Or no, that wasn't quite true.
For surely he himself was a greater anachronism than the watch, even.
The bare facts alone would drive an obituary writer crazy: "Dion Burke, archaeologist extraordinary without portfolio; born, Erie, Pa., August 9, 1929; disappeared April 14, 1957; died at Knossos, in the Great Palace of Minos, mightiest sea-king of Crete, on some vague, early spring date in the vicinity of 1400 B. C."
Only no obituary writer would ever hear those facts. The watch, the gun, the lighter—they'd all have sifted away to rusty dust long before Sir Arthur Evans and his fellow-scholars came this way.
Not that that mattered. Not now; not while he still had a job to do.
He moved his wrist closer to the nearest of the flickering lamps, and strained again to read the watch.
Almost 10:30. Little more than an hour-and-a-half till midnight and the moment of Knossos' doom.
Sometime between now and then, he had to meet the Minotaur.
For a moment he held the slim girl in his arms even closer than before. Then, ever so gently, he moved her back away a fraction; lifted her small, satin-smooth chin. "Ariadne...."
"Yes, my lord?"