It added up to tension that had to find an outlet. Savagely, he lashed out at Ariadne: "For the hundredth time, girl: I'm not Dionysus, not a god. I'm Dion Burke, that's all. A man, like any other--" Hurt came to the great dark eyes. A tear-mist veil blurred the glow of awe and adoration. The soft lips quivered. But only for a moment. Then, contritely, the girl bowed her head. Jet ringlets glistened in the lamplight. Bringing up slim hands, she crossed them upon the firm young breasts that she wore bared in the traditional Minoan style. "Your pardon, my lord...." Burke breathed in sharply. As swiftly as it had come, his anger died. Of a sudden he wanted nothing so much as to take the girl in his arms and draw her to him ... solace her, soothe her, hold her with a thousand tender caresses through the endless hours of this long, black night. Why was it always so between him and Ariadne? What was there about this slim Minoan princess that the very sight of her should make his firmest resolves melt? The women he'd known in his own world--they'd been wiser, wittier; more beautiful, even, perhaps, by an objective standard. Yet not even the one who'd hurt him most and helped to precipitate him onto this fool's mission had stirred him a tenth as much as Ariadne. With a curse, he reached out, pulled her to him. She came willingly, nestling against him, her lithe body soft and warm. For a long moment, Burke held her close. Only then, over in the corner, brawny, bull-necked Theseus stirred and shifted. A noisy, wine-sodden snore broke from his open mouth. Burke stiffened. Like an echo, Ariadne's lovely oval face lifted from his shoulder. "My lord! You do not still feel anger--?" * * * * * Burke shook his head. "Forget it, princess. It's just I'm all on edge. There's not much time--" He broke off; brought up his wrist and strained to read the watch-face. And that was good for another wry, twisted shadow of smile: a watch, here in Bronze Age Crete ... product of the United States of America, vintage 1954 A. D., wrenched 5,000 miles and 3300 years out of its place and time. An anachronism to end all anachronisms. Or no, that wasn't quite true. For surely he himself was a greater anachronism than the watch, even. The bare facts alone would drive an obituary writer crazy: "Dion Burke, archaeologist extraordinary without portfolio; born, Erie, Pa., August 9, 1929; disappeared April 14, 1957; died at Knossos, in the Great Palace of Minos, mightiest sea-king of Crete, on some vague, early spring date in the vicinity of 1400 B. C." Only no obituary writer would ever hear those facts. The watch, the gun, the lighter--they'd all have sifted away to rusty dust long before Sir Arthur Evans and his fellow-scholars came this way. Not that that mattered. Not now; not while he still had a job to do. He moved his wrist closer to the nearest of the flickering lamps, and strained again to read the watch.