“Okay,” I said aloud to myself, “how am I going to do this?” I sat there staring at the yellow wall for a moment. Four words kept coming back to me from the letter: There is danger involved. What did he mean by that? It almost sounded like he didn’t want me to attempt this.
But I had to.
The first thing I needed was more information. Where, exactly, was this place? I got out the map again. I located Arles and looked northward. I couldn’t find Vallon-Pont-d’Arc for several minutes, even though I could see that the Ardèche region was just west of the Rhone Valley. The main highway went up that valley from Arles and Avignon to the city of Lyon. Finally, I found the Ardèche River, and then followed it west from the Rhone and there it was: the village or town of Vallon-Pont-d’Arc. There were no caves marked on the map, but I noticed that on the way to the town there was a large green-colored park with a river running through it, labeled Réserve Naturelle des Gorges de l’Ardèche. I could also see from the map’s topography that the land was much higher there. All of this looked promising. This was where you would find caves.
I got out my cell and looked up the town, the park, and the Chauvet Cave itself. What was revealed was enticing but not very promising. The town was attractive, a beautiful little place full of old buildings and tourist shops and restaurants. And the park looked spectacular, perfect for canoeing and kayaking, with little beaches here and there. But the cave was something else. It wasn’t that it wasn’t fascinating. It definitely was. But everything I read about it made my task seem more and more difficult. It didn’t look like it would be easy to get to, and just as Grandpa said, there didn’t appear to be any public access. I couldn’t even find its exact location; it was as if they were hiding it.
It was evening by now, and I had been so intrigued by the letter and my task that I hadn’t even taken the time to eat. Feeling depressed about the impossibility of what was before me, I went out to the café I’d been eating at the last few days. I was hoping to see that young waitress again.
I was disappointed at first. She wasn’t anywhere in sight, and the woman who came to wait on me was middle-aged and grumpy. She didn’t speak a word of English.
“Américain?” she barked right away.
“I’ll look after him.” A much sweeter voice came from inside the restaurant. It was my waitress. She had always seemed shy before and had only spoken short bursts of French, so I was surprised to hear her utter more than a word or two and especially pleased to hear it come out in English.
But I wasn’t so pleased with the way she looked. She was obviously finished work for the day, probably on her way home, and though she was nicely dressed in faded cropped jeans that showed off her slim calves, and a bright yellow halter top tied with a ribbon around the neck, her face looked different. I couldn’t tell what it was at first. The glow seemed to have left her, or at least the sort of glow that she’d had before. It took me a minute to figure out what it was—she wasn’t wearing any makeup. And when she sat down across from me, looking a little pale but smiling, she swept her blond bangs off her forehead and I noticed a little scar on her hairline, almost in the shape of a cross. I have to admit that I had been thinking a lot about her and now, suddenly, she looked awfully ordinary.
“May I sit?”
“Uh, yeah, yeah, sure.”
“Shall I order for you again? I do not know your name.”
“Uh…” For some reason I was hesitant to give it to her. “Adam,” I said finally, “I’m Adam Murphy.”
“Well, I am Rose.” She turned to the other waitress and ordered something for me. I was sure it would be delicious, like everything else she had ordered for me over the last few days.
“You know,” she began, “I have always been wondering, since the time I first see you, who you are.”
“Who I am?”
“Oui. At first I thought, he is a tourist. But then, where are his parents? Or is he older than his appearance and is vacationing en Provence alone?”
“I am seventeen,” I lied.
“Really? Maybe.” She smiled. “You are un peu mystérieux. I like that. Most Américains, you know, they are not mystérieux, not at all. They are predictable. Very sad. You do wear all those clothes from Aéropostale, so you are a bit, uh, materialistic…buy the things the others buy? Still, you are different too. So I imagined, sometimes, that you were doing something mystérieux in Arles, that you were on some sort of mission dangereuse.” She laughed.
“Well, maybe I am.”
She laughed again. “Adam Murphy, I think you are just a nice boy from America and your parents are somewhere nearby, no?”
“Uh…”
“Mais, still an interesting nice boy.” She smiled at me. I was beginning to forget her lack of makeup and that scar. Her personality was awfully attractive, and now that I really checked her out up close, she looked good, makeup or not.
“My parents”—I hated to tell her this—“aren’t too far away.” Then I added quickly, “But I am really on my own here, no strings attached.”
“Oui?”
“And I am—kind of—on a dangerous mission. Or, at least, there is something very difficult and unusual that I have to do.”
