Indiana Jones and the Peril at Delphi (Indiana Jones, No. 1)

360 Pages·1991·0.53 MB·English

by  Rob Macgregor

Title: Indiana Jones and the Peril at Delphi
Author: Rob MacGregor
ONESHOTISWORTHATHOUSANDWORDS

ONE SHOT IS WORTH
A THOUSAND WORDS

It was twilight as they descended the hills into the outskirts of the capital. The lights of Athens
were blinking on below them. Indy was tired,
thirsty, and hungry, but most of all he was anxious
to get to the palace. It was the one place he felt
they would be safe. If they could get through the front gate.

But Conrad interrupted his thoughts. "Take a look at what's ahead,' he said.

Indy grimaced. "Swell. A roadblock."

Nikos leaned forward. "I bet this is where it gets
dangerous."

Indy frowned at the impetuous kid. "At least one
of the places."

"Look," Conrad said. "Let's reason with them.
Well explain that we have important information for the king."

There was no time to argue. They were fifty
yards short of the roadblock when one of the
soldiers pointed. Several others raised their guns. They fired and the windshield shattered. "I don't
think they're open to conversation," Indy said.

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"The bravest are surely those who have the
clearest vision of what is before them, glory and
danger alike, and yet notwithstanding go out to
meet it."

—Thucydides

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Prologue

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Delphi, Greece—1922

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  Indy hung in the darkness like a quarter moon, suspended
by a rope that burned into his chest and armpits. He
heard shouts above him, but couldn't make out the words.
When he dropped his head back, the aperture high above
him offered no more light than a twinkling star.

  "Dorian!" he yelled. "Send down another torch!"

His voice bounced back and forth against the walls of the crevice; he didn't know if she had heard him or not.
He rubbed his cheek against his shoulder and peered
down. Blackness was everywhere, an inky veil that disoriented him, dizzied him. Nausea rolled through him. He
squeezed his eyes shut and moved his hands a fraction of an inch upward on the rope, fearing that in the next second, it
was going to snap and he'd follow his first torch into the fathomless darkness below him.

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There was no space, no time, only the pull of gravity, the suction of the void. He couldn't have dangled more
than a few minutes, but it seemed he'd been hanging
here for hours, waiting for light to redeem him.

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"Jones," Dorian shouted.

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His name reverberated in the pit. He glanced up and

saw a flickering light dancing toward him. The rope that
held it coiled and uncoiled, serpentine, its tongue hissing fire. Indy ducked as the torch darted past his head, then
grabbed the rope and snared the end of the torch.

He gripped it, his breath erupting from his chest like
hiccups. He peered at the wall in front of him, no longer
certain if it was the right wall. Maybe he was too far down.
He tugged on his rope twice and Doumas, Dorian's assisÂ
tant, lowered him another two feet. Then he was directly
opposite the tablet. It jutted out from the stone wall like a
tombstone in a graveyard, and was tilted slightly downward.

He pulled a four pronged clamp from his knapsack and
pounded it into the wall with a mallet. He was about to
place the torch into it when something caught his eye. He held the torch in front of the tablet and leaned forward for
a closer look.

He'd been told the inscription would be caked with dirt
and that it would have to be cleaned once the tablet was
taken to the surface. But he was staring at parallel rows of glyphs that were not only clearly recognizable, but were
written in ancient Greek, a language he could read.

His eyes skipped over the words, devouring them. Excitement knotted in his gut. He put the torch back into
the holder on the wall, and pulled a notepad from a side pocket of his knapsack. Quickly, he scrawled the translaÂ-
tion. He couldn't believe it. They were right. The crazy
bastards knew what they were talking about.

He wanted to yell up to the top, but decided to
conserve his energy. He stuffed the notebook back into the
pack, pulled out the net, and carefully covered the tablet
before fastening the drawstrings to a hook at the end of the
rope.

He was about to start chiseling at the wall to loosen the
tablet when the rope suddenly jerked against his chest.
He dropped several inches; the rope tightened under his
arms.

"Hey, what the hell is going on?"

His voice ricocheted about the crevice. He was directly below the tablet now and saw pick marks under it. SomeÂ-
one had not only cleaned the inscription, but had tried to
remove the tablet. But who?

