She dropped the phone. It clattered on the ancient stone, sounding cheap and plastic and loud.
Elara looked at her satellite phone. One bar of signal. She could call the surface, report a discovery that would shatter every history book, trigger a geopolitical frenzy, and probably get them both shot by a covert agency within the hour. ancient future wayne chandler
“Mr. Asante,” she said, taking off her gloves. “What does the song sound like?” She dropped the phone