The old man was short and dark, with black eyes and a large hooked nose. He wore a silvery tunic decorated with blue spots arranged in random patterns and matching silver slippers. The tunic had short sleeves and stopped at his knees. What looked like aluminum braid decorated his right shoulder. On his head he wore a black and silver cap which bulged to one side, and he carried a metal cylinder or tube about a foot long which was lined with dark indentations.

He came around the corner grumbling to himself, but his muttering ceased abruptly when he caught sight of the staring travelers. He stopped in his tracks and gaped at them.

Not one for protocol, Da Rimini advanced as far as the barrier would permit. “What is this place?” she demanded to know. Trang Ho stood nearby, snapping pictures like crazy.

The oldster reminded Carter of someone, but it took a moment to make the connection. He looked cousin to the janitor at the hotel he and Ashwood had stayed at in Cuzco.

Overcoming his surprise, the man approached them and touched the lower part of the tube he carried. It must have affected the barrier somehow because he stepped lightly up onto the platform to join them, displaying no apprehension at the sight of the Fernández brothers’ weapons. He did, however, note that three of the visitors had their arms tied behind them.

Inspecting each of them in turn he chose to address Manco. His manner was decidedly officious and he waved the tube around for emphasis. For all that he could understand none of it, his words still sounded familiar to Carter.

“Can you tell what he’s saying?” he asked Igor.

“It is an odd mixture of Spanish and Quechua,” the guide replied. “There are words I don’t recognize at all, and the accent is strange. But basically he is telling Manco to put the headdress back where he got it, and that we should not be up here. It is a restricted”—he struggled with the last word—”exhibit.”

“Exhibit?” Carter stared at the old man.

“From what he is saying I think we are in some kind of museum. He also wants to know why some of us have our wrists tied behind us.”

It was Da Rimini who replied, leaving Igor to translate for his Anglo companions. Carter was more in the dark than anyone, since both Ashwood and Fewick spoke fair Spanish. Even Trang Ho knew a little. He felt very left out.

“We’re from Cuzco,” she told the oldster. “Manco, put the crown back. We are getting out of here.” She gestured with the pistol. “Everyone, get back around the egg. Hurry!”

Ignoring the old man’s protestations they gathered once again around the transmitter. She picked up Moe and placed him atop the egg … where the big tom promptly curled up into his tail and went peacefully to sleep. Anxious urgings failed to rouse him.

Da Rimini feverishly ran her own fingers randomly across the upper third of the ovoid. It remained silent and dark. “It’s not working.” She glared desperately at Fewick. “Why isn’t it working?”

The archaeologist spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I am the wrong person to ask about mechanical matters. I cannot change the oil on a car.”

Angrily she turned and aimed the muzzle of her weapon at the old man. Carter tensed, but the oldster merely regarded her as one would a particularly interesting new species of bug.

“I’d watch my step,” Ashwood warned their captor. “He may not even know it’s a gun. If he does and he ain’t afraid of it, that says to me he’s got reason not to be afraid of it. Which means maybe you ought to for once stop and think before bargin’ on ahead.”

An uncertain Da Rimini lowered the pistol and used her voice instead. “We have to go back.” She gestured at the ovoid. “You have turned it off somehow. Turn it back on.”

“Is this the real Paititi?” Carter wondered aloud.

Igor was shaking his head. “I do not know. How could you hide a place like this? Where could you hide a place like this? It could be someone’s private museum somewhere outside Lima, but that does not explain this man’s peculiar speech, or his clothes, or the invisible barrier. Not to mention the transmitters. I am very confused.”

“Man, you aren’t alone.” He raised his voice. “Hey, grandpa! Don’t you understand English?”

The oldster glanced briefly in his direction, resumed listening to Da Rimini. Carter contained his frustration, wishing he’d never found Fewick’s disc, wishing he’d never left L.A.

“You think he really did turn the transmitter off?”

“I do not know,” said Igor.

“Well, at least he seems friendly enough.”

“Everybody seems friendly to you, Jason,” said Ashwood. “Sometimes I wonder how you’ve survived as long as you have in the film business.”

Abruptly the oldster turned and left the platform. When Da Rimini tried to follow, she found herself blocked once more by the barrier. Despite her exhortations, he disappeared back the way he’d come, walking fast.

In his absence Da Rimini resumed fingering the top of the ovoid, to no avail. She stopped only when the old man returned. This time he had company.

The group halted on the walkway and began arguing among themselves, ignoring the incensed Da Rimini.

“They do not know who we are.” Igor struggled to follow the conversation. “They aren’t sure what we are. I am certain I must be missing some of their conversation.”

“Are they Incas?” Carter asked him.

“I do not know. Certainly they look like pure Indio.”

Fed up with being ignored, Da Rimini called the Fernández brothers over. “Maybe they really don’ know what guns do. So we explain to them. Blanco, shoot at something across the room.”

“Are you sure, Francesca?”

“Do it!” she screamed.

With obvious reluctance, the bigger brother turned and fired a burst from his AK-47. Carter ducked as bullets ricocheted wildly around the platform. The fleeting demonstration was very instructive. People were not the only thing which couldn’t step through the barrier. Bullets were equally restricted.

It certainly accomplished the task of drawing the visitors’ attention, however. One of them pointed the tube he carried at the platform. The Fernández brothers promptly yelped and dropped their weapons, as did Da Rimini. All three began shaking their hands violently, as if their fingers had been caught in a hot waffle iron.

Da Rimini cursed and lunged to recover her pistol. The individual who’d pointed the tube at Blanco Fernández now turned it toward her, whereupon she howled and clutched at her stomach, collapsing to the ground. The Fernández brothers gallantly rushed to her aid, only to retreat with alacrity as she began heaving her guts all over the nice shiny six-sided tiles.

“Oh, they’re real friendly, all right,” Ashwood told Carter with delicate Texas sarcasm.

As two of the men, including the wielder of the tube of unpleasant surprises, stepped up onto the platform, Carter and his companions retreated. Stepping distastefully over the recumbent Da Rimini, who had by now nearly exhausted the contents of her digestive system, the men gathered up the two AK-47s and the pistol. As they rejoined their curious companions Trang Ho tested the barrier, was not surprised to find it back in place.

“That’s better,” said Ashwood. “Much better.” She was greatly enjoying Da Rimini’s discomfort. Fewick strolled over and began to untie Carter. The Fernández brothers eyed one another, shrugged in unison. Without their weapons there was no point in provoking hostilities. Da Rimini might have argued otherwise, but she was in no condition to give orders.

“Not only do they know what guns are, they have some interesting variants of their own.” Fewick undid the last of the actor’s bonds. Carter stretched gratefully, then set to freeing Igor.

“Why’d you do that?” he asked the archaeologist.

Fewick smiled pleasantly at him. “We find ourselves in an awkward and unprecedented situation from which satisfactory extrication shall doubtless require the maximum of mutual cooperation.”

“In other words,” said Ashwood, “when scared shitless, first priority is to cover your own ass.”

“Precisely,” said Fewick.

“Excuse me.” Trang Ho was pressing against the barrier, camera in hand. “Could you hold that tube thing up so I can get a better shot?”

Whether it was her mix of English and Spanish or her appearance that attracted their attention, they all turned as she snapped her picture. “Thanks.”

Carter was listening intently to the babble on the walkway, wishing he’d paid more attention to the limited Spanish instruction he’d received in school.

“Are we under arrest or something?”