“Tomorrow I’ll introduce you to the team,” Carnahan said. “And I can show you around from there.”
“Tomorrow, then,” she agreed.
“Tomorrow,” Clark echoed, shooting her an anticipatory look.***
A quiet night in the refreshingly crisp air conditioning, supported by soft down pillows, and topped off by a luxuriously long shower had gone a long way toward curing Lois’ cantankerous attitude. In fact, waking up the next morning, she could almost forget that she was in Egypt.
Of course, that all evaporated the moment she stepped outside into the thick heat that pressed against her whole body and elicited a sheen of sweat across her skin.
By the time she’d picked up Clark in the lobby, caught the ferry, met up with Carnahan, and followed the professor back down the rocky path through the dunes, she was irritated all over again.
The sand was overwhelmingly
everywhere, with no change to its domination of the landscape for as far as she could see in three directions. Luxor felt like a lonely oasis of civilization, and she wasn’t thrilled to be moving in the opposite direction from it.
After her very brief excursion to the dig site the day before, the sand had already taken up seemingly permanent residence in her shoes, her hair, the folds of her clothes, somehow even in one ear. The tiniest grains were lifted by the breeze off the Nile to lightly pelt her from all sides. And it was no wonder that the sand had infiltrated her shoes, as her feet slid and sank when she tried to trudge through it, even as they passed by the row of tents they’d visited yesterday.
She glanced over at Clark, who looked annoyingly unbothered by the trek, the sand, or the heat.
In fact, he somehow looked even
better than yesterday. As they headed toward what looked to be an enormous pile of rocks and rubble, she took the time to examine him more closely. While the immense heat didn’t agree with her, he seemed to be practically absorbing it and radiating a happy light back.
He was almost…incandescent. So much so that an appreciative smile nearly escaped across her face as her eyes lingered over him.
Nearly.
She’d chosen to cover her limbs in light-colored linens to reflect the sun and defend against its rays. But Clark was bearing the sun in only a grey cotton t-shirt and shorts; the shirt in particular clung to him, highlighting practically every muscle in his upper body as he trekked through the sand just ahead of her. Her eyes followed the lines of his musculature. With his penchant for slightly oversized suit coats, she rarely had the opportunity to indulge in just looking at his figure. So her eyes took their time now.
And she wondered again, as she had several times over the recent months–
too many times, really–if her errant thoughts of him as she’d walked down the aisle toward someone else at her aborted wedding had been more than just panic. Maybe it had been her subconscious’ way of making a suggestion. She wistfully wondered how different this trip would be if she hadn’t agreed to Lex’s proposal in the first place, had taken Clark’s adamant declaration of his ardor to heart when he’d offered it to her, whether or not he’d meant it.
Because she’d spent the past several months considering the idea that Clark could have more of a role in her life. That
she could have more—more of
him. Surely, even if he hadn’t had feelings for her, which he’d heartbreakingly claimed after the non-wedding, surely he might change his mind if he, too, had time to get used to the idea? But with all the chaos of their lives, it never seemed like the right moment to broach the subject. And her own mind, still unsteady from her last spectacularly failed romance, wasn’t quite ready to take charge, regardless of whatever suggestion her heart and her subconscious were seeding there.
That was why moments like this were one of the rare things in her life that she didn’t rush, but just enjoyed. As her eyes moved appreciatively back upward along his shoulder, she realized he’d looked back at her…and now was watching her as she blatantly checked him out.
Barely succeeding in forcing the rushing blush to remain at bay, she snarled, “Don’t you ever sweat? It’s already a million degrees out here.”
His smile only grew, as if she hadn’t fooled him with her aggressive redirection. “I like the sun.”
That was the underestimation of the decade, as far as she was concerned. Her eyes nearly swept over his form again, but instead she opened her mouth to retort back.
But Carnahan interrupted their sparring, “This is Dr. Weeks, just ahead of us. You’ll need his permission to access the tombs with us.”
“Let’s make sure we get it then,” she replied in a low voice as they approached.
They’d entered a miniature valley between high dunes, and she could see a few tall, squared, dark holes in the rocks in front of her. About fifty feet in front of them stood a group of twenty men, most carrying large buckets. It nearly looked like the dig had set a uniform: wide-legged linen trousers and long white-sleeved shirts were in abundance. Wide-brimmed hats also seemed to be popular; the only exception was one bright white bucket hat, worn by a man who held a clipboard and wore squared sunglasses that somehow matched the rectangular cutouts in the rock.
“Good morning!” Carnahan greeted the group.
“Good morning, Rupert!” the man in the bucket hat replied. Then he asked warily, “Who are your friends?”
“They’re reporters from the
Daily Planet. They–”
“I’m afraid we’re not quite ready to [/i]announce[/i] any of our findings, Rupert,” the man in the bucket hat said, hugging his clipboard to his chest. He stepped away from the group and moved toward them, as if to halt their progress.
“They’re a gift,” Carnahan interceded quickly, gesturing to the two reporters, his voice low enough to be out of earshot of the larger group as the bucket hatted man met them where they stood.
“A gift,” Bucket Hat repeated skeptically.
“I’ve been friends with the editor of the Daily Planet since nearly our college days,” Carnahan said reassuringly. “He wanted to congratulate me for my appointment here, congratulate all of us on KV5. These people are his
best reporters. They’re here to help generate excitement over the shared exhibit at the Museum of Metropolis.”
“That’s right,” Lois joined in. “We’re here to hype up the exhibit.”
“Nothing like that other hatchet job,” Carnahan said.
“Hatchet job?” Clark inquired.