“Tell me!” she exclaimed and patted my hand.
I really didn’t want to tell anyone. But for some reason, out it all came, minus the bits about taking the painting, of course. I told her quickly about the first two assignments, just the highlights, then spent lots of time explaining the next task, the one directly in front of me. As I spoke, I realized that I had needed to tell someone what I was doing. I really wasn’t sure I could do what my grandfather had asked, and it was kind of freaking me out.
But her face became very serious.
“You cannot do this.”
“Pardon me?”
“La Grotte Chauvet, it is un endroit sacré, a sacred place almost. You cannot just go barging in there. I thought you were not like the other Américains?”
“I don’t intend to barge in. I won’t hurt anybody or anything. I just want to look.”
“You just want to accomplish this task! You just want to win. All you want is to be someone important in your grandfather’s eyes.”
“No.”
“Oui! And he is dead anyway.”
“I-I want to go into the Chauvet Cave because it is a sacred place. I want to see those drawings; I want to feel what is special about them. I want to know whatever truth they reveal. I want it to make me a better person.”
It was true. And when I said it to her, it kind of shocked me. I wasn’t sure I was a very good person, though I had never admitted it out loud to myself before. I knew I was a jerk a lot of the time, but I also knew I was struggling to be the person I should be.
“Really?”
“Really.” I swallowed.
The older waitress brought my meal, which was some sort of crepe with cheese and herbs. Rose insisted that I eat and wouldn’t have any herself. She watched as I began, knowing I would enjoy what was on my plate. “Bon appétit!” she said, her good humor suddenly returning. She sat and watched me for a while. It was a little unnerving. Then she patted my hand again and pushed back her chair. “Well, I must go. If I were you, I would not try to go into La Grotte Chauvet even if I was doing it for la bonne raison. You should know it is dangerous for you, very dangerous.”
“I don’t get that. My grandfather said that too.”
“But of course it is! The drawings on those walls are the most important art in the world. They are easily destroyed. The presence of too many person damages them. They are well protected. The authorities will do anything to protect them. Getting in is impossible! And if you are found in there, I don’t know what they would do to you. You would need a good—how do you call it?—lawyer?”
“Lawyer?” I gulped.
“Mais oui. En France, we take art seriously. Despite your age, you might not get back to America for a very, very long time.”
I stopped eating.
“Besides,” she added, getting up and smiling at me, “the meaning of life, Adam, it is not in that cave. It is somewhere else.”
She was gone before I could ask her what she meant by that. She vanished down the street like a ghost. I finished my meal, paid and returned to my room. I wanted to be in bed early tonight. I wanted to get up first thing tomorrow morning and make my way to Vallon-Pont-d’Arc. I was going to need all my wits about me when I got there. I felt like a thief readying himself to check out the lay of the land before the big job.
Though Grandpa had said that the cave was in the Ardèche region, about an hour away, that was only true if you were leaving from the Noels’ home and moving across country as the crow flies. It took me closer to two hours to get there. I had to take a cab up the highway past the city of Avignon and then farther north on the big road toward Lyon. About halfway up, we turned west and soon reached the Réserve Naturelle that I’d seen on the map. The Ardèche River flowed through it like a blue snake, and the road wound along above it at the top of a massive gorge. I was surprised at the heavy traffic. This was obviously a popular tourist area. It wasn’t hard to see why. Everything was just so stunningly beautiful and the views were incredible. I thought of how this was so unlike back home, and for some reason that made me think of Leon and how much he would love to have the chance to see this. I stared down into the gorge at the dots of canoes and kayaks and the little beaches, beige and gray, sandy and rocky. Just after we’d passed through the park, the Pont d’Arc itself came into view: a famous tourist spot on the river that I’d seen on the reserve’s website. It was about a million years old, a rock formation that actually formed a huge bridge! There were even trees growing on it. It rose about thirty yards above the river, like some sort of prehistoric animal stretching itself over the water. I gazed down onto the sheer limestone cliffs below, green about two thirds of the way up with lush trees and plants, but light brown, almost yellow, near their tops. Was the great cave out there somewhere, in one of these mountains? That snapped me out of my tourist dream. Danger. That’s what Grandpa had said. And when Rose explained why, it made a lot of sense. The other tasks were difficult—but this one could get me into very deep trouble. I was nearing the beginning of my most daunting mission. My stomach started to churn.
