rating: (71 ratings)
Detailed Rating: "Originality" See All
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Product Details
- Pub. Date: June 1999
- Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
- Format: Mass Market Paperback, 432pp
- Sales Rank: 10,733
- ISBN-13: 9780380792641
- ISBN: 0380792648
Synopsis
Beneath the ice at the bottom of the Earth is a magnificent subterranean labyrinth, a place of breathtaking wonders—and terrors beyond imagining. A team of specialists led by archaeologist Ashley Carter has been hand-picked to explore this secret place and to uncover the riches it holds. But they are not the first to venture here—and those they follow did not return. There are mysteries here older than time, and revelations that could change the world. But there are also things that should not be disturbed—and a devastating truth that could doom Ashley and the expedition: they are not alone.
New York Times</I> bestselling author Charles Pellegrino
A gripping deep Earth adventure.
More Reviews and RecommendationsBiography
Spelunker, scuba diver, and all-around adventure junkie James Rollins sold his veterinary practice in Sacramento, California, to concentrate full-time on writing -- his thirst for thrills clearly informing his bestselling novels, including Black Order, Subterranean and The Judas Strain.
More About the AuthorCustomer Reviews
- Reader Rating:
- Ratings: 71Reviews: 44
- See All Reviews
Outlandish.by Anonymous
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See Detailed Ratings
September 22, 2009: Had a good initial plot and original idea, but the author lost me 3/4 way through the book with a disappointing ending. Some main characters underdeveloped and left me guessing. More suited for a made-for-TV sci-fi low budget film.
James Rollins writes a rollicking good storyby mogget
Reader Rating:
See Detailed Ratings
September 21, 2009: This is one of James Rollins earlier books, and I can see how his work has evolved over the years. I was introduced to his more recent works, and having enjoyed them immensely, I wanted to read his earlier fiction. I like his more current works better; he doesn't use as much sensationalism in his current style. This book is still well-written, and obviously required a great deal of research. Definitely worth the time it takes to read it.
I Also Recommend: Black Order, The Judas Strain.
Fact File
Name:
James Rollins
Current Home:
Sacramento, California
Date of Birth:
August 20, 1961
Place of Birth:
Chicago, Illinois
Biography
James Rollins is the New York Times, USA Today and Publishers Weekly bestselling author of Black Order, Map of Bones and other adventure thrillers. He was born in Chicago and grew up in Ontario, Canada, and St. Louis, Missouri. He graduated with honors from the University of Missouri with a degree in veterinary medicine. And like most veterinarians, he presently shares his home with a Golden Retriever, a Dachshund, and a sixty-five year old parrot named Igor. Rollins currently practices in Northern California, and when not writing or working in his veterinary practice, he can often be found underground or underwater as an amateur spelunker and scuba diver. These hobbies have helped in the creation of his earlier books Subterranean, Deep Fathom, Amazonia, and Sandstorm. His thriller, Black Order, skyrocketed to the top of bestseller lists across the country, winning the author countless new fans, and was proclaimed by People magazine as one of last summer's "hottest reads." Map of Bones was chosen by Publishers Weekly as one of the most likely to win over Dan Brown's faithful audience, and the New York Times rated the book as one the summer's top crowd pleasers.
Author biography courtesy of HarperCollins.
Good to Know
Some fun and fascinating outtakes from our interview with Rollins:
"I often get asked if I still practice veterinary medicine. While I don't practice full-time, I still do volunteer. I work with a group that traps stray cats, brings them to the shelter, where I spend a day spaying and neutering them. It's basically eight hours of removing genitalia. It's a hobby."
"I am a TV junkie. I have two Tivos and they are constantly full."
"My first job was to flip pizzas. I once got a pie spinning that was ten feet across. I had to spin it on my back to keep it going. Yet, I still love pizza."
