Indiana Jones and the Philosopher's Stone [Lingua Inglese]: No 9 - Brossura

McCoy, Max

Brossura

ISBN 10: 0553561960 ISBN 13: 9780553561968

Casa editrice: Bantam, 1995

Riassunto

On the trail of a stolen manuscript said to contain the secrets for transmuting lead into gold and achieving eternal life, Indiana Jones also tracks a missing British alchemist and an insane Renaissance scholar. Original.

Su questo libro

L'autore:

Max McCoy is an award-winning journalist and author whose novels include The Sixth Rider and Sons of Fire. He lives in Pittsburgh, Kansas.

Estratto. © Riproduzione autorizzata. Diritti riservati.:

1
Bits of Trash and Bone

"What do you know of the Voynich Manuscript?"
Marcus Brody had asked the question while casually stirring cream and sugar into his coffee, but Indiana Jones had heard the tone--and had seen the sparkle in his old friend's eyes--before.
"Not much," Indy said, folding the morning edition of The New York Times and laying the newspaper aside. They were sitting at a sidewalk table beneath a canopy at the Tiger Coffee House on the corner of Nassau and Witherspoon, across the street from the Princeton University campus.
It was raining.
"As I recall, the manuscript is on loan at the rare book collection at Yale," Indy began, then took a sip from his mug of hot black coffee. "It is at least four hundred years old, was written in an unknown language by the alchemist Roger Bacon, and is reputed to hold the secret of the philosopher's stone--which, according to legend, has the power to turn lead into gold and to grant immortality. Its discovery created an international sensation a few years back, when I was a graduate student--it was called 'the world's most mysterious manuscript,' as I recall, but all attempts to decipher it have failed."
"Right as rain," Brody said, allowing himself a small smile. "I examined it once, more out of curiosity than anything else, but I couldn't make heads nor tails out of it. Don't think anyone could, not without the proper key."
"Why do you ask?"
"It's been stolen."
"It hasn't been reported in the papers."
"No, and I doubt that it will be," Brody said. "I learned of the theft just a few days ago when a pair of very serious government men visited me at the museum. And they asked quite a lot of questions about you."
"About me?"
"Yes," Brody said. "The universityhad told them you were away on a field expedition for the museum, and they wanted to know how to get in touch with you. Of course, I couldn't help them, since the Maya neglected to leave so much as a single public telephone in their ruins. Also, I didn't know when you would be back."
"I'm lucky to be back at all," Indy said.
For two years, since Brody had been named director of special acquisitions for the American Museum of Natural History in New York, the institution had quietly funded Indy's "research." The arrangement had enriched the museum's collection while allowing Indy the freedom to travel, which was a luxury not afforded by the salary of a university professor during the Great Depression.
Indy tugged absently at the necktie peeking above the collar of his sweater vest and stared at the cold spring rain lashing across Nassau Street in waves. An old woman was standing alone at curbside, selling apples from a wooden cart, her gray hair plastered to her head. Indy felt a growing sense of appreciation--and a momentary sense of guilt--for his dry seat, the warm coffee, and Brody's friendship.
"More coffee, Dr. Jones?"
"Pardon me?"
"Sir, would you care for more coffee?" the waiter asked.
"I'm sorry. I was someplace else for a moment," Indy said. "Nothank you. I have class soon."
Brody held up his hand, and the waiter passed.
"You say your visitors were government men?" Indy asked. "It makes me wonder why the FBI would be interested in the theft of something so unusual. Also, who would want to steal such a thing in the first place?"
"A private collector would be my first guess," Brody said. "That may be why they want to talk to you, to see if you could provide them with any leads."
"That's more your area than mine."
"Perhaps they want you to help them recover it," Brody said, and the sparkle was back. "If anybody can do it, you can."
"Not interested," Indy said. "I need a rest."
From his leather briefcase, Indy withdrew a sheaf of handwritten papers. "Here is the report on the Cozon expedition," he said. He had already briefed Brody earlier that morning about the loss of the Crystal Skull, but had carefully avoided any mention of the curse that BarnabyŽ said it carried. "I'm sorry the story doesn't have a happier ending. I don't even know who those guys in the airplane were. I feel bad for wasting the museum's money by returning empty-handed."
Brody brushed the apology aside with a wave of his hand.
"Archaeology is not an exact science," he gently reminded Indy. "Every venture into the unknown carries with it an element of risk. The finds you have already made for us far outweigh any minor setback, and I am disappointed only because you are."
Indy shook his head.
"Sometimes I wonder what all of these dead bits of trash and bone really amount to in the scheme of things," Indy said. "There are so many hungry people in the world. I doubt that the woman selling apples there cares in the least for what happened a thousand years ago, or even yesterday. Yesterday, at least, the sun was shining."
