It was no library he'd ever visited in real life. American libraries didn't usually have carved ceilings and polished marble floors, or window seats cushioned in balding sun-faded corduroy. Perhaps it was a very large research library at a major British or European university.

He ran his fingers over the spines of the books, pulling out a volume here and there. A large collection of old books has its own aroma, a smell of paper and leather and glue all mellowing together. Rob sniffed it joyfully.

None of the titles was familiar and many weren't in English. As in Moscow, his language skills apparently only extended to spoken words.

Beyond the first alcove was another, and then another. "This is great!" Rob said. He pottered happily for a long uncounted time through the maze of rooms, which connected and interlocked in a way that brought to mind the library in The Name of the Rose. If the books were organized, he could not fathom the system.

There were other patrons in the library too, quietly pulling books off the shelves or sitting at tables and taking notes. Rob hardly noticed these first human residents of his domain. They fit in so well they seemed like part of the building: typical library patrons, shabby-intellectual men in tweed jackets, and women with glasses and bulging leather portfolio briefcases.

Then, browsing down a long aisle, he saw something new-a small bright yellow object on the marble floor. It was a toy dump truck, a Matchbox. Rob picked it up. Around the corner sat the owner of the toy, a little boy.

Rob flinched. Davey? But this was an older kid, maybe four or five years old, in some kind of school uniform-knee pants and a blazer and cap to match. In Rob's opinion though he was too young to be alone. "Where are your parents?" he asked.

The child accepted the toy that Rob held out but said nothing. Did he not speak English? Or had he merely been thoroughly drilled about talking to strangers? From the tears in the big brown eyes Rob judged it was the latter. The kid was lost, and unwilling to admit it. "Come on then-we'll look for them," Rob said, and held out a hand. The boy thought it over, and took it.

There is a protocol about lost children, at least in America, that Rob instinctively adhered to. Never take the kid into a car, or into your house, or even to the potty. Go straight to the people in charge of the place and hand the kid over. The distraught parents would go there too. A reunion could then be achieved through the mediation of the building management, without lawsuits or accusations of molestation or kidnapping.

But this library was different. Search as he would Rob never came to the circulation desk, or the checkout counter, or the reference librarian, or even an exit. The bays opened out into galleries which led to interlocking rooms that petered out in dozens of alcoves. It was endless. He had not known there were so many books in existence. The scholars and researchers at the tables and carrels didn't look up as they passed.

Rob was beginning to worry. Surely there must be a librarian in the place, if only to create and maintain order in the collection. He wasn't in the right place. The boy's mother or father must be getting frantic. The boy clung trustingly to Rob's hand, a new sensation-his own two had been too small to walk hand in hand with a tall man. If he'd had any sense he would have circulated right in the immediate vicinity where he found the kid.

Probably the parent had been right there, one row over or something. Now he wasn't even sure if he could find the original aisle again. His good intentions were only making things worse.

The only thing to do, though it was not protocol at all, was to ask the other library patrons. He stopped at a long table where two scholars sat at opposite ends, each surrounded by stacks of musty fat books. "Excuse me,"

Rob said. "I have a lost child here. Could you direct me to the librarian?"

The older reader, an elderly man with a goatee, put his finger on the yellowed page to mark his place and looked with surprise up at Rob. Then he looked down through his glasses at the little boy and said, "We've landed, Rob. Time to boogie."

"What?" Rob blinked. Edwin was standing in the aisle of the plane, leaning on a seat back and staring humorously down at him. For a second Rob panicked-he'd left a child in trouble, unattended! Then he relaxed. The other library patrons could pick up the ball.

"You weren't kidding," Edwin said, "when you said you could sleep anywhere.

You missed a landing I never want to go through again. Everyone's gotten off the plane but us." He held out Rob's brown duffel bag.

Rob took it. "Did you see anything unusual? Or touch me?"

Edwin frowned at him. "Oh, I get it. No, you were smiling in your sleep, perfectly normal. I did give you a good poke when the seatbelt light came on, but you didn't stir so I hitched you up myself."

"Good. Thanks." Elated, Rob followed him up the narrow aisle. Much better than in the motel, he thought. I'm really getting there.

The Zarafshan airport was small and painfully ugly, a cinderblock building erected by Stalinists. The new independent government had removed the Communist emblems and the statues of Lenin without making any other improvements. As Edwin stepped through the door onto the sidewalk he was instantly engulfed by drivers, touts, and pimps, all shouting offers of cars, hotels or other services. Staggering with a bag under each arm, Rob burst out to rescue him. "Cut it out," he snapped.

"You speak Uzbek!" an astonished hotel tout said. "But aren't you foreigners? Americans?"

"That's right," Rob said recklessly. "And you are driving us to your hotel for an honest fare. Take this bag, please."

