All in all, however, Gideon thought he’d gotten away cheaply. And so, a few days later, he was in a characteristically upbeat mood when he picked up Julie at park headquarters to head out for an Italian dinner in town. “Julie, could you get away a day early on the Gibraltar trip?” he asked once she’d slid into the car and he’d gotten his warm, wifely peck on the cheek. “The foundation will pick up any costs for changing flights, and also put us up for an extra night at the hotel.”

“Sure, I could do that,” she said, obviously liking the idea of another day in exotic Gibraltar, to which neither of them had been, and another night at the Rock Hotel, reputedly its most luxurious lodgings. “But what’s up? Is the conference starting earlier?”

“No, it’s not that,” he said, pulling the Camry out of the lot and turning right onto East Park Avenue, “but there’s going to be a small dinner symposium in honor of Ivan Gunderson the evening before it officially opens. Very informal, just five speakers. Everybody who had any association with Gibraltar Boy or the First Family – well, not the hired locals and student workers on the dig, but all the professionals. You know some of the others – Audrey Godwin-Pope, Pru McGinnis – and I’ve been asked to be part of the program.”

“Oh, that’s great. Congratulations.”

“Oh, well, it’s nothing special. It’s a testimonial dinner, really; nothing scholarly.”

“Explain something to me, Gideon. You’ve always said that Gunderson was a better TV personality than he was an archaeologist.”

“True. He’s intelligent, he’s articulate – eloquent, in fact – and he has a quick mind, but he’s just not a well-trained scientist, although he obviously thinks he is. He’s very good at explaining archaeology to a lay audience, but nobody in the field takes his work as an archaeologist very seriously anymore. Never did, really.”