"Two hobbies I love -- caving and scuba diving -- are also essential research for my novels. Case in point:
I've always been an avid cave explorer, from the vast systems in Missouri to the lava tubes of Hawaii to the tighter squeezes of the California foothills. But one of my most frightening episodes also allowed me to better describe claustrophobia in my novels. While climbing out of the fairly technical wild cavern, involving lots of rope work, I managed to jam myself midway up a narrow vertical chute. Hung up on my ascending gear midway up the chute, I found myself unable to move up or down. My chest was squeezed between two walls, my left knee turned the wrong way. I could not maneuver, and there was not enough room to get a rescue climber to me. I was trapped. I remember the team leader, leaning down from above, shining his helmet lamp at me. ‘You either find a way to un-jam yourself, or you stay there forever.'
So over the course of a long hour -- wriggling, sweating, cursing, and clawing -- I managed to creep a millimeter at a time out of the jam. After this event, I had a better understanding for panic and the determination born of pure desperation, essential ingredients for to writing thrilling fiction.
But spelunking through caves was not my only ‘research' lesson. Two decades ago, I also took up scuba diving and went on dive trips all around the world: Monterey Bay, Hawaii, South Pacific, Australia. I particularly remember one trip to the Great Barrier Reef in Australia. I was informed by the dive master to beware of the many hazards found in the region. ‘On land, Australia has seven of the ten deadliest snakes. The seas are worse. Box jellyfish can kill in minutes. Local sea snakes are some of the most toxic. But worst of all is the stone fish. It looks like a stone, but its spines are loaded with paralytic poison. So be careful what you touch.'
And down we all went, buddied up in pairs, enthusiastic and excited. I dropped toward the reef and adjust my buoyancy until I'm floating just above the reef. All around spread amazing sights: giant clams, a flurry of colored fish, an astounding variety of coral. But I miscalculated my buoyancy, my weight shifted, and I planted a hand into the sand to stabilize my tumble, careful of the razor-sharp coral. Inches from my thumb, a jagged rock suddenly sprouted fins and swam away. I met the gaze of my buddy diver. His wide eyes firmed up the identification. The deadly stone fish. And I had almost slapped my hand on its back. As the fish scurried away, I understood at that exact moment how little Nature cared about the life of a scuba-diving novelist. Down here, Nature ruled. We were only visitors.
This mix of respect and terror is brought to life in my latest novel, The Judas Strain."
Feature Interview
In the summer of 2007, James Rollins took some time out to answer some of our questions about his favorite books, authors, and interests: What was the book that most influenced your life or your career as a writer?
I don't know if it was any one novel so much as entire narrow genre of writing, specifically the pulp writers of the thirties and forties. I had a large collection of reprints while growing up: Doc Savage, The Shadow, The Spider, The Avenger. From adolescence through college, I was absolutely in love with these old "scientific adventure" novels. On some unconscious level, I think I've been trying to bring back those old dime adventure stories, recast into the present, adapted to modern technologies, and given a polish. Along those same lines, the three writers who also had a great impact as the founders of "scientific thrillers" were Jules Verne, H. Rider Haggard, and H. G. Wells. In fact, my first novel, Subterranean, was an attempt to do a modern retelling of Verne's Journey to the Center of the Earth.
What are your ten favorite books, and what makes them special to you?
Only ten? I read across a wide field of genres, so I'll list them by different genres.
Literary Fiction:
Fantasy:
Science Fiction:
Mystery:
Horror:
Graphic Novels:
Romance:
Thriller:
Memoir:
Other:
What are some of your favorite films, and what makes them unforgettable to you?
Here, also, I could go on and on:
Oh, I could fill up pages and pages here.
What types of music do you like? Is there any particular kind you like to listen to when you're writing?
I am a massive Bruce Springsteen fan. I skipped studying for my national board exams in veterinary medicine to stay up until 2 a.m. to catch his concert. Still I got one of the highest scores of my veterinary class, which I attribute to Springsteen's concert. The Boss rules!
If you had a book club, what would it be reading?
I would run a book club that covered a wide range of genres. So many book clubs seem one note, limiting the range to literary fiction or one specific genre. I'd prefer to mix it up, challenge members to sample genres that they might never have considered, to pull them out of their comfort zone. Every genre offers a new world of vocabulary, pace, story, structure, and character. So why not stretch those wings a bit?
