Jebediah Stone leaned against the cool plaster frame of his second storey, hotel window, observing the bustle and clatter of the marketplace in the dusty street below. The unhindered sun was nearly at its apex, yet the temperature had only reached the high eighties. He closed his eyes, welcoming the slight breeze that dried the trace of perspiration on his bare torso, happy to be temporarily at loose ends for a change, and able to just kick back.

The Spartan quarters had been his home for nearly a year. After so long away from home, he'd grown used to the lack of amenities he'd enjoyed at home with his parents. A few snapshots of his family and the car that paid for his plane ticket curled out from the edge of a fractured mirror over the tiny, ceramic covered stand next to his bed.

Turning from the window when the wail calling the faithful to salat rang through the streets, he flopped noisily onto the bare, striped mattress, and folded his arms behind his head. The hiccupping ceiling fan, the hotel's sole, boastful claim to luxury, wobbled weakly above him, emitting a sharp chirp with each revolution. Lighting a cigarette from the package on the side table, he blew a stream of smoke up to the fan's blades, watching as it passed through barely disturbed.

A three thousand year old civilization and they still can't make anything electrical work, he chuckled to himself. He took an unsatisfying pull on the cigarette, and squashed it out in the saucer on the table. Three and a half years in this country, he thought, and still fiddling around with guided tours provided through local agencies, and word of mouth recommendations.

The brief surrender to relaxation quickly gave way to a familiar depression, his thoughts casting back to the beginning of his frustrations. It had all seemed so romantic when he finished high school in Canada and decided to tour the world. Egypt being the first and last stop, after he ran out of funds.

The authorities in Cairo had frowned on his constant requests for a work permit, and finally, to keep him away from their offices, relented to his pleading with a series of short term, visitor's permits. It wasn't until he discovered a more open minded official in Idfu that he finally obtained a one year permit to seek employment, providing he could prove a sustainable means of support. Buoyed by the opportunity, he'd joined every trade caravan he could find, learning as best he could, the territory and the customs along the way.

His first break came through the local Idfu Office of Tourism, in itself a bit of a joke, since the office consisted of one cagey little Arab with a ten-seater van, equipped with a PA system that sounded like tires on gravel. Stone drove wide-eyed visitors around the small city, spinning yarns he made up out of the few facts he actually new, showing off the same old ruins, and herding them into the shop of Kabbar El Dzab, a charming, but less than honest dealer of antiquities.

Here the tourists would ooh and aah over the myriad items in the dimly lit shop, encouraged by Kabbar to invest their dollars in his most worthy possessions, most of which were manufactured by local artisans, scrounging out a meager living in the dirty streets and dingy hovels of the town. Stone received a small percentage of the sales for his efforts, along with a moderate salary and a decent amount of tips, enabling him to show his government official that he was indeed employed, and self sustaining. They became friendly enemies in their mutual arrangement, and the old dealer made it a point to steer whatever business he could Stone's way.

While leading a rather lackadaisical existence, he was plagued with a constant dissatisfaction. He needed something more in his life or he would wind up an old man shuttling tourists around for cigarette money. He yearned for something to get the juices flowing, but he was just too lazy to go out and find it. Even in his early years Stone had been lazy.

By the time he finished high school, he'd decided to make his oft dreamt visions of travel and adventure a reality. With both his parents working hard and long to pay the mortgage on their home, they found little time at the end of the day for him. Money earned and salted away from a series of odd jobs provided enough to buy a second hand car, which he resurrected through long hours of adjusting and tinkering in the family's driveway. When he was satisfied that he could afford no more repairs, he informed his parents he was going to drive to the East coast and see some of the country before worrying about a future.

Long running, nightly battles, with his mother pleading and crying and his father retreating to stony silence, fuelled his determination, and with a cool, sad farewell, he left home to see the world. As in the case of most fantasies, reality bit Stone hard after his arrival on the East coast. His lack of experience netted him only the most menial jobs at poor pay, which his expenses consumed greedily. His days became longer and more frustrating, the needs of basic survival drowning out the excitement he craved.