We got closer to the river as we approached Vallon-Pont-d’Arc and soon were traveling through some dark little tunnels cut right into the gorge. It barely seemed like there was enough room for two cars to pass.
I had asked the driver to leave me in the village. That seemed like the best place to start. I had to find out exactly where the cave was, ask discreetly, and never give away what I really wanted.
The town was a little smaller than I imagined, but it was gorgeous. It was ancient, of course, with narrow streets and low stone walls and many stone buildings. Quite a few of the buildings had half-pipe shingles on their roofs and the little shops had colorful awnings. There were lots of flowers and trees, some of them kind of like the palm trees we have in Florida. The whole place was so tightly packed that it was almost claustrophobic. But it was awfully impressive too, like being on the set of a historical film, a romantic one, I guess, maybe a chick flick. Something I could take Vanessa to, or maybe Shirley. That would probably be better. The little sidewalks were filled with people and the cutesy stores were jammed with tourists. Unfortunately, I could often tell which ones were American. They were talking to the French the way I had at first—loudly and slowly.
I figured that a place like this would have a tourist kiosk, and I asked to be dropped off there. Sure enough, it was in an old stone building in a sort of courtyard in the center of the town. A big wooden door that looked like it had been made for a castle was wide open, and people were pouring in and out of the building, women’s heels clicking on the heavily polished wood floor. I had to wait in line for a while. The woman who finally spoke to me from behind the counter was probably in her thirties, slim, with dark hair cut in a fashionable short style. She was wearing subtle makeup and smelled awfully good.
“Américain?” she asked. That was the first of several depressing things she said. I had thought I was at least a bit different from the other Americans.
“I am looking for some information about the Chauvet Cave.”
“You cannot go there,” she said very quickly and firmly. Then she smiled. “May I help you with anything else?”
“I-I don’t want to go there, of course. I know it isn’t open to the public—”
“That is correct.”
“But—”
“Anything else, sir?”
“Can you just tell me where it is?”
“Why would you want to know that?”
“Just so I can see it from a distance.”
“But there is nothing to see from a distance.” She flashed her wonderful smile again. “There is much to do in Vallon-Pont-d’Arc itself and, of course, even more in the surrounding area. This region of l’Ardèche is one of the most beautiful natural places on the earth. You can hike, canoe or kayak, or simply—”
“I am not a hiker or a kayaker. But thank you.”
I thought she gave me a bit of a suspicious look as I stepped away from the counter. I noticed that a few of the other employees had glanced my way when I persisted with my questions. It was obvious that the official line in the area was to not encourage average people or tourists to be curious about the cave. But I wasn’t an average person or a tourist, not now.
I had to get close to the cave. In fact, all I had to do for now was to get close, just see it, do that thief-checking-out-the-lay-of-the-land thing. I had to figure out how in the world I might get in there.
The instant I was back on the street, it occurred to me that perhaps the regular citizens of Vallon-Pont-d’Arc wouldn’t have the same reluctance about revealing the cave’s location. So I plucked up my courage and entered the nearest patisserie. There were quite a few of them in the little town, despite its size. The French certainly liked their baking and their pastries. I figured the owners of these businesses were constantly dealing with American tourists, so they might be able to understand me.
It smelled like heaven inside—fresh-baked bread and sugar and chocolate and cinnamon and all sorts of good things. It was a quaint place, of course, with lots of wood and stone, as rustic and old as they could make it. The man behind the cash register looked as though he’d been eating quite a few of his own wares. He wore a chef ’s hat, likely for the tourists.
“Excusez moi, monsieur,” I began. “S’il vous plait, où est la grotte du Chauvet?”
The fat man looked at me for a long while, as if he were trying to figure out which kind of pain aux chocolate I wanted.
“Pardon?” he finally said. I guess my accent wasn’t that good.
“The Chauvet Cave?”
“Ah!” he exclaimed with a smile. “La Grotte Chauvet! Go to le Pont d’Arc, maybe two mile from the town, yes? It is on the road à la direction de la Réserve Naturelle. Then, go up.”
“Up?”
“Up to the cliffs. Comprenez-vous?”
“Oui. Merci beaucoup, monsieur.”
That was all I got. But it was enough.
Thinking it unwise to ask anyone to take me there, I walked. Or at least I thought I would walk. Before I was too far out of town, already into the countryside (which appeared almost immediately), a little car pulled over. It roared like a chainsaw… a small one. There was a kayak about twice the length of the vehicle strapped to the roof.