What are your favorite kinds of books to give -- and get -- as gifts?
Like I mentioned above, one of the joys of reading is that sense of discovery. I'd prefer to get a book that I might never have tried before. If there's a book you love, buy another copy and give it to a friend. I know I would love to receive such a gift. It not only offers a chance to read something new, but it also gives you some insight into your friend. Why did he or she like this enough to gift it to me? Additionally, it also allows you to share something later, to compare notes, to talk about it over coffee. So books make a GREAT gift.
Do you have any special writing rituals? For example, what do you have on your desk when you're writing?
My main ritual is to write six pages every day. I'm very regimented in this, but to help with this, I have TWO yellow Post-it notes stuck to the edges of my computer monitor. One lists the five senses to remind me not to just write visually. Sometimes writing is like trying to capture a movie in your head and put it on paper. It's a struggle and a challenge every day to try to get that movie that plays like crystal in your head to shine like that on paper. And one of the ways of achieving that is not to forget to fold in other senses into your writing: taste, sound, touch, smell. So the Post-it note reminds me not to forget this. The second note is even more important. It's a simple declarative statement: "I give myself permission to write crap today." So many writers talk about being "blocked." And this statement is my shield against that. Sometimes the sense that you have to write perfect prose that day can cripple a writer, so my simple statement reminds me to relax, have fun with it, to know that writing is an adventure. And then the story flows!
What are you working on now?
I'm just finishing up my 2008 thriller, and I've just sold my first young adult novel, which I'm gearing up to write this winter. And just to keep busy, I'm also writing the novelization to the next Indiana Jones movie. Now you understand WHY I mentioned above about the necessity of writing six pages a day. Writer's block?!? Who has time for writer's block?!?
Many writers are hardly "overnight success" stories. How long did it take for you to get where you are today? Any rejection-slip horror stories or inspirational anecdotes?
I definitely was not an overnight success. First of all, I have years of short stories -- horribly written short stories -- buried in my backyard. I personally fear some future archaeologist stumbling upon this cache of stories and using them a verifiable proof that the end of the twentieth century was void of literary merit. And it didn't get much better when I got around to writing novels. I was rejected by 50 different agents before one finally agreed to represent my first novel. So it's a long haul, but one well worth the uphill climb.
If you could choose one new writer to be "discovered," who would it be?
I'm going to choose not so much a new writer as someone who deserves be discovered and read more widely. That would be Dan Simmons, whose novel The Terror was a critical success and finally a moderately commercial success. But I've been reading Dan Simmons since his first novel, The Song of Kali. It went on to read horror awards across the board with its debut. Later, he produced a modern opus of science fiction titled Hyperion, which garnered him the Hugo Award for best science fiction of the year. He's gone on to write stellar detective novels and now a novel in the literary vein with The Terror. The ability of this writer to cross genres with some striking success is amazing. As a writer, he's a high-wire act that everyone should be experiencing.
What tips or advice do you have for writers still looking to be discovered?
As I mentioned above, as someone who was rejected by fifty different agencies, I must stress the word PERSISTENCE. Believe in your work, keeping sending it out there... but more importantly, don't stop writing. Move on to a new project. Don't keep revising the same book unless an agent or editor asks you to. Simply accept that baby is finished and ready for the world... and go about conceiving a new one. Keep doing this and eventually you will get published! And while I do believe in the old adage "Write Everyday," I also also believe you should "Read Every Night." The best teacher of the craft is simply a good book. As you write and struggle with difficulties in your own writing, each book you read can teach you aspects of the craft. Why re-invent the wheel, when you can learn by example?
From the Publisher
Beneath the ice at the bottom of the Earth is a magnificent subterranean labyrinth, a place of breathtaking wonders—and terrors beyond imagining. A team of specialists led by archaeologist Ashley Carter has been hand-picked to explore this secret place and to uncover the riches it holds. But they are not the first to venture here—and those they follow did not return. There are mysteries here older than time, and revelations that could change the world. But there are also things that should not be disturbed—and a devastating truth that could doom Ashley and the expedition: they are not alone.
