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a thousand miles from here is a tall mountain. High on a ledge there is a rotting vessel of iron, around a thousand feet long. It was a ship—I learned this from people who lived close by it and knew its history. It seems this land-mass was once at the bottom of an ocean, and many ships sank during storms.”
    “But the ancient cities we have found?” questioned Haimut. “There are even ruins less than two miles from here. How is it they were built at the bottom of an ocean?”
    “I, too, wondered about this. Then I met a man named Samuel Archer—a scholar like yourself. He proved to me that the world had toppled not once but twice. The cities themselves are indeed ancient, from an empire called Atlantis that sank below the oceans before the time of Christ.”
    “Revolutionary words, Meneer. In some areas you could be stoned to death for saying them.”
    “I am aware of that,” said Shannow. “However, when you excavate more of the ship, you will find the great engines that powered it and a wheelhouse from where it was steered. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to rest.”
    “A moment, sir,” put in Klaus Monet, who had been sitting in silence as the two older men spoke. “Would you stay with us—become part of the team?”
    “I do not think so,” answered Shannow, rising.
    “It is just that …” Monet looked to the elderly Haimut for support, but the scholar shook his head, and Monet lapsed into embarrassed silence.
    Shannow stepped from the tent and made his way to his horse. He fed the beast some grain, then spread his blankets on the ground beside it. He could have told them more: the glowing lights that burned without flame, the navigational devices—all the knowledge he had gained from the Guardians during the Hellborn War. But what would it serve? Shannow was caught in the no-man’s-land of the arcane debate.
    Instinctively he longed for the Oldview to be correct, but events had forced a different understanding on him. The old world was gone. Shannow had no wish to see it rise from the ashes.
    Just as he was drifting off to sleep, he heard a gentle footfall on the earth. He drew a pistol and waited.
    The slender figure of Klaus Monet crouched beside him. “I am sorry to intrude on you, Meneer Shannow. But … you seem a man of action, sir. And we sorely need someone like you.”
    Shannow sat up. “Explain yourself.”
    Monet leaned in close. “This expedition was led by Boris; we won the finance from a group of Longviewers in the east. But since we have been here a man named Scayse has become involved in the project. He has put his own men—led by Deiker—in charge, and now some of the finds are being sent to him in Pilgrim’s Valley.”
    “What kind of finds?”
    “Gold bars, gems from steel boxes in one of the deep rooms. It is theft, Meneer Shannow.”
    “Then put a stop to it,” Shannow advised.
    “I am a scholar, sir.”
    “Then study—and do not interfere with matters beyond your strength.”
    “You would condone such thievery?”
    Shannow chuckled. “Thievery? Who owns this ship? No one. Therefore, there is no theft. Two groups of men desire what is here. The strongest will take what he wishes. That is the way of life, Meneer Monet; strength always decides.”
    “But with you we would be stronger.”
    “Perhaps … but you will never know. I leave in the morning.”
    “Are you afraid, Meneer Shannow, or do you just desire more coin? We can pay.”
    “You could not afford me, sir. Now leave me to sleep.”
    The morning sky was gray, and rain on his face woke Shannow soon after dawn. He rose from his blankets and rolled them into a tight bundle, tying them with strips of oiled hide. Then he put on his heavy double-shouldered topcoat and saddled the stallion. Two men came walking toward him through the misty rain, and Shannow turned and waited.
    “Looks like you beat us to it,” said the first, a broad-shouldered man with a gaping gap where his front teeth should have