I wasn’t surprised when George started calling me, nor was I particularly worried. If he was more interested in picking my brains than pursuing my body, it made a restful change from my usual dates. He was a wonderful dancer, an epicure, a connoiseur of fine wines, and he spent money like water. He was also witty and amusing. Even his hints about sculpture were thrown out with a grin and a tongue in the cheek, and no expectation of success. But I knew that behind the grin and the charm lay a will of iron. He had announced his intentions of beating both of us to the treasure; and if he lacked Tony’s and my special knowledge, he had a lot of other things going for him. Money, for instance, and a high degree of ruthlessness. As a rival for the shrine he was much more dangerous than Tony, and I didn’t underestimate him for a second. But that didn’t keep me from enjoying the country club and the weekends in New York.

Don’t misunderstand those weekends. I spotted George right away; women were very low down on his list of temptations. He wasn’t gay, in the usual sense; he just wasn’t interested in people at all—people of either sex. Of course Tony, the goop, didn’t know that. Men are such suckers for externals; they think a bass voice and a broad chest make a male. We could tell them a few things; but why give away an advantage? Anyhow, George’s professed interest in me was just one more irritation for Tony, and George knew it. As the months went on, Tony withdrew altogether. I only saw him at faculty meetings, or in the halls. But I knew what he was doing. And, of course, vice versa. I was hooked, and I had been, from the beginning. The challenge was enough to arouse any red-blooded, six-foot American girl, but that wasn’t the only reason I was making plans to head for Germany in June. I was caught by the sheer romance of it. Hidden treasures—lost masterpieces—castles—jewels—and those beautiful melancholy faces only Riemenschneider could carve. To rescue something like that from the dust and darkness of centuries…

Furthermore, if that long, lanky male chauvinist thought he could outsmart me, he had another think coming.

Two

THE VIEW FROM THE BUS WINDOW COULDN’T have been more charming — an old town square with a fountain in the middle, a Gothic church on one side, and on the other a tall house whose Wedgwood-blue facade had curves and curlicues as dainty as those of a china shepherdess. As I looked, an airy cascade of soap bubbles floated by, iridescent in the sunlight. Like so many Bavarians, the bus driver was a frustrated comedian. Ever since we left Munich, he had been playing games. He wore funny hats, tooted on horns and whistles, and blew bubbles whenever the bus stopped. His nickname, according to the hostess, was Charlie Brown—a pleasing testimonial to the international appeal of the best of American Kultur.