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assured me. So I put on clean slacks and a nice sweater, with a cardigan on top of that and, of course, a hat. This was a woolly one meant to keep my head warm, but bright orange with crocheted flowers and really quite decorative. I’d been right about the climate. Though the sun was shining brightly (still, at seven in the evening), the air was nippy with a brisk wind. I added wool gloves to the ensemble, and we headed up to The Street.
    Our meal was delicious. Once on a trip to Iona I’d learned to eat haggis, and actually quite liked it. This time it was served as an appetizer, a ‘starter’ as the Brits call them. The haggis, which is basically a mixture of oats and meat and spices, had been rolled up into little balls, breaded, and fried. It was hot and crisp and tasty, and was served with a whisky sauce, since the traditional drink with haggis is whisky. Then we had local lamb and local vegetables, fresh and tender and wonderful, and finished up with sticky toffee pudding, the most decadent dessert ever created. By the time we were ready to leave, I felt they could have simply rolled me down the hill to the apartment.
    But the real substance of the meal was archaeology. We had barely tucked into our haggis when Andrew began.
    ‘So when are you going to visit our latest discoveries?’
    ‘Can we actually visit? You made the site sound nearly in
accessible,’ said Alan.
    ‘Nearly is not quite. I can take us over in my launch. It’ll have to be tomorrow, though, because I’m leaving for Spain the next day with a load of pots. And we should go in the morning, because I want you to have time to see everything, and there’s a meeting of the Friends in the evening. You’ll want to go to that, of course.’
    ‘A Friends’ meeting?’ I echoed with a bit of a frown. ‘I’m not sure—’
    Andrew gave a shout of laughter. ‘Not Quakers, love! The Friends of Ancient Orkney. And it could turn out to be quite interesting, because these days “friends” is perhaps not the most appropriate word.’
    Alan tilted his head to one side in a quizzical look.
    ‘This is an important site, you understand. Huge, or it could be when we’ve finished. Rich in artefacts. We could learn more about the Neolithic in this part of the world than … well, one can scarcely imagine the limits. So of course there are, shall we say, a few differences of opinion on various matters.’
    ‘Such as?’
    Andrew laughed again, but I thought it sounded a little hollow this time. ‘It would be easier to list the non-controversies. The archaeologists are arguing over the extent of the dig, the farmer who owns the land is ready to do murder over his compensation, the museums are fighting over who gets the artefacts …’
    ‘And I suppose there’s the usual difficulty about funding.’
    ‘Oh, there’s difficulty, all right, but not in the usual way. The money’s pouring in. We can scarcely spend it fast enough.’
    ‘Then what’s the problem?’ I asked.
    ‘The problem, really the biggest problem of them all, is the donor.’
    ‘Donor, singular?’
    ‘Oh, very singular indeed. He’s American, and he’s very, very rich.’ Andrew didn’t need to say more. His tone of voice said it all.
    ‘You don’t need to be diplomatic, Andrew,’ I said with a grimace. ‘I’m no fonder of the genus “Arrogant Wealthy American” than you are. I take it he’s a pain in the neck?’
    ‘I’d locate the pain a bit lower,’ said Andrew. ‘In fact, saving your presence, Dorothy, he’s a right bastard. The project is getting terribly expensive and depends utterly upon his support, and he knows it. If he pulls out, the dig will have to close down, and God knows where we’d find funding to start up again. So he throws his weight about at every opportunity. And the worst of it is, the man fancies himself an archaeologist, so he’s trying to force some vital decisions.’
    He took a healthy swig of his wine and then a deep breath. ‘Not the