certainly wasn't minted by the early inhabitants. Their level of

development was only a notch above Stone Age. The coin obviously came

from another source at a later date. "

"How do you explain the fact it was buried with artifacts we've dated

within a century either side Of A.D. 300?"

Gronquist shrugged. "I can't."

"What's your best guess?" asked Lily.

"Off the top of my head, I'd say the coin was probably traded or lost by

a Viking."

"There is no record of Vikings sailing this far north along the East

Coast," said Lily.

"Okay, maybe Eskimos from a more recent time frame traded goods with the

Norse settlements to the south and used this site to camp during hunting

expeditions."

"You know better, Hiram. We've found no evidence of habitation after

A.D. four hundred."

Gronquist gave Lily a scolding look. "You never give in, do you? We

don't even have a date on the coin."

"Mike Graham is an expert on ancient coins. One of his specialties is

dating sites around the Mediterranean. He might identify it."

"Won't cost us a nickel for an appraisal," said Gronquist agreeably.

"Come along. Mike can examine it while we have that brandy."

Lily donned her heavy fur-lined gloves, adjusted the hood of her parka

and turned down the Coleman. Gronquist switched on a flashlight and

held the door open for her. She stepped into the agony of the numbing

cold and wind that groaned like a ghost in a churchyard. The freezing

air struck her exposed cheeks and made her shudder, a reaction that

always seemed to sneak up on her even though she should have been quite

used to it by now.

She grasped the rope that led to the living quarters and groped along

behind the protecting bulk of Gronquist. She stole a glance upward. The

sky was unclouded and the stars seemed to melt into one vast carpet of

shimmering diamonds illustrating the barren mountains to the west and

the sheet of ice that ran down the fjord to sea in the east. The

strange beauty of the Arctic was a compelling mistress, Lily decided.

She could understand why men lost their souls to its spell.

After a thirty-yard hike through the dark, they entered the storm

corridor of their hut, walked another ten feet and opened a second door

to the living quarters inside. To Lily, after the abominable cold

outside, it was like stepping inside a furnace. The aroma of coffee

caressed her nostrils like perfume and she immediately pulled off her

parka and gloves and poured herself a cup.

Sam Hoskins, neck-length blond hair matching an enormous blond handlebar

mustache, was hunched over a drafting board. A New York architect with

a love for archaeology, Hoskins allowed two months a year out of his

busy schedule to rough it on digs around the world. He provided

invaluable assistance by rendering detailed drawings of how the

prehistoric village might have looked seventeen hundred years ago.

The other team member, a light-skinned man with thinning sandy hair,