“Local paper a couple years ago,” Carnahan replied briefly. “Didn’t do much research. Basically called the Project part of an obelisk race to loot the tombs. Seemed to have no concept that the Project is trying to
preserve the culture, not destroy it. They even suggested that the Project was no better than local raiders.”
“Rupert,” Bucket Hat said with a warning sound in his voice.
“We weren’t sent here to cover local politics,” Clark said. “Or to write an assassination piece.”
“Our story might even turn your bad press around,” Lois suggested.
“That’s right,” Clark said supportively. “It sounds like this exhibit could be a big deal in Metropolis.”
Bucket Hat paused, his hands moving to adjust his sunglasses.
“I’d like to read your article before it’s published,” he finally said.
Lois bristled, throwing a questioning look to Clark that was shrouded in the indignation behind her eyes.
Her partner glanced back at her before saying, “That shouldn’t be a problem.”
She’d heard what Clark had; the man had asked to
read the article, not to have any control over it. She could agree to
that.
“They’re your responsibility, Rupert,” Bucket Hat said stiffly.
“Of course,” Carnahan agreed easily. “I’m sure they won’t get into any trouble.”
She forced her face to remain still, feeling Clark shuffle his feet beside her.
“Welcome, then,” Bucket Hat said, stepping closer and holding out his hand. “Kent Weeks, Director of the Theban Mapping Project.”
Clark grinned and took his proffered hand. “Clark
Kent, City Desk.”
Dr. Weeks grinned back, his defensive posture finally relaxing. “Good to meet you,
Kent.”
“You, too,” Clark said.
It seemed like the shared name had finally broken the ice.
Dr. Weeks turned to Lois.
“Lois Lane, Senior Reporter,” she said, seeing Clark roll his eyes as she offered her title. She wanted to be annoyed at his annoyance, but instead, her mind flitted off to wonder if she’d have ingratiated herself with Weeks, too, if her surname had also been Kent.
“Good to meet you. Tonight we can give you a preview of at least a few of the pieces that are likely to debut at the exhibit. But until then, you can tag along with Rupert. Be careful where you step. Lots of things have shifted from the floods. There may be priceless artifacts amidst rubble. And there’s always a chance that the floor may give out beneath you.”
“Really?” Lois asked, slightly perturbed.
“Well, it’s possible. Stick with Rupert.”
“Right,” she said, but didn’t work to make her voice sound convinced.
Dr. Weeks called over his shoulder, “Bashir!”
A short, wiry man detached himself from the group and moved toward them with surprising alacrity for someone trudging through sand.
“This is Bashir Amin,” Dr. Weeks introduced. “He’s Rupert’s counterpart, our representative from the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities here.” Weeks turned to the shorter man who had just joined them. “Bashir, this is Lois Lane and Clark Kent. They’ll be joining us to observe the dig. Perhaps tonight you could show them some of the artifacts that might be sent to the exhibit.”
“Of course, of course,” Bashir said happily. “I would be glad to. Welcome to the Project.”
“I have to check in with our foreman before we get started today,” Dr. Weeks said. “Excuse me.”
Dr. Weeks moved back toward the group.
“I’ll, er, just check in to see where we’re starting today,” Carnahan said to them. “Back in a moment.”
And he, too, headed off toward the larger group.
Meanwhile, Bashir smiled at them cheerfully. “It is not often we receive new visitors! How long are you staying with us?”
“Just a few days,” Lois answered.
“We will be honored to host you here at the site,” Bashir offered cordially.
“Oh, no, no,” Lois declined immediately. “We have hotel rooms. We’re really just sort of day-tripping.”
“But to get the full experience, you must stay with the dig crew!” Bashir insisted.
“We, uh, have to send in our story notes to our editor. From the hotel’s business center. Every day. So we really couldn’t. But thanks—thanks, anyway.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Clark cover a grin as she tripped over herself to ensure her daily dose of air conditioning.
“If you change your mind, you will be welcome,” Bashir promised. “The site is usually locked down; it is a pleasure to see new faces here.”
“Why is it locked down?” Lois asked, eager to get away from the topic of a night in the desert with no modern amenities.
“It is a special site,” he said proudly. “The largest since Tutankhamun’s tomb. Dr. Weeks is very careful about the on-site catalogue. He keeps the staff inside the tombs very small. Smaller than most other projects I have worked on.”
“Most digs use more than twenty men in the tombs?” Clark asked, eyeing the group ahead of them.
“Oh, no,” corrected Bashir, “most of those men will not be in the tomb. They move the debris away from the entrance and also move the back dirt out of the cavern underground after it has been sifted. Only the foreman and a few of his men will go underground with us for most of the day. The others clear the main corridor once the foreman’s team has filled it and they take it to the spoil heap with the other back dirt.”
“Why?” Lois asked. “Wouldn’t it go faster with more men there?”
“Dr. Weeks is not here to work fast,” Bashir said appreciatively. “He is a very thorough man. It is why we tag everything where it is found, not after it is removed.”
“And that’s unusual?” Clark asked.
“It is more controlled than I have seen on other digs,” Bashir answered helpfully.
“Interesting,” Lois commented, tossing a look at Clark that said they’d be coming back to that detail. She practically felt his agreement when he caught it. They’d learned in several instances before–from Lex Luthor to Preston Carpenter–control usually meant secrecy, and that usually meant a cover-up.
“Here we are!” Carnahan said, as he approached with two other men. “This is Zaid, our foreman, and Wahid, one of our excavators.”
Both men tipped their heads politely in greeting.
Carnahan clapped his hands together in anticipation. “Well, shall we get started?”
***