After three years, Stone sold his car and used the money to buy air fare to Egypt. It wasn't his first choice, but being completely fed up, the opportunity and the price coincided neatly with the sorry direction his life was taking. As the plane nudged its way through the flossy clouds high above the ocean, the long suppressed excitement returned. Egypt! The mysterious East. Cairo, teeming with passion and adventure. Finally, just the ticket for someone who grew up imagining a life of mystery and adventure.

The sudden rapping at the door was followed by a softly sung query, "Mister Stone sir? I hold a message for you?"

Stone hoisted himself from the bed and grabbed his shirt, slipping it on before answering the door.

"Hello Marsi, what have you got for me?" He always smiled to himself at the way his landlord's daughter behaved toward him. She seemed to enjoy their encounters but was always extremely shy and embarrassed.

The slight young girl blushed and cast her eyes downward as she held out the folded piece of paper, "My father said to tell you this message comes from a very important person in the University of Asyut."

Stone took the piece of paper, giving her a friendly smile, and shook his head, "Thank you Marsi, and tell your father thanks too, for his assessment of my personal correspondence."

The girl looked up with a twinkling grin and skipped off down the hall, her robe billowing out behind her. Stone closed the door and leaned against it as he read the brief note addressed to him from Professor Karl Van Reagar, Interim Lecturer for Archaeological Studies, University of Asyut. There was a telephone number and a preferred time to call in the post script. Well, well, he thought, isn't this perfect timing. What could a university professor possibly want from me? He checked the time on his watch and saw that he had at least a couple of hours before he could place the call. Tucking in his shirt, he grabbed his wallet and what little money he had, and headed out to get a late lunch.

*****

Karl Van Reagar made some final entries in his journal and sat back just in time to see his daughter Melanie enter the office. He couldn't begin to describe his pleasure every time he saw her. At twenty two she was the spitting image of her deceased mother, long, fair, careless hair, tied back in a loose tail behind an oval, open face of lightly tanned clear skin. Her fine eyebrows always seemed to indicate surprise, allowing everyone to bathe in the brilliant blue of her wide set eyes. She strolled over to the desk with her mother's confident gait and offered a huge smile to her admiring father.

"I've finished the shopping and now I'm here to collect you for that dinner you promised." Her voice was a little deeper than most young women's and her accentuation of pronouns carried a melodious tone.

"Ah, dear. Can we put that off for about fifteen or twenty minutes?" He held up his hands in the form of a plea. "I'm hoping to get a call back from a letter I sent off the other day."

"Sure, that's okay," she agreed, choosing a seat on the only other chair in the room and slouching down comfortably, "Who to?"

Seated in front of the window, her father appeared as a grey silhouette. Only the overhead light, glinting on his wire frame glasses, gave any definition to his face. His temporary office had been rearranged to look very much like the one in the university back in the states. Rows of journals and research books rested wearily on the hastily erected shelves that lined the adjacent wall. A wobbly coat rack stood next to the door, holding his favourite Tilley hat and a multi-pocketed bush jacket. The desk he lounged behind, held a litter of maps and papers, an old coffee tin filled with various pens and pencils, and a small, silver framed photograph of Melanie's mother.

He sat up and shuffled some of the mess in front of him, pulling out a single sheet of paper. "A young man whose name I got from our administrator. Jebediah Stone. He's a- ah, well a kind of, what some might call, a soldier of fortune." Karl winced, his teeth clenching at the expression on his daughter's face.

"A what!" Melanie's eyes opened even wider than normal, as she caught the phrase he'd just used.

"Well he's kind of a guide, a jack-of-all-trades actually. Apparently the university knows of several people who have had dealings with him before and they recommended him." He hurried through the brief resume before him, hoping to gloss over its shortcomings and avoid further explanation.

"Recommended him for what? Why are you writing him? What are you up to father?" Stern, concerned and curious she sat up, leaning intently toward him.