New York Times</I> bestselling author Charles Pellegrino
A gripping deep Earth adventure.
Loading...Product Details
- Pub. Date: June 1999
- Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
- Format: Mass Market Paperback, 432pp
- Sales Rank: 10,733
- ISBN-13: 9780380792641
- ISBN: 0380792648
Read an Excerpt
Subterranean Chapter One
Chaco Canyon, New Mexico
Damned Rattlers.
Ashley Carter knocked trail dirt from her boots before climbing into her rusted Chevy pickup. She threw her dusty cowboy hat on the seat next to her and swiped a handkerchief across her brow. Leaning over the gear shift, she popped the glove compartment and removed the snakebite kit.
With a knuckle, she tapped the radio. Static rasped from the handheld receiver. Humming, she peeled back the wrapper from the syringe and drew the usual amount of venom antiserum. By now she could gauge it by sight. She shook the bottle. Almost empty. It was time to run into Albuquerque for more.
After cleaning her skin with an alcohol swab, she jabbed the needle into her arm and winced as she administered the amber fluid. Loosening her tourniquet a notch, she wiped iodine over the two punctures in her forearm, then applied a bandage.
Cinching her tourniquet a bit tighter, she glanced at the dashboard clock. Ten minutes, and she'd loosen the tourniquet again.
She picked up the radio handpiece and pressed the button on its side. "Randy, come in. Over." Static as she released the button.
"Randy, please pick up. Over." Her neighbor, Randy, was still on disability from a back injury at the mine. For the past ten weeks, he had earned a few extra bucks under the table by supplying day care for her son Jason.
She started the engine and pulled back onto the parallel ruts that constituted a road. The radio belched a garbled blast of noise, then she heard, "...up. Ashley, what's going on? We expected you back an hour ago."
She raised the handpiece. "Sorry, Randy. Found a new room inthe Anasazi dig. Hidden by a rockfall. Had to check it out before the light went bad. But a diamondback had other ideas. I've got to check in with Doc Marshall now. Be back in about an hour. Could you pop the lasagna in the oven? Over." She hooked the receiver back on the radio.
A squelch of static. "A bite! Again! This is the fourth time since Christmas. You're pressing your luck, Ash. This solo venturing is going to get you killed someday. But listen, after you get checked up by Doc Marshall, hurry home. There's some Marine types here waiting for you." I
She furrowed her brow. Now what did she do? She groaned and grabbed the handpiece again. "What's up? Over."
"D'know. They're playing dumb," he said, then added in a lower voice, "and they're damned good at it. Real G.I. Joes. You'd hate 'em."
"Just what I need. How's Jason handling it? Over."
"He's fine. Eating it up. Talking the ear off of some corporal. I think he almost got the jarhead to give him his gun."
She smacked the steering wheel with the flat of her hand. "What are those bastards doing bringing guns into my home? Damn, I'll be there straightaway. Hold the fort! I'm out."
She never carried a gun. Not even into the badlands of New Mexico. Damned if she was going to allow some overgrown boys to bring weapons into her home. She slammed the truck in gear, her wheels clawing at loose rock.
Ashley jumped from the truck, arm tucked in a blue sling, and crossed through her cacti garden, hurrying toward a group of uniformed men huddled under the small green awning over her porch, which offered the only shade for a hundred yards.
As she stomped up the wooden steps, the men in front backed up. Except for one man, who sported bronze clusters on each shoulder and stood his ground.
She strode right up to him. "Who the hell do you think you are, barging in here with enough arsenal to blow away a small Vietnamese village? I have a boy in there."
The officer's mouth flattened to a thin line. He leaned back to remove his sunglasses, revealing a cold blue stare, void of any emotion. "Major Michaelson, ma'am. We are escorting Dr. Blakely."
She glared at him. "I don't know any Dr. Blakely."
"He knows of you, ma'am. He says you're one of the best paleoanthropologists in the country. Or so I've heard him tell the President."
"The president of what?"
He stared at her blankly. "The President of the United States."