In no time their gear was loaded into a rust-pocked Lada. Rob wasn't using muscle, but still the driver gave him startled and curious glances in the rear-view mirror as he drove them into town. "How'd you pick this guy?"

Edwin asked.

"At random. Sometimes any firm decision's better than dithering."

Zarafshan was a tiny dust-colored town with no industry and no obvious tourist attractions. Cold winds swept powdery sand across its washboard roads under a brilliant blue sky. If Alexander the Great or Tamerlane had come through here on their conquests, they had left no signs of their passage. An older mud-brick central square was surrounded by a few tatty concrete blocks in poor repair.

The hotelier also seemed to find a tall fair man, visibly American but speaking perfect Uzbek, disconcerting. Rob had no trouble negotiating a reasonable rate for an open-ended stay. The hotel was tiny and primitive, a private house incompletely and badly converted for commercial use. It boasted only three guest rooms, but it was a block off the central square and therefore quiet.

In such a small town, organizing the next leg of the trip was going to be excruciatingly difficult. They spent a day resting up and adjusting to the time change before making plans. Edwin said, "Our problem breaks down into two sections. First, we need a vehicle that can handle the desert. And second, we need as detailed a map as we can get. The site map shows only ten miles or so of terrain, and the big national map doesn't give the road detail we'll need."

"Intourist was going to set us up with a car in Samarqand," Rob reminded him.

"Probably it would've been one of those Ladas. Didn't the one from the airport sound like a lawnmower? I want four-wheel drive and a decent engine under the hood, if there is such a thing here. A vehicle we can rely on for desert travel."

"You dreamer, Ed-in central Uzbekistan? Well, take a stab at it. I'll find us a map first, and then work on the car problem with you."

They were sitting in the only restaurant in Zarafshan, a liquor and wine shop that also served drinks and the local shish kebabs. Edwin held his glass of harsh red Uzbek wine up to the light. "I remember," he said meditatively, "when you first turned up at the lab in October. You were in rags, practically inarticulate, scared spitless-am I right? Running on raw courage. And here you are six months later, full of confidence, total master of the situation."

Rob squirmed uncomfortably in his green parka. "Don't let me push you around, okay? I'm trying to quit bullying people. I just thought that having credit cards would make it easier for you to do the car rental."

Surprised, Edwin looked at him over the glass. "I was speaking with admiration, bud. You've come a long way, and I don't just mean to Uzbekistan."

The unexpected praise made Rob so embarrassed he had to look around the room. Most of the store customers wore local dress, loose woolen robes and baggy pants and sheepskin hats. But at the bar sat somebody different, a gray-haired man in a long tailored gray-green coat. Rob recognized the garment but it took him a moment to recall where he had seen one like it-in photographs of the old Communist regime, of course, worn by grimfaced old codgers on reviewing stands watching armored divisions and soldiers parade by. This must be somebody who used to be with the old government. And government people would have maps. Impulsively he stood up, carrying his glass with him. "Come on, Ed."

"Where are we going?"

"A friend of mine just came in, and we have to say hello."

Edwin stared around, startled. "Here? Who?"

"I don't know his name yet, but hang on." Rob went to the bar and stood beside the old Soviet. There were medals pinned to the front of his coat-better and better, a military type. Rob said, "Hi, I'm Rob Lewis. I'm a friend."

The old soldier goggled at Rob, astonished. "Why-why so you are! How do you come to this godforsaken place, Rob? It's been a long long time!" He seized Rob's hand and pumped it enthusiastically. On his other side Edwin shook his head in amazement, not needing to understand the talk.

"I wanted to see some ruins in the Kyzylkum Desert, and I need a good map of the district."

"Yuri! Bring vodka! We have to celebrate, my friend!" He beamed at Rob.

"You have hard currency, yes? Your best vodka, Yuri!"

The best that Zarafshan had to offer was not very good.

An hour later Rob had sipped enough bad vodka to thoroughly upset his stomach. "You see, it's a security issue," Anatoly confided. "You say you are not CIA, and I believe you. But will the authorities believe me, when I tell them? An American speaking perfect Russian would make a baby suspicious, you know. You have been carefully taught."

"But there's nothing there," Rob said. He topped off their vodka glasses.

"It's just a desert, right, Ed?"

Edwin pulled out and unfolded their map. Anatoly examined it with suspicion. "They used spy satellites to make this map!"

"I bought it from the National Geographic, for three dollars. It was in their magazine."

"You're joking, really? Holy mother, I'm ashamed for us. Gorbachev drove the country to the dogs."

Rob tried to stick to the point. "Why should anybody care, if we want to tour the Kyzylkum Desert? There's no security issue at all. They quit excavating the site at Aqebin in 1918."