"I worry about you when you become philosophic," Brody said. "We each have our part to play. It is true that too many of us are occupied right now with filling our stomachs. But you, my boy--the part you play with your bits of trash and bone helps to fill our souls. And who knows? You may one day discover an ancient secret that could help fill our stomachs as well."
Marcus leaned forward.
"The more we learn about the past, Indy, the less we are doomed to repeat it."
The rain slowed and finally dwindled to a few big drops breaking the surface of the puddles in the street. Indy reached out and cupped some of the water dripping from the edge of the white-and-green-striped canopy. He held the rainwater in his palm for a moment, then closed his hand, and the moisture seeped between his fingers.
"What's gotten into you, Indy?" Marcus asked. "I've never seen you so dispirited before. Do I need to recite your list of accomplishments?
"No, Marcus," he said. "I'm fine, really."
"Did something happen that you're not telling me about?" Marcus asked. "An affair of the heart. You met a beautiful Indian girl who--"
"Nothing like that," Indy said, brightening. "The only female I met on this trip was made of quartz and was a few dozen centuries too old for me." He finished his coffee and glanced at the sky. "It's been good to see you, Marcus, but I'd better make a run for it while I can."
"The coffee is on me," Brody said.
"Thanks," Indy said. "For everything."
"Won't you consider coming to New York to view the opening of the new Central American exhibit?" Brody asked. "It would do you good. It is really quite something to see, and as you know, you are responsible for the best pieces. Besides, it would be a good opportunity to introduce you to the Explorers' Club."
"Thanks, but no," Indy said. "I haven't even unpacked my bags yet. I just got out of one jungle, and I'm not anxious to plunge into another."
Indy donned his hat and slipped his leather case beneath his arm. The two men shook hands.
"I'll be in touch," Brody said. When Indy had left the coffee shop, Brody said to himself: "My boy, I hope she was worth it."
At the corner, Indy paused to buy an apple. He paid with a dollar bill, and when the woman protested that she didn't have ninety-five cents in change, he asked her to keep the money for something hot to eat.
Indy slipped the apple into his case while watching a new V-8 Ford pass, its tires singing on the wet pavement. The car was black, and the two men in the front seat wore dark suits and ties. A third man, in the back, was in uniform. The license plate on the rear fender identified the vehicle as government property.
Indy crossed to the Fitz Randolph Gateway. The wrought-iron gate was opened only on special occasions, and Indy had to pass through the smaller side entrance ordinarily used by students. He had made it halfway across the campus, and was abreast of the big cannon left over from the Revolutionary War, when the gray skies rumbled and began to pour again. By the time he reached the steps of McCormick Hall, Indy was soaked.
"All wet again, eh, Jones?"
"Gruber," Indy said.
Harold Gruber--a pipe-smoking medievalist with a passion for Machiavelli--was acting chairman of the Department of Art and Architecture at Princeton University.
Gruber took the briar from the corner of his mouth.
"Look here, Jones," he said, pointing the stem of his pipe at Indy. "You really ought to get an umbrella. There's no excuse for being unprepared."
"Thanks, Harry," Indy said.
"Harold," Gruber said.
Indy started up the stairs, his wet shoes squishing with every step. Gruber and his smoldering pipe followed.
"I'm rather glad I caught you," Gruber mumbled, the pipe again in the corner of his mouth. "There have been questions, you know, and as acting chair, I feel it is my duty to respond to them."
"Questions?" Indy asked over his shoulder.
"Um, yes," Gruber said. They had reached the top floor now, and Indy was leaving a trail of wet footprints as he marched to his office at the end of the hall. "We have a complaint from the British consulate about your activities in British Honduras. It seems they feel you trumped their antiquities law by reaching some sites in the interior by way of Guatemala--taking the back door, it would seem."
"The back door?" Indy asked.
Indy unlocked the door to 404E and slipped inside. A pile of messages had accumulated beneath the door, and he knelt to scoop them up.
"Well?" Gruber demanded.
A column of angry smoke rose from the briar. The tobacco was an especially foul shag mixture and it made Indy's eyes burn.
"I don't remember any back doors." Indy stood and shuffled through the messages as he spoke. "But I am notoriously bad about reading maps. I'll have to write my Guatemalan guide and ask him where exactly we were. Of course, Harry, it will take a few weeks to receive a reply. . . ."
Indy shut the door and locked it.

 

Su questa edizione

• Editore: Bantam
• Data di pubblicazione: 1995
• ISBN 10: 0553561960
• ISBN 13: 9780553561968
• Rilegatura: Copertina flessibile
• Numero di pagine: 304