A sandy-haired juggernaut plowing through the uniformed men covered her surprise. "Mom! You're home! You gotta come see." Her son eyed her sling, then grabbed the sleeve of her other arm. "C'mon." Even though he stood only a little higher than their belt buckles he ushered the military men aside.
Glaring, she allowed herself to be dragged through the door. As the screen door clapped shut behind her, she headed toward the family room and noticed a leather briefcase parked on the table. It wasn't hers.
The scent of garlic from a baking lasagna wafted toward her from the kitchen. Her stomach responded with a growl. She hadn't eaten since breakfast. Randy, armed with stained oven mittens, was attempting to extract the bubbling lasagna without spilling it. The sight of such a bear of a man, dressed in an apron, struggling with a pan of lasagna, brought a smile to her lips. He rolled his eyes at her.
As she opened her mouth to say hello, there was a sudden urgent tugging at her arm. "C'mon, Mom, see what Dr. Blakely has. It's bitchin'."
"Watch your tongue, mister, " she warned. "You know we don't allow that sort of language here. Now show me what this is all about." She waved at Randy as she was tugged toward the family room.
Her son pointed to the briefcase and whispered, "It's in there."
Subterranean. Copyright © by James Rollins. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.Read a Sample Chapter
Chapter One
Chaco Canyon, New Mexico
DAMNED RATTLERS.
Ashley Carter knocked trail dirt from her boots before climbing into her rusted Chevy pickup. She threw her dusty cowboy hat on the seat next to her and swiped a handkerchief across her brow. Leaning over the gear shift, she popped the glove compartment and removed the snakebite kit.
With a knuckle, she tapped the radio. Static rasped from the handheld receiver. Humming, she peeled back the wrapper from the syringe and drew the usual amount of venom antiserum. By now she could gauge it by sight. She shook the bottle. Almost empty. It was time to run into Albuquerque for more.
After cleaning her skin with an alcohol swab, she jabbed the needle into her arm and winced as she administered the amber fluid. Loosening her tourniquet a notch, she wiped iodine over the two punctures in her forearm, then applied a bandage.
Cinching her tourniquet a bit tighter, she glanced at the dashboard clock. Ten minutes, and she'd loosen the tourniquet again.
She picked up the radio handpiece and pressed the button on its side. "Randy, come in. Over." Static as she released the button.
"Randy, please pick up. Over." Her neighbor, Randy, was still on disability from a back injury at the mine. For the past ten weeks, he had earned a few extra bucks under the table by supplying day care for her son Jason.
She started the engine and pulled back onto the parallel ruts that constituted a road. The radio belched agarbled blast of noise, then she heard, "... up. Ashley, what's going on? We expected you back an hour ago."
She raised the handpiece. "Sorry, Randy. Found a new room in the Anasazi dig. Hidden by a rockfall. Had to check it out before the light went bad. But a diamondback had other ideas. I've got to check in with Doc Marshall now. Be back in about an hour. Could you pop the lasagna in the oven? Over." She hooked the receiver back on the radio.
A squelch of static. "A bite! Again! This is the fourth time since Christmas. You're pressing your luck, Ash. This solo venturing is going to get you killed someday. But listen, after you get checked up by Doc Marshall, hurry home. There's some Marine types here waiting for you."
She furrowed her brow. Now what did she do? She groaned and grabbed the handpiece again. "What's up? Over."
"D'know. They're playing dumb," he said, then added in a lower voice, "and they're damned good at it. Real G.I. Joes. You'd hate 'em."
"Just what I need. How's Jason handling it? Over."
"He's fine. Eating it up. Talking the ear off of some corporal. I think he almost got the jarhead to give him his gun."
She smacked the steering wheel with the flat of her hand. "What are those bastards doing bringing guns into my home? Damn, I'll be there straightaway. Hold the fort! I'm out."
She never carried a gun. Not even into the badlands of New Mexico. Damned if she was going to allow some overgrown boys to bring weapons into her home. She slammed the truck in gear, her wheels clawing at loose rock.
* * *
Ashley jumped from the truck, arm tucked in a blue sling, and crossed through her cacti garden, hurrying toward a group of uniformed men huddled under the small green awning over her porch, which offered the only shade for a hundred yards.
