The Thrones of Eden 3 (Eden) Read Free Page B

perched at the tip of his nose. On the table sat the relic, the large chip of black silica bearing the markings of archaic script.
     

     
    With careful examination he matched the symbols gleaned from Alyssa’s articles to the symbols on the black silica. So far, nothing—the archeologist became frustrated as he removed his glasses and rubbed the itch out of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.
    Setting his glasses on the table, he fell back in his chair. He had studied the artifact for the majority of the day. And for the better part of that time he tried to wrap his mind around the mystery of the writing. But as a cryptanalyst he was lacking the skills needed to interpret enough of its meaning.
    Gingerly, as if in homage for something so aged and so magnificently produced, he traced a fingertip over lettering that had been carved out by a skilled engraver.
    Grabbing his lamp, Hillary exited his tent and went to the edge of the crater, the light penetrating less than twenty feet down into the dig site.
    The night was quiet.  
    And the laborers were sleeping fitfully after an exhausting day under a white-hot sun.
    Soon a wind picked up, the noise sounding off like whispers through the sand.
    In the depths of the pit and beyond the fringe of light, Hillary thought he caught a glimpse of something moving, a shadow.
    He raised the lamp as if the advantage of height would increase the circle of illumination.
    It didn’t.
    “Hello.”
    There was no answer other than the soft soughing of the wind.
    “Who’s down there?”
    Was that movement?
    Something blacker than black moved at the periphery of his vision, something that was quick and lightning fast, something that was much faster than a human.
    “Who’s down there?”
    The whispers grew louder.
    Then the shadow was gone.
    When the wind died down and the whispers mellowed, Hillary drew back from the crater and headed for his tent, somehow sensing a great danger in the same way that a dog is alerted by raising its hackles.
    But there was nothing there, nothing behind him
    Nevertheless, he found little comfort as he tied the flaps of his tent behind him.
     
     

 
     
     
    CHAPTER FIVE
     
    On the following day, John Savage and Alyssa Moore took a flight to a domestic airport located in southeast Turkey, a charter fully funded by John Hillary, and landed three hours later. The moment they disembarked they boarded a helicopter, their connecting transport, and flew the last leg to the dig site which cost them another two hours of flying time.
    From three kilometers out and flying at a ceiling of sixty meters, or approximately 185 feet above the surface floor, John and Alyssa could see the large pavilion of tents situated around the crater.
    As the chopper banked and circled, John and Alyssa could feel the adrenaline coursing through their veins like an intoxicant. She reached over, grasped his hand, and squeezed. But Savage couldn’t tell if the action was prompted by excitement or fear, or perhaps a measure of the two.
    The chopper hovered briefly over a lot that had been cleared of rock and debris for landing. Sand and dust devils gave rise under the wash of the rotors, the air becoming thick and overpowering with desert sand. After John and Alyssa disembarked, the chopper lifted and headed west.
    As the dust began to settle and the air less dense, John Hillary stood at the opening of his tent and beckoned them to approach.
    They closed the distance quickly with little in their possession, just a backpack each.
    “I saw your helicopter approaching,” he called to them. “You made good time.” He stood back and lifted the flap of his tent in invitation. “Please,” he said. “We’ve much to talk about.”
    As sizeable as the tent was it was quite bare given its excessive space. There were a few folding chairs, a feeble-looking table with a laptop centered amongst a scattering of paperwork, containers bearing scrolls, and a small bookcase with texts sitting