“Américain?” the driver asked. He was a young guy, maybe a year or two older than me, wearing peach-colored shorts, a beaded turquoise necklace, sandals and no shirt. The Black Keys were playing on his iPod; I could hear the bass line pulsing right through his earbuds.
“Oui.”
“Parlez-vous français?”
“Un peu.” It sounded to me like I’d said “a poo.”
“Where are you going?”
“Can you take me to le Pont d’Arc?”
“Mais oui, monsieur! Bien sur!”
I got in, and he didn’t say another word for the next two or three minutes as we careened at top speed along the little, curving road, past beautiful country houses, vineyards and fields, small tourist businesses, through those cool tunnels along the river, then to a large parking lot, dressed up with all sorts of trees and flowers to not look like a parking lot.
“Voilà!” said my new friend and immediately leaped from his little sardine can and began taking his kayak down. He acted as though we’d known each other for a while and he had simply given me a lift and then gone about his business. I considered asking him about the Chauvet Cave but decided against it. The parking lot was filled with people, many unloading canoes or kayaks or returning with them from the river. I had a hundred other candidates to choose from. I could pick the perfect one.
A gravel walkway led down from the parking lot to the Pont d’Arc. I could see it from where I stood. Though I wanted to get on with my quest, the sight of it stopped me in my tracks. I had rarely seen anything as beautiful. I’m not a big believer in God, or at least I don’t think I am—haven’t figured that out yet—but if God didn’t make that giant bridge, then I don’t know who or what did. The water was like glass and as blue as the sky. Kayaks and canoes glided on it as paddlers stared up at this magnificent creation.
I shook myself away from it and turned back to the lot. Mostly, I heard French voices, though there were a few other languages I wasn’t sure about, and here and there, shouts in English, both British and American. Then I heard something that really caught my attention.
“Hey, man, let’s get moving, eh!”
The guy was wearing a Toronto Maple Leafs T-shirt and khaki shorts, and his skin was tanned like leather. The dude he was yelling at was similarly bronzed, sporting a Molson Canadian beer shirt, kind of dragging himself behind, looking like he’d had too many glasses of his favorite brew during the lunch hour. They were heading down the gravel path to the water, where they had probably docked their boat. Canadians. It looked like they had been in the Ardèche for a while, taking in the sun. They were probably in their early twenties.
I would never admit this to anyone else, but I knew from experience that Canadians were a lot more international in their outlook than Americans. It always shocked me when I heard my cousins really get rolling in a conversation, not only about things that were happening in their own country, but also in America (though they always called it “the United States”) as well as in Europe and South America and even Africa, for God’s sake. My buddies and I back home had enough trouble keeping informed about local politics! They didn’t know anything about the Great White North, even though Canuck-land was just a few miles away over the border. I remember correcting them when they referred to Canada’s president, instead of prime minister.
So, I figured these two guys at Pont d’Arc might have actually found out something about the Ardèche region before they came here. Americans, of course, rarely did that before they traveled. We just showed up. Canadians were usually pretty friendly too. I stepped toward them.
“Hey, guys!” I shouted.
The first one, the guy in the Leafs shirt, was looking back toward his friend. But he turned around, saw me and answered right away.
“Hey, man. American, right?”
God, even the Canucks can pick us out over here.
“Yeah, from Buffalo.”
“Oh…man, I’m sorry to hear that,” he said straight-faced. Then he smiled. “Just kidding!” He slapped me on the shoulder.
“You guys been here for a while?”
“Good guess, Sherlock,” said the Molson dude, coming up from behind.
“You ever heard of the Chauvet Cave?”
“Sure,” said Maple Leaf, “it’s right up there.” He pointed slightly to the northeast and up the cliffs. “Checked it out before we came over, found the exact location on a satellite map, pretty interesting.”
Bingo.
“But you can’t go there,” Maple Leaf said.
“I know.”
“We’re here for the kayaking, man, and the babes.”
“And the wine,” said Molson.
“What if I wanted to go up there? How would I do it? I just want to see it from a distance.” Every Canadian I ever met pretty much minded his own business. It was a national characteristic. These guys would never ask me exactly why I was interested in the Chauvet Cave.