As she stomped up the wooden steps, the men in front backed up. Except for one man, who sported bronze clusters on each shoulder and stood his ground.
She strode right up to him. "Who the hell do you think you are, barging in here with enough arsenal to blow away a small Vietnamese village? I have a boy in there."
The officer's mouth flattened to a thin line. He leaned back to remove his sunglasses, revealing a cold blue stare, void of any emotion. "Major Michaelson, ma'am. We are escorting Dr. Blakely."
She glared at him. "I don't know any Dr. Blakely."
"He knows of you, ma'am. He says you're one of the best paleoanthropologists in the country. Or so I've heard him tell the President."
"The president of what?"
He stared at her blankly. "The President of the United States."
A sandy-haired juggernaut plowing through the uniformed men covered her surprise. "Mom! You're home! You gotta come see." Her son eyed her sling, then grabbed the sleeve of her other arm. "C'mon." Even though he stood only a little higher than their belt buckles, he ushered the military men aside.
Glaring, she allowed herself to be dragged through the door. As the screen door clapped shut behind her, she headed toward the family room and noticed a leather briefcase parked on the table. It wasn't hers.
The scent of garlic from a baking lasagna wafted toward her from the kitchen. Her stomach responded with a growl. She hadn't eaten since breakfast. Randy, armed with stained oven mittens, was attempting to extract the bubbling lasagna without spilling it. The sight of such a bear of a man, dressed in an apron, struggling with a pan of lasagna, brought a smile to her lips. He rolled his eyes at her.
As she opened her mouth to say hello, there was a sudden urgent tugging at her arm. "C'mon, Mom, see what Dr. Blakely has. It's bitchin'."
"Watch your tongue, mister," she warned. "You know we don't allow that sort of language here. Now show me what this is all about." She waved at Randy as she was tugged toward the family room.
Her son pointed to the briefcase and whispered, "It's in there."
The sound of rushing water from the hall bathroom drew her attention. The door opened and a tall black man, thin as a pole and dressed in a three-piece suit, entered the hallway. He was older, his close-cropped hair graying slightly. He pushed a pair of wire-rim spectacles farther up the bridge of his nose. Spotting Ashley, he broke out in a sudden smile of recognition. He stepped toward her quickly, hand proffered. "Professor Ashley Carter. Your picture in last year's Archaeology magazine failed to do you justice."
She knew a snow job when she heard one. Caked with trail dirt, arm in a sling, clad in mud-stained jeans, she was no beauty queen. "Can the crap, Doc. What are you doing here?"
He dropped his hand. His eyes widened a moment, and then he smiled even broader. He had more teeth than a shark. "I like your no-nonsense attitude," he said. "It's refreshing. I have a proposal to—"
"Not interested." She pointed to the door. "You and your entourage can hit the trail now. Thanks anyway."
"If you'll only lis—"
"Don't make me toss your butt outta here." She snapped her arm toward the screen door.
"It pays a hundred grand for two months' work."
"Just get your—" Her arm dropped to her side. Clearing her throat, she stared at Dr. Blakely, then raised an eyebrow. "Now I'm listening."
Since her divorce, she had been struggling to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads. An assistant professor's salary barely covered their living expenses, let alone her research projects.
"Wait," she started. "Wait a minute. Is it legal? It can't be legal."
"I assure you, Dr. Carter, this offer is legit. And that's only the beginning," Dr. Blakely continued. "Exclusive authorship of research garnered. Guaranteed tenure at the university of your choice."
She had dreams like this after too much sausage-and-onion pizza. "How can that be possible? There are university statutes ... rules ... seniority ... How?"
"This is a project advocated by the highest people. I have been given free rein to hire whomever I want at whatever salary I desire." He sat down on the sofa and crossed his legs, arms spread the length of the sofa. "And I want you."
"Why?" Ashley questioned tentatively, still suspicious.
Leaning forward, he held up a hand, begging patience. He reached for his briefcase and clicked it open. Using both hands, he carefully lifted a crystal statuette from its interior. He turned it upright toward her.
