Indiana Jones and the Dance of the Giants - Softcover

Macgregor, Rob

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0553290355 ISBN 13: 9780553290356

Publisher: Bantam, 1991

Synopsis

Indiana Jones has landed his first teaching post, in the archaeology department at London University. His brightest—and prettiest—student is a twenty-year-old Scottish girl, Deirdre Campbell, who claims she’s uncovered a golden scroll, proof of the true existence of Merlin, sorcerer of myth and legend. Indy’s intrigued by the thesis . . . and by Deirdre. So, too, is member of Parliament Adrian Powell. He’s seeking to resurrect the ancient order of the Druids, whose secrets of power could pave his way to world conquest. But first he needs the scroll . . . and he’s willing to kill to get it.

Where there’s magic, mystery, and murder, Indy goes to the head of the class. Dropping his books and picking up his bullwhip, he joins Deirdre on an action-packed chase across Britain, from the peril-filled caves of Scotland to the savage dance of the giants at Stonehenge—where Merlin’s secret will finally be revealed. But not before Indy gets a lesson in love from Deirdre . . . and a lesson in hate from a maniac who means to rule the world.

About this title

About the Author:

Rob MacGregor is an Edgar-winning author who has been on the New York Times bestseller list. He is the author of seventeen novels, ten nonfiction books, and numerous magazine and newspaper articles. In addition to writing his own novels, he has teemed with George Lucas, Peter Benchly, and Billy Dee Williams.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