“There’s a path that leads right from the lot here,” Maple Leaf offered right away. “It isn’t marked. It’s all very secret, you know, une place sacrée.” He laughed. “But if you walk over there”—he pointed at a spot at the far end of the lot—“and look into the shrubs, you’ll see it. It’s the only path at that end of the lot. It’ll take you up to a place where the scientists work. They get there by a little road that goes off the main one a little ways back. We had a brewski in town with one of the tall foreheads working there. He wouldn’t say much about it, but he told us about another path that leads from their buildings up to the cliffs. It takes you to the cave. He made a point of telling us that it was sealed off and under surveillance.”
“But we aren’t interested anyway,” said Molson. “Too many girls and too much boating going on. I mean”—he looked up at the blue, sunny sky—“check out the rays, man. And besides, I hear they’re pretty strict about protecting that cave. We’d rather spend our time out here”—he motioned at the gorgeous Pont d’Arc and the river—“in the company of les femmes, than in some French jail.”
“Adiós, Americano!” said Maple Leaf, and off they went.
I watched them walk away, wondering if it was advisable to even look for the trail without learning more about what exactly was up ahead. But I wasn’t about to turn back now. At least, I reasoned, I can check out the buildings. I’ll make a decision about what to do when I get there.
I was surprised at how quickly the buildings came into view. I must have walked uphill for about three or four minutes, tops, and there they were, in an opening off a small road, with a compact parking lot. The buildings weren’t fancy; they looked like housing for the military, a group of concrete structures with barely a sign. I guess that made sense. It wasn’t as if they appeared to be trying to hide anything—they just weren’t looking to attract attention. There were about a dozen cars in the little lot. As I stood there, a good hundred feet away, a car pulled up and a man got out, wearing glasses and sporting a frizzy hairstyle that could be best described as neglected. He was dressed in brown shoes, beige pants and a short-sleeved, green-and-white-checked shirt, an awfully boring look for a Frenchman. He was carrying a big briefcase and didn’t even notice me as he slammed his door, locked it and marched off across the lot toward the front entrance to the biggest building, his head down, muttering to himself. At the door, he was greeted by a man in a uniform. After they’d smiled at one another and exchanged a little conversation, the unfashionable guy headed off into the building and the other man, the one in the uniform, turned and looked right at me. I expected it to be just a glance, but he seemed to notice that I was looking his way and stepped out from the doorway and stared at me. I moved back down the trail I’d come up.
But I didn’t go very far. Once I was almost out of sight, I squatted down and peered through the underbrush at the man. After a few seconds, he re-entered the building.
The Canadians had said that the path that led up to the cave was on the other side of these structures. As I got up from my crouch, I could actually see what I thought was the path in the distance, or at least its outline through the underbrush on the far side of one of the buildings, winding its way up the cliffs, then disappearing where it met a field of fruit trees. There were woods beyond that and the sheer limestone cliffs in the distance. Could that really be the path? Vanishing into a field and then into the woods?
I decided that if I left the lower path I was on and plunged into the trees, I would come out on the little road that led to the parking lot, far out of sight of the guard or whatever he was. I really didn’t think he would be able to see me. Then I could crouch down and move through more trees until I was at the far side of the buildings, and pick up the path to the cave on the other side.
I felt a little ridiculous, given that I was sure there was no law against being near the scientists’ buildings—you just couldn’t go in without an invitation. People must have meandered by here from time to time. They probably even got much closer to the cave than this. And I doubted the guard would do anything other than watch me if I reappeared in the parking lot. But I didn’t want him watching me, not given what I intended to do in the very near future. There was no way I could take the chance of him recognizing me. That might make things very difficult at a delicate moment.
So I sneaked through the trees, up the little road, around the buildings and, sure enough, found a path. I made certain I was out of sight of the buildings before I left the trees and got onto the trail. It was relatively flat here. There was the field up ahead, revealed now as a vineyard. It was curious to think that someone owned this land and cultivated part of it this close to the legendary cave.
The path didn’t stop at the vineyard: it merely wound around it and then headed upward. First it entered the woods. I tramped through them, sensitive to every little sound, wondering at times if the bird calls were signals from security people who were watching me and about to swoop down and arrest me. But that seemed ridiculous.
The path was narrow and certainly not well marked, but that made sense. I’d worn my hiking boots and could hear the twigs and pebbles crunching under my feet. It was a warm day and I was starting to sweat. Soon I came to a place where I could rest—a rocky ledge that stuck out from the cliffs. It was amazing. You could look down over the gorge from here. I saw the scientists’ buildings, their little parking lot, the bigger parking lot, the river and the Pont d’Arc far below. But I didn’t want to pause for long. The steep path led onward and upward, through underbrush and into the cliffs.