The rope jerked again. A weird creaking filled the
crevice and he knew what it was. His rope was fraying. He
pulled the torch from the wall and held it up. "Aw, Christ."

Easy does it,

he thought. He placed the torch in his
mouth, and reached for the rope above the spot where it
was unraveling. He heard a resounding snap, a sharp,
terrible sound that echoed in the crevice. His fingers
snagged the rope.

He dangled by one hand, the frayed end rubbing against
his wrist. The torch burned the hair on his arm. His face
was contorted in a grimace as he stretched his other hand
over his head. Sweat beaded on his brow, trickled into his
eyes.

He felt a hard yank from above, and the rope slipped through his fingers. He reached desperately with his other
hand, but his fist closed on black air.

He fell.

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1

College Capers

Chicago

—two years earlier

The night was still and tight as the two men lumbered
down a narrow lane, limp bodies draped over their shoulÂders. Rain from a spring shower puddled in hidden deÂ-
pressions, shadowed by the tall buildings on either side. They were nearing a corner, and beyond it was the grassy
mall, their destination.

One of the men was tall and rangy and bobbed as he
walked as if constantly readjusting the weight of the body
he carted. The other one was sturdy and muscular. Coils of rope hung from both sides of his belt, and he moved
with the nimbleness of a mountain climber. Suddenly, he stumbled in one of the ruts and lurched to the side, almost
losing his balance. Nimble, yes, but also afflicted by
occasional spasms of clumsiness.

"Damn it," he sputtered as he recovered his footing. It
was almost over, and he was edgy.

"You okay?" the tall one asked.

"Fine. Let's stop a minute. I've got a bad feeling about
this."

The tall one unceremoniously let the body slip from his
shoulder, then pulled out a flask from inside his coat. He

held it out, but his partner shook his head. "No?" The tall
man shrugged, then took a long swallow.

"Take it easy on that stuff," the rope man hissed.

"It takes the edge off."

"Fifteen more minutes and it'll be all over," the rope
man said. He hugged the shadows of the building as
he moved ahead, the body still draped over his husky
shoulder. When he reached the corner, he looked both
ways. In spite of his concern, he was determined to
complete his mission, and he wanted every detail perfect.

He turned to signal his partner, but the man was
already standing behind him, the other body slung over
his shoulder. They headed down a rain-slick sidewalk,
the glow of street lamps reflecting off its surface. They
stopped when they reached the first light, and slid the
bodies onto the grass. Barely visible under a nearby hedge
were two other bodies they'd left there half an hour
earlier.

"Call your tune," the tall one said.

"Get Paine ready. I want him first. And make sure his
hat is on straight." He loosened one of the ropes coiled on his belt. A hangman's noose was knotted at the end of the
rope, and with a graceful swing of his arm, he tossed it
over the arc of the lamp. The noose danced in the pale
light.

"Okay, slide it over his neck, and make sure his name
tag doesn't come off."

The tall man lifted the body and worked the noose over

the head. When it was tight, he reached into Paine's vest,
pulled out a three-cornered hat, and fit it firmly over his
head. The other man, meanwhile, had scaled the lampÂpost, and now raised the body into place. He deftly tied
the rope, then dropped to the ground.

"Hey, he looks great. Now, just three more to go."

The tall man tipped the flask to his mouth, once more
and again, he gestured with it to his partner.

"We'll do Georgie next," the rope man said in response.
"God, I can't wait to see the reaction tomorrow morning."

A headless figure wriggled beneath a dark gown like a
magician struggling to free himself from chains and locks.
Then the top of a head, a brow, and a face emerged from the dark cocoon. He straightened the gown over his bare
legs, and gazed at himself in a full-length mirror. He ran a
hand through his thick hair, which was parted in the center,
then placed his mortarboard and tassel on top of his head.

The intricate lithographic lettering on his diploma would
say he was Henry Jones, Jr. But those who knew him called
him Indy—short for Indiana, a name he'd used since his
early teens. "Henry Jr." was consigned to use on official
documents, and by his father, who still called him Junior.

In fact, the only visible remainder of his childhood was a
scar on his jaw, which he'd gotten in a scrap with thieves
he'd stumbled on in a desert cavern as they uncovered a
relic of the Spanish conquest.

