Lost City

She called over her assistants and asked them to prepare microscope slides from different parts of the sample. When she looked up from her microscope again, her eyes were red-rimmed, but her face was wreathed in a wide grin.

"The weed sample is in the first stage of necrosis. In other words, the stuff is dying. We'll try it with some of the other samples to make sure."

Again she mixed the bacteria in with the weed, and again they waited an hour. Microscopic examination confirmed their original findings. Every sample subjected to the bacteria was dying.

"The bacteria are essentially eating something in the Gorgon weed that it needs to survive," she said. "We'll have to do more research."

Trout picked up the phial with the original bacteria culture. "What's the most effective way to use these hungry little bugs?"

"We'll have to grow large quantities, then spread the bacteria far and wide and let them do the work."

Trout smiled. "Do you think the British government would let us use the Fauchard submersible to spread this stuff around? It's got the capacity and speed that we need."

"I think they'll bend over backward to keep the British Isles from being cut off from the rest of the world."

MacLean saved our hash again," Trout said, with a shake of his head. "He gave us the hope that we could beat this thing."

"Kurt deserves some credit."

"His instincts were on the nose when he said to go back to the Lost City and to think in terms of equilibrium."

Trout headed for the door.

"Are you going to tell Kurt the good news?"

Trout nodded. "Then I'm going to tell him that it's about time we had a send-off for a proper old Scottish gentleman."

THE LOCH WAS several miles long and half as wide and its cold, still waters reflected the unblemished Scottish sky like a queen's mirror. Rugged, rolling hills carpeted with heather held the loch in a purple embrace.

The open wooden-hulled boat cut a liquid wake in the tranquil waters as it headed out from shore, gliding to a drifting stop, finally, at the deepest part of the loch. The boat held four passengers: Paul and Gamay Trout, Douglas MacLean and his late cousin Angus, whose ashes were carried in an ornate Byzantine chest the chemist had picked up on his travels.

Douglas MacLean had met his cousin Angus only once, at a family wedding some years before. They had hit it off and vowed to get together, but as with many a well-meant plan made over a glass of whiskey, they'd never met again. Until now. Douglas was the only living relative Trout had been able to track down. Equally important, he played the bagpipe. Not well, but loudly.

He stood in the prow of the boat, dressed in full MacLean tartans, his kilted legs braced wide to give himself a steady platform. At a signal from Gamay, he began to play "Amazing Grace." As the haunting skirl echoed off the hills, Paul poured Angus's ashes into the loch. The gray-brown powder floated on the calm surface for a few minutes and gradually sank into the deep blue water.

"Aveatque vale," Trout said softly. Hail and farewell.

About the same time Trout was saying his good-bye, Joe Zavala was among the pallbearers carrying a simple wooden casket along a dirt path that ran between the moldering headstones in an ancient churchyard near the cathedral city of Rouen. The other pallbearers were all descendants of Captain Pierre Levant.

At least twenty members of the extended Levant family surrounded the open grave set next to the headstones that marked the final resting place of the captain's wife and son. The gathering included a contingent of men and women representing the French army. As the country priest intoned the last rites, the army people saluted briskly and Captain Levant was lowered into the grave, given the rest that had been denied him for so long.

"Ave atque vale," Zavala whispered.

By prearrangement, high above the Fauchard vineyards, the small red biplane circled like a hungry hawk. Austin checked the time, banked the Aviatik slightly and, by prearrangement, dumped out the ashes of Jules Fauchard, whose body had been removed from the glacier.

There had been some discussion whether Jules should be cremated, a practice frowned upon by the Catholic Church. But since there were no living relatives, Austin and Skye took the matter into their own hands, deciding to return Jules to the soil that nurtured his beloved vineyards.

Like Trout and Zavala, Austin, too, gave the old Latin funeral salutation.

"Well, that does it for Jules," Austin said, speaking into the microphone that co

pit. "He proved the best of the bunch. He deserved better than being frozen like a Popsicle under that glacier."

"I agree," she said. "I wonder what would have happened if he had made it to Switzerland?"

"We'll never know. Let's imagine that in a parallel time stream he was able to stop the bloody war."

"That's a nice thought," Skye said. Then, after a moment, she added, "How far can we fly in this thing?"

"Until we run out of fuel?"

"Can we make it to Aix-en-Provence?"

"Wait a minute," he said. He tapped the keys on the GPS and programmed in a route that showed airport fueling points. "It will take a few hours and we'll have to stop to refuel. Why do you ask?"

"Charles has offered us the use of his villa. He says we can even use his new Bentley if we promise not to drive it into the swimming pool."

"Tough condition, but I guess I can agree to that."

"The villa is a wonderful place," Skye said with growing excitement. "Quiet and beautiful with a well-stocked wine cellar. I thought it might be a good place to work on my paper. I must thank the Fauchards, for one thing. Using what Racine said about their family background, I'll be able to prove my theory linking Minoans with early European trade. We can talk about your theory that they went as far north as the Faroe Islands. Maybe even to North America. What do you say?"

"I didn't bring any clothes."

"Who needs clothes?" she said in a laugh that was ripe with promise. "That's never stopped us before."

Austin gri

Then he glanced at his compass and pointed the nose of the plane south, on a course that would take them toward the beckoning shores of the Mediterranean Sea.