If Dent was going to take a minute to look for his box, Indy intended to do the same. Finding the one labeled "Harry Lucas, Jr." was the work of thirty seconds (no box for Lucas, Sr.), and he followed Dent's lead in moving it from the shelf to the floor, the better to paw through it.
The stuff wasn't his. That was obvious at first glance, but he went over it all anyway, pulling each item out one at a time with his free hand laying it on the floor. On top was a piece of cloth that, when unfolded, turned out to be a dark-colored uniform. "Janitor's clothes," Indy muttered to himself in annoyance. The bastards.
Underneath the uniform were a nondescript white undershirt and belt, and under those was something that felt like a thick magazine. He inspected that more carefully, tilting the flashlight so he could read the cover: American Journal of Archaeology, 99:1. It was dated 1995, but it was so well-thumbed that the cover was threatening to come off in his hand. Indy leafed through it and found that it contained a long article on recent developments in archaeometry, which he made a mental note to read the minute he had time. The section on dendrochronology--still a relatively young field, at least as far as he was concerned--alone was already a worthwhile prize for the night's efforts.
There were still a few small objects at the bottom of the box, though, which turned out to be a set of keys and two slips of paper--no, two photographs. Both looked recent, in the sense that he looked at most a year or two younger than he did now, but otherwise they were mind-bogglingly futuristic. One was of him and Dad(!) at a baseball stadium, grinning cheerfully for the camera. The other was of him and Marion.
He'd never been to those places or worn those clothes, or even seen the type of camera that must have produced these photos. How the hell had they gotten them? And--the thought made his chest seize up with an uncomfortably strong sensation somewhere between panic and fury--did it mean they'd gotten to Marion too?
Indy stood up abruptly, shoving the photos into a jacket pocket in the same motion. He rolled up the journal (completely dislodging the cover, but he needed his hands free) and left that sticking out of the other pocket, then tied the white shirt to the belt and cinched the belt loosely around his waist. The uniform and keys he put back in the box. The box went back on the shelf, and Indy turned toward the door. "Ready?" he asked Dent. He wanted to get out of here.
no subject
The stuff wasn't his. That was obvious at first glance, but he went over it all anyway, pulling each item out one at a time with his free hand laying it on the floor. On top was a piece of cloth that, when unfolded, turned out to be a dark-colored uniform. "Janitor's clothes," Indy muttered to himself in annoyance. The bastards.
Underneath the uniform were a nondescript white undershirt and belt, and under those was something that felt like a thick magazine. He inspected that more carefully, tilting the flashlight so he could read the cover: American Journal of Archaeology, 99:1. It was dated 1995, but it was so well-thumbed that the cover was threatening to come off in his hand. Indy leafed through it and found that it contained a long article on recent developments in archaeometry, which he made a mental note to read the minute he had time. The section on dendrochronology--still a relatively young field, at least as far as he was concerned--alone was already a worthwhile prize for the night's efforts.
There were still a few small objects at the bottom of the box, though, which turned out to be a set of keys and two slips of paper--no, two photographs. Both looked recent, in the sense that he looked at most a year or two younger than he did now, but otherwise they were mind-bogglingly futuristic. One was of him and Dad(!) at a baseball stadium, grinning cheerfully for the camera. The other was of him and Marion.
He'd never been to those places or worn those clothes, or even seen the type of camera that must have produced these photos. How the hell had they gotten them? And--the thought made his chest seize up with an uncomfortably strong sensation somewhere between panic and fury--did it mean they'd gotten to Marion too?
Indy stood up abruptly, shoving the photos into a jacket pocket in the same motion. He rolled up the journal (completely dislodging the cover, but he needed his hands free) and left that sticking out of the other pocket, then tied the white shirt to the belt and cinched the belt loosely around his waist. The uniform and keys he put back in the box. The box went back on the shelf, and Indy turned toward the door. "Ready?" he asked Dent. He wanted to get out of here.