Off I went. But after ten or fifteen minutes of walking, much of it still steeply upward, I was ready to stop. I was beginning to doubt that this was the way. After all, I had no proof, just the words of a couple of Canadians who had a drink with a scientist. Perhaps he had purposely given them the wrong information.
But then I heard something. In fact, I heard someone. He was whistling.
I was exhausted and had been walking with my head down, not looking more than a few yards in front of me. I didn’t bother to raise my head now. I quickly left the trail, almost jumping into the underbrush, and scurried a good ten feet away. I crouched down. Only then did I slowly turn and raise my gaze up the cliff in the direction I had been heading. Almost directly above me and no more than half a dozen car lengths away, I saw a man dressed in what looked like gray-blue coveralls, wearing a white hard hat with a light attached to it, sitting on a large plastic container in a tiny open cave. He appeared to be waiting for someone. I looked away from him and my gaze followed the path past him. It narrowed and became a wooden walkway. And then I saw it.
Thirty feet or so farther along, the walkway ended in four smooth, expertly-surfaced stone steps. The steps led into the cliff. Right into it! I took a chance and moved forward a little so I could see better. I could now make out that the steps led up to an opening, and in that opening was a huge steel door, built right into the cliff! It was like a portal to a magical world.
Then I heard voices. I dropped to the ground. Several people were coming up the path behind me toward the man in the little open cave! There were about five or six of them, all dressed in those gray-blue coveralls, all with helmets and lamps. As they neared, they came within a few feet of me. I held my breath. They were chatting happily, a sense of excitement in their conversation. Mostly it was in French, but it was interspersed with bits and pieces of English. It was obvious to me that they were talking about the cave, mostly because they were using all sorts of big, scientific words. I noticed that the guard from the buildings was with them. He was now dressed in those coveralls too and was leading the way, not saying anything. They must be about to enter the cave!
As I looked up, one of the men caught my eye. He was the most animated of the group and used the least scientific vocabulary. He was making fun of some of the things the other men were saying and offering comments about the weather, the beautiful day, the smells and sounds. Their conversation was sprinkled with enough English for me to understand. He was much taller than the rest and his curly blond hair cascaded down his shoulders. A goatee grew wildly from his chin, extending almost halfway down his chest. He wore a pair of circular sunglasses, the frames a startling yellow-and-purple pattern, and I noticed a bright red shirt under his coveralls. He was teasing the only female, a young woman wearing black, horn-rimmed glasses and a short haircut. I could see that she was nervously fiddling with her hair, as if to make it presentable under her helmet. Some of the man’s comments made her blush and look down at the ground. It was obvious that the blond man was a very different sort from the others. At one point, he pretended to run toward the cave, as if he were making a break for it and attempting to get in without clearance. Though some of the others laughed, the guard didn’t.
They approached the man sitting on the container just inside the little cave to the side of the walkway and spent a few moments talking with him. Soon he unlocked the big container, drew out strange-looking shoes and foot-wide square lights attached to battery packs on belts, handed them out and then let the whole party by. When they had gone, he trudged down the path, right by me, obviously on his way back to the buildings. Luckily, he didn’t spot me.
The group grew silent as they neared the main cave at the end of the wooden walkway. Even the blond man didn’t say anything. I edged out to the path, peered up through the underbrush and watched them. Now I could see that there was a key pad on the wall next to that magical steel door and above it was a surveillance camera! My heart sank.
The guard punched in a complicated code—about twenty numbers that he touched with lightning speed. It was apparent that only he knew that code. Then he opened the door. I leaned forward, my face completely exposed, and as I did, the man with the colorful glasses turned around. I pulled my head back. I didn’t think he saw me. But he looked my way for a moment, shook his head and then turned back toward the cave door. From where I was, I couldn’t see much inside the door, just a dark opening as each and every member of the group entered it with a sort of quiet reverence. As they stepped through the opening, they all put on the special shoes the man had handed out. When they went into the cave, it seemed as though they walked downward. Then the door closed and they were gone. It was as if they had disappeared into another dimension.
I crouched there for a long time, listening to the near-silence: just the wind, the songs of a few birds, and the sound of moving water barely audible far below. Then I got to my feet and walked up past the little cave where the man had sat on the container, along the narrow wooden walkway, and toward the door. It was indeed steel, not much taller than me and not particularly wide. Well aware of the surveillance camera, I didn’t come close. I imagined what the scientists were seeing in there.
How in the world was I going to get in?