But even his father, if he were here, would see that he
was no longer a kid. He was handsome in a rugged sort of

way, with clear, determined hazel eyes and the broad
shoulders and musculature of a halfback. But he wasn't a
football player. Although he was well coordinated, he preferred horseback riding and skiing to sports like footÂ
ball or baseball. He was also proficient at the use of a
whip, an odd skill he rarely talked much about. Not that
any of that mattered today.

"I'm a college graduate," he said to himself, and smiled
at the image those words conjured, but his smile revealed more than a hint of irony. He was graduating in spite of
everything. He'd missed so many classes last fall, his grades
had nose-dived and he'd nearly been expelled. For several
weeks, he'd simply lost interest in his formal education
while he was attaining another sort on the street.

He and Jack Shannon, his wily roommate, had spent their

nights at barrelhouse piano saloons on the South Side,
listening to musicians with names like Pine Top Smith, Cripple Clarence Lofton, Speckled Red, and Cow Cow
Davenport pound the keys on their uprights. The music
was called barrelhouse piano because the small bars where it was played served liquor directly out of kegs. At least,
they had until Prohibition started a few months back.

Most of the jazzmen had come up from New Orleans,
the hometown of jazz, in the last five years, and more
were arriving every week. Living conditions for Negroes
were better in Chicago; there were jobs in clubs where
they could make fifty dollars a week compared to a dollar a
night in New Orleans. And Chicago was where the recordÂ
ing studios were making jazz records.

When the bars closed, Indy and Shannon often headed to freewheeling rent parties where the music continued
until dawn. Shannon would bring his cornet and play
along with the likes of Johnny Dunn and Jabbo Smith. Not
only was Shannon one of the few whites Indy had seen
play jazz, but he was undoubtedly the only economics
student playing the music. Most of the jazzmen in the
barrelhouse saloons were uneducated. They didn't read
music, didn't follow the rules, didn't know the rules, and didn't care. They didn't even know their music was
unusuÂal, and all of that contributed to its power and integrity.

"Hey, you ready? You said you wanted to get there
early, right?"

He looked up, snapping out of his reverie. Shannon's red hair looked as wild as ever. His gown was draped over his
arm, and he wore a coat and tie. The coat was too short in
the sleeves, but he knew Shannon didn't give a damn about it. He had a habit of nodding his head when he was
excited
or nervous and he was doing it now. But Shannon always seemed a bit edgy, as though he weren't really made for
this world. The only time he ever seemed perfectly at ease was
when he was playing his cornet. Then his lanky body seemed

to flow with the music and you no longer noticed his size
twelve feet or his long neck with its bulging Adam's apple.

Indy glanced once more at himself, then removed the mortarboard. They were only a couple of blocks from the
grassy mall where the ceremony was being held. They'd
be there in a few minutes.

"Okay. Let me get dressed. I don't have my pants on yet."

"Dare you to go just like that. Graduate without your pants, kiddo."

"No thanks. Don't see any reason to do it." He watched Shannon through the mirror, knowing that he would make
an offer.

"Tell you what. I'll buy you a bottle of hooch. We'll get
plastered."

Indy shrugged. Hell, with the gown on, no one would know
the difference. "All right." He wasn't exactly looking forward to the ceremony; he just wanted to be done with it.
Not wearing any pants would at least make it somewhat interesting.

"I can just hear ol' Mulhouse now," he said as they left
the house. "'You are a new generation, a generation of
hope.'" His voice was deep, authoritative, mimicking the
university president. " 'The war is over. Go out into the
world and show others who are less fortunate that America's
young people are hardworking, productive individuals who
get the job done, whatever that job may be.'"

Something like that, he thought. No, the ceremony
wasn't the reason Indy wanted to arrive early.

"How is it with no pants?" Shannon asked as they
headed down an oak-shrouded street.

"Cool and breezy. You should try it."

Indy expected him to laugh and make a joke, but
Shannon wore a pensive expression. "Is your father going
to be here?"

Indy shook his head. "He's busy. Hell, he didn't even
bother to apologize."

"Really?"

