The Descent

'You see?'  de  l'Orme  addressed  Santos  with  a  laugh.  'Blunt  as  pig  iron,  didn't  I  say? But don't let that fool you.'

Santos  was  not  mollified.  'One  of  whom,  if  you  please?  One  of  you?  Certainly  not.  I

am a scientist.'

So,  thought  Thomas,  this  proud  fellow  was  not  just  another  seeing-eye  dog.  De l'Orme  had  finally  decided  to  take  on  a  protégé.  He  searched  the  young  man  for  a

second  impression,  and  it  was  little  better  than  the  first.  He  wore  long  hair  and  a goatee and a fresh white peasant shirt. There  was not even  dirt beneath his nails.

De  l'Orme  went  on  chuckling.  'But  Thomas  is  a  scientist  also,'  he  teased  his  young companion.

'So you say,' Santos retorted.

De  l'Orme's  grin  vanished.  'I  do  say  so,'  he  pronounced.  'A  fine  scientist.  Seasoned. Proven.  The  Vatican  is  lucky  to  have  him.  As  their  science  liaison,  he  brings  the  only credibility they  have  in the modern age.'

Thomas  was  not  flattered  by  the  defense.  De  l'Orme  took  personally  the  prejudice that a priest could not be a thinker in the natural world,  for  in  defying  the  Church  and renouncing the cloth, he had, in a sense, borne his Church out. And so he  was  speaking to his own tragedy.

Santos  turned  his  head  aside.  In  profile,  his  fashionable  goatee  was  a  flourish  upon his  exquisite   Michelangelo  chin.  Like   all   of   de   l'Orme's   acquisitions,   he   was   so physically  perfect  you  wondered  if  the  blind  man  was  really  blind.  Perhaps,  Thomas reflected, beauty  had a spirit all its own.

From far away,  Thomas recognized  the  unearthly  Indonesian  music  called  gamelan. They  said  it  took  a  lifetime  to  develop  an  appreciation  for  the   five-note   chords. Gamelan had never  been  soothing  to  him.  It  only  made  him  uncomfortable.  Java  was not an easy  place to drop in on like this.

'Forgive  me,'  he  said,  'but  my  itinerary  is  compressed  this  time.  They  have  me scheduled to fly out of Jakarta  at five tomorrow  afternoon.  That  means  I  must  return to Yogya  by  dawn. And I've  already  wasted  enough of our time by  being so late.'

'We'll  be  up  all  night,'  de  l'Orme  grumbled.  'You'd  think  they  would  allow  two  old men a little time to socialize.'

'Then we should drink one of these.' Thomas opened his satchel. 'But quickly.'

De  l'Orme  actually  clapped  his  hands.  'The  Chardonnay?  My  '62?'  But  he  knew  it would  be.  It  always  was.  'The  corkscrew,  Santos.  Just  wait  until  you  taste  this.  And some  gudeg  for  our  vagabond.  A  local  specialty,  Thomas,  jackfruit  and  chicken  and tofu simmered in coconut milk...'

With a long-suffering look, Santos went off to find the corkscrew  and warm the food. De l'Orme cradled two of three  bottles Thomas carefully produced. 'Atlanta?'

'The Centers  for  Disease  Control,'  Thomas  identified.  'There  have  been  several  new strains of virus  reported  in the Horn region...'

For  the  next  hour,  tended  by  Santos,  the  two  men  sat  at  the  table  and  circled through  their  'recent'  adventures.  In  fact,  they  had  not  seen  each  other  in  seventeen years.  Finally they  came around to the work at hand.

'You're not supposed to be excavating  down there,' Thomas said.

Santos was sitting to de l'Orme's right, and he leaned his elbows on the table. He  had been  waiting  all  evening  for  this.  'Surely  you  don't  call  this  an  excavation,'  he  said.

'Terrorists  planted a bomb. We're merely  passersby  looking into an open wound.' Thomas dismissed the argument. 'Bordubur is off  limits  to  all  field  archaeology  now. These  lower  regions  within  the  hillside  were  especially  not  to  be  disturbed.  UNESCO mandated  that  none  of  the  hidden  footer  wall  was  to  be  exposed  or  dismantled.  The Indonesian government  forbade any and all  subsurface  exploration.  There  were  to  be no trenches. No digging at all.'

'Pardon me, but again, we're  not digging. A bomb went off. We're  simply  looking  into the hole.'

De  l'Orme  attempted  a  distraction.  'Some  people  think  the  bomb  was  the  work  of Muslim   fundamentalists.   But   I   believe   it's   the   old   problem.   Transmigrai.   The government's  population  policy.  It  is  very  unpopular.  They  forcibly  relocate  people from overcrowded  islands to less crowded ones. Tyranny  at its worst.'

Thomas  did  not  accept  his  detour.  'You're  not  supposed  to  be  down  there,'   he

repeated.  'You're  trespassing.  You'll  make  it  impossible  for  any  other  investigation  to occur here.'