It was a human figure—judging from the pendulous breasts and gravid belly, a female figure. The fading light caught the crystalline structure and reflected radiant bursts.
He nodded for her to take it. "What do you think?"
She hesitated, afraid to touch its fragile beauty. "Definitely primitive ... Appears to be a type of fertility icon."
Dr. Blakely nodded his head vigorously. "Right, right ... Here, look closer." He raised the heavy statue, arms shaking with the strain. "Please examine it.
She reached to take the statuette.
"It's sculpted out of a single diamond," he said. "Flawless."
Now she understood the armed escort. She withdrew her hands from such a priceless object as she pondered the implications. "Bitchin'," she whispered.
* * *
Across the kitchen table, Ashley Carter watched as Dr. Blakely flipped the cellular phone closed and returned it to his breast pocket. "Now, Professor Carter, where were we?"
"Is anything the matter?" Ashley asked, sopping up tomato sauce from her plate with a piece of garlic toast. The two of them sat at her green metal kitchen table.
The doctor shook his head. "Not at all. Just confirming the addition of one of your potential teammates. An Australian caving expert." He smiled reassuringly. "Now, where were we?"
She eyed him warily. "Who else will be joining the expedition?"
"I'm afraid those names are confidential. But I can tell you we're talking to a leading biologist in Canada and a geologist from Egypt. And a few ... others."
Ashley could tell this line of questioning was futile. "Fine. Back to the diamond statue, then. You never told me where the artifact was discovered."
He pursed his lips. "That information is also confidential. Only for those involved with the research." He folded the gingham napkin on his lap.
"Doctor, I thought this was going to be a discussion. You're rather lean on your answers."
"Perhaps. But you still haven't given me a concrete answer yet either. Are you willing to join my research team?"
"I need more details. And more time to reorganize my work schedule."
"We'd take care of such minor concerns."
She thought of Jason, who was eating dinner from a rickety tray in front of the television. "I have my son. I can't just up and leave. And he's no minor concern."
"You have an ex-husband. A Scott Vandercleve, I believe."
"Jason's not staying with him. Forget it."
Blakely sighed loudly. "Then we do have a problem."
This point was going to be a stickler. Jason had been having trouble at school, and this summer Ashley had vowed to spend some time with him. "This is not up for debate," she said with as much conviction as she could muster. "Jason accompanies me, or I have no choice but to decline."
Blakely studied her silently.
She continued, "He's been on other digs with me. I know he can handle this."
"I don't think that would be prudent." He smiled wanly.
"He's a tough and resourceful kid."
Blakely grimaced. "If I agree to this point, then you'll join the team?" He paused, removing his glasses and rubbing at the indentations on the bridge of his nose. He seemed to be thinking aloud. "I suppose he could stay in Alpha Base. It's secure." Replacing his glasses, he reached across the table and held out an open palm. "Agreed."
Relieved, she let out her breath and shook his dry hand. "So why so much effort to get me on your team?"
"Your specialty. The anthropology of cliff-dwelling primitives. Your work on the Gila dwellings was brilliant."
"Still, why me? There are other paleoanthropologists with similar interests."
"Several reasons. One"—he began ticking off the points on his fingers—"you've demonstrated you can manage teams on other digs. Two, your nose for detail is superb. Three, your perseverance in solving mysteries is bone-hard obstinate. Four, you're in excellent physical shape. Five, you've earned my respect. Any other questions?"
Satisfied for now, she shook her head, slightly embarrassed. She fought back a blush. Rarely did one hear praise in her field. Uncomfortable, she changed the tack of the conversation.
"Now that we're partners, maybe you can tell me where you discovered this unique artifact." She rose to clear the dishes. "Somewhere in Africa, I'd guess.
"He smiled. "No, in Antarctica, actually."
She glanced over her shoulder, trying to judge if he was testing her. "There are no primitive cultures on that continent. It's a barren glacier."
Blakely shrugged. "Who said on it?"
She rattled a dish in the sink. "So where, then?" She turned to him, leaned back against the sink, and dried her hands with a damp dish towel.
He just pointed a single finger toward the floor.
Down.
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