"Yeah. That's how he is. My father, the esteemed expert
on grail lore, is a man with little time for anything or
anyone outside of his scholarly pursuits."

"He always been like that?"

"Only after my mother died when I was young. Ever since
then he's become more distant from me, no matter what I
do. I guess I majored in linguistics just to get his attention."

Shannon glanced at him. "How would linguistics get his
attention?"

"For as long as I can remember, he's said that language
is the key to understanding mankind. But so what? How
can he expect me to understand mankind when I can't
even understand him?"

"I wish my family were staying home. Hell, I wish I
weren't even graduating."

"What're you talking about, Jack? You've got a job and
you'll be making good money." Shannon had been hired as
an accountant with a Chicago trucking company for the salary of two hundred fifty dollars a month, a sum that
seemed astonishingly high. When Indy asked how he'd
gotten it, Shannon's only response was "family connections."

"And you'll still have time to play in the clubs," Indy
continued. "Hey, remember that night we went down to
the Royal Gardens and saw King Oliver? Authentic New
Orleans Creole jazz. It's all moving right up here into your
own backyard. What more could you ask for?"

Shannon didn't say anything as they crossed the street.
"You are going to play, aren't you?" Indy asked as he
watched a shiny new Tin Lizzie motor past.

"I made a deal."

Indy noted the dour expression on his face. "What kind
of deal?"

"I have to stop playing jazz. That's the price of the job."

"That's crazy. Why?"

"It's not 'respectable' music, Indy."

Indy knew that jazz was slow to catch on. And many

whites thought the syncopated beat—accenting notes when it wasn't expected—and improvisational style were
'jungle music' It causes the listener to move in strange, suggestive

ways,

he'd heard one radio commentator say.

"That's bullshit, Jack, because I think you could be as
good as Earl Hines or Johnny Dodds. You watch; things
will change as the music catches on."

"I don't know if that'll ever happen." Shannon swayed
from side to side, his gangly arms moving to their own
beat. "You know, they're even blaming jazz for those riots
on the South Side. Can you believe that?"

"The rioting had nothing to do with jazz." But the city's
race riots were a sour note in a nation that was feeling
good about the Allies' victory. They created a sad contrast to the big parades that marched along New York's Fifth
Avenue, celebrating America's role in the triumph.

"It's not marching music, Indy. You know what I mean.
Nobody feels like a goddamn hero when they listen to it. That's the problem. It's coming from a different place, and
so am I."

Indy chuckled. "You could always go to Europe with
me, and start a new life."

"Don't think I haven't thought about it. I'm jealous as
hell. You're going to love it."

Paris, Indy was sure, would be fascinating, but he
wasn't so certain about becoming an expert in ancient
languages. "I guess. But studying old manuscripts in
libraries isn't my idea of an exciting time."

"You keep saying that. Why are you doing it?"

"The opportunity was there, and I wasn't going to pass
it up. Simple as that."

Shannon abruptly turned down an alley, and motioned
for Indy to follow.

"Where you going?"

"C'mon," he said in a hushed voice. "I said I'd buy you

a bottle. Let's get a pint and take it with us. There's a guy
close by who's got it."

"I don't know, Jack." Prohibition was a bad joke, but
Indy was anxious to get to the campus.

"It'll only take a minute. C'mon."

He shrugged and followed him. Although the two men
got along well, they differed considerably in their conÂ
sumption of and attitude toward alcohol. Shannon had
been a heavy drinker since he was seventeen, and ProhibiÂ
tion hadn't slowed his habit. Indy, on the other hand, had a low tolerance for alcohol and could take it or leave it.

Halfway down the block, Shannon opened a gate, and
strolled along the walk to a back door. He rapped out the uniÂversal code for "it's me"—BOP; bop-bop-bob-bop;
BOP; BOP A dog answered, yelping from inside the house. Shannon glanced back at Indy as if to make sure he was
still there.

A moment later, a short, frumpy man with a cross look on
his face opened the door. A two-day stubble shadowed his jaw
and his white hair was mussed, as though he'd been sleeping. He shouted at the dog, then asked what they wanted.

"A bottle of juice, Elmo, what else?" Shannon said with
a smirk.

The man motioned for them to enter. Indy smelled
whiskey on his breath as soon as he stepped into the