The Director, adamant.
The inverter, failing again and and again.
The faint, nagging disappointment of discovering that The Girl could discuss the courtship customs of Papua and Parthia and Patagonia in detail, yet still hold a man at arm's length here on the campus.
But still, there was his dissertation to sustain him, his long-planned trip to Crete to cling to. Even if it took every penny of his inheritance, even if The Girl wouldn't marry him and go along because he still lacked his degree, the journey couldn't help but prove worthwhile.
By air, to London. Then to Athens and the British School, to complete contacts.
Finally, down across the Aegean to Crete itself.
He had to shove his hands deep into his pockets to hide their trembling when first he stepped from the car at Knossos. Even seeing the reconstructed palace with his own eyes shook him that much.
The British, polite and helpful as they tried to hide their amusement at the use of the detector. The Cretan workmen, exchanging glances that said openly that he was surely mad.
And then, the needle, going crazy—trying to bounce clear off the dial. The headphones, buzzing till his ears hurt.
Endless hours of aching to talk to someone, yet not daring. Long days when the right words for the dissertation just wouldn't come.