1
Surprise Package
Summer 1925
Everywhere he looked, he saw figures draped in billowy black robes, their heads covered with cowls. They chanted, a monotonous, rhythmic drone, over and over. It was endless, maddening.
He peered through the gray haze, trying to get his bearings. It was either dawn or dusk; he wasn't sure and it disturbed him that he didn't know. He could see that he was inside some sort of temple. It was circular and roofless with immense stone pillars arching toward the leaden sky.
He didn't belong here; he was out of place. His head protruded above everyone else's, and he was the only person who wasn't wearing a robe. He looked down at himself and saw that he wasn't wearing anything. Then he realized that he was standing on a flat rock and that was why he was taller than everyone else.
What was he doing here? How had he gotten here?
They were looking at him now. Every head was turned toward him. The droning grew louder; it pounded against him. Why were they moving toward him? Why wouldn't his feet move? Why did his body feel like lead?
One man stood in front of all the others. He pointed at him. "Jones, we know you're coming. Know you're coming."
That was it--the chant.
Now they were rushing at him, a sea of black, their robes flapping at their ankles. He looked around frantically for an escape route. His arms pumped at his sides, his feet blurred beneath him, but he didn't seem to be getting anywhere. They must have drugged him; but who were they?
His head snapped around. They were almost on top of him. Move. Move. Fast. Air exploded from his lungs. A grinning face leered at him. The sky tilted. The pillars were toppling toward him. And suddenly he was awake, his arms twitching, his feet jerking, a scream poised at the edge of his tongue.
He sucked in his breath and looked around. But he could still hear the incessant chanting. He blinked his eyes, orienting himself. The train. Of course. The cars rumbled over the rails, the sound of the chanting, and someone was pounding on the door of his compartment. He sat forward, and ran his hands across his perspiration-soaked brow.
"Who is it?"
The pounding stopped. The door opened and a slender, gray-haired Englishman wearing a conductor's uniform peered in at him. "Mr. Jones? Sorry if I disturbed you."
Indy rubbed his face. "That's all right. What is it?"
The conductor held up a package. "It was waiting for you at the last stop."
"You sure it's for me?" Indy took the flat, rectangular box. It was wrapped in white paper, with an envelope taped to it that said Indy Jones. "Probably only one of us aboard." He thanked the conductor, who smiled thinly, nodded, and retreated.
He turned the package over in his hand. It looked like a candy box. It rattled when he shook it. He held it to his nose; it smelled faintly of chocolate. Who would send chocolates? he wondered as he slipped a card out of the envelope. The message was typewritten: Have an enjoyable trip, and good luck on your new job. Henry Jones, Sr.
He blinked and reread it. Now how the hell did his father know he would be on this train? And since when did he wire him boxes of candy? They hadn't even spoken for more than two years, not since Indy had informed him of his switch in studies from linguistics to archaeology, a move his father had described as foolhardy and perfidious.
Then his frown vanished, and a smile curled on his lips. It was Shannon; it had to be. Jack Shannon knew all about his relationship with his father. The package was a goddamn joke, at least to someone with Shannon's jaded sense of humor. He shook his head, and set the card down on the box.
He stared out the window at the unbroken grayness of the countryside, and thought about his last night in Paris. A cloud of blue haze had hung in the air of the nightclub as the black woman on stage swayed and sang, her voice deep and sonorous, a perfect accompaniment to the soulful sounds of the cornet being played in the shadows behind her. As the last notes of the song had slowly faded away to the applause of the crowd, the tall, gangly cornet player with the goatee and unruly hair had walked off the stage. He shook hands, nodded, and smiled as he wove his way through the tables. Finally, he lowered himself into a chair at a table near the corner farthest from the stage.
"You're sounding real good, Jack. You and Louise," Indy said.
"Thanks. It's really come together in the last six months."
"I'll miss it."
Shannon studied his face. "I don't blame you for leaving. It's getting too hectic. The scene's changed." He leaned forward and lit a cigarette from the burning candle on the table. "Sometimes, I look around and there's hardly a Parisian in the Jungle anymore. All tourists. Every night a new crowd. The regulars never show up until the last set, anymore. If they show up at all."
Indy put on his fedora. "You know you're welcome to come and visit anytime you like."
"I may take you up on that. I'd like to see London again."
Indy shook off his daydream, and focused on his surroundings. The rural countryside had given way to sooty brick factories and spewing smokestacks; he would be at Victoria Station in another half hour. After leaving Paris earlier in the week, he'd spent a couple of days in Brittany, where he'd examined some of the megalithic ruins in the region. Then this morning he'd taken a ferry across the channel and boarded the train.
He ripped the paper from the package. French chocolates from Paris. "Nice going, Shannon."
He was about to remove the cover and sample a chocolate when the train suddenly braked for another station and a book slid off the seat. He leaned over and picked it up. The cover had flopped open to an epigraph on the first page of the eighteenth-century tome, which read: Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas.
"Fortunate is he who can know the inner meaning of things," he said.
He closed the cover. The book was called Choir Gaur, The Grand Orrery of the Ancient Druids, Commonly Called Stonehenge. He laughed to himself. He didn't have to look any further for the meaning of his dream. He'd been reading the book before he'd fallen asleep. Why black robes, though? he wondered. He was sure druids wore white. But who said dreams made sense?
The train started up again. He tapped his fingers on the package, then lifted the cover, and reached inside for a chocolate. It took a moment before he comprehended what he was seeing and feeling. Something black and hairy was crawling up his fingers, and it wasn't made of chocolate. He uttered a short cry, shook his hand, and gaped at the box. There were a few chocolates, but the rest of the compartments were filled with walnut-size spiders.
His knees jerked, kicking the box into the air. Chocolates and spiders spewed over him. He brushed them off and leaped to his feet. He stomped on spiders and squashed chocolates, sweeping his arms and legs and body clean of the crawling creatures, and trying not to think about how close he had come to taking a bite out of one of them.
Finally, he examined his seat and sat down again, but as he did felt one creeping inside his pants leg, and another on the inside of his collar. He nearly jumped out of his clothes. He shook his leg until the spider fell to the floor, and crushed it under his shoe. Then, carefully, he reached up to his collar and brushed at his neck.
He laughed nervously as a chocolate dropped to the floor. Relieved, he sat down, but immediately felt a tingling on his calf, and pulled up his pants leg. Dozens of tiny, newly hatched spiders wisped over his leg. "Aw . . . aw . . ." His teeth chattered; he shuddered.
He brushed them off, swatting them with a rolled-up newspaper. Then, he inspected his leg to make sure none was left.
He picked up the box and examined it. It hadn't been a matter of spiders invading the chocolate box. Someone had planted them.
"Shannon?" he said aloud. Would he go to all the trouble for a practical joke that he wouldn't even see carried out? Maybe, but this was no joke.
He looked at the card again. Maybe it was his father? No, couldn't be. He wouldn't. Besides, it was addressed to Indy Jones, and his father never called him that. But Shannon knew that. If this was his idea of playing a joke, why wouldn't he have addressed it to Henry Jones, Jr., as his father's letters had always read when they were college roommates back in Chicago?
He heard a tap on the door. "Yes?"
The conductor opened it. "I need to check your ticket, please."
Indy reached cautiously into his coat pocket, and handed his ticket to the conductor. "Mind if I switch compartments for the rest of the trip? This one has spiders."
"Spiders?" The conductor's eyes shifted about the compartment; his shoulders twitched. Indy understood perfectly. He pointed at a spider crawling along the window frame.
The conductor handed Indy his ticket, and backed out of the compartment. "Right this way, sir."
Indy quickly gathered up his books, and the conductor carried his luggage. At the last moment, he grabbed the empty box and wrapper, hoping they held some clue to the source of the so-called gift. When he was settled in his new seat, he asked the conductor how he might find out where the package he'd received had come from.
"That's easy. Just look at the number in the corner of the wrapper."
Indy flattened it out. "Twelve."
"That's it. They always put a number on the packages so the telegraph office can notify the sender that the package was delivered, if they request the service."
"So where's twelve?"
The conductor smiled. "That's easy. It was sent from London."
 

About this edition

• Publisher: Bantam
• Publication date: 1991
• ISBN 10: 0553290355
• ISBN 13: 9780553290356
• Binding: Mass Market Paperback
• Number of pages: 304