Atlantis

INDIANA JONES AND THE FATE OF ATLANTIS
uppercut to the jaw, and the goon hit the pavement like a sack of
potatoes. Out cold. “After you.” He grabbed the unconscious
doorman by his ankles and dragged the tough guy behind the crates
to sleep it off. Then he slipped inside the building and made his
way to the auditorium.
Indy poked his head through a velvet curtain and gazed over an
audience that filled every plush seat in the house, including the
latecomers who had paid full admission just to stand in the aisles.
He couldn’t believe that Sophia was packing them in like this. Indy
was wondering how she’d managed to book such a prestigious
venue when he spied a large signboard by the stage:
The New York Theosophical Society presents
Madame Sophia: The Light of Atlantis
Then everything suddenly made sense. The whole room was
full of crackpots. Indy scanned the faces in the front row, and felt
relieved when he didn’t see Kerner. At least he’d arrived in time to
prevent the Nazi from doing anything to her. Finally turning his
attention to the woman of the hour, he was stunned at how much
Sophia had matured since Iceland. When he’d last seen her, she
was a fresh-faced grad student of 23—just a kid. Now she was
positively stunning.
The slender archaeologist-turned-mystic was garbed in a violet
silk blouse with loose-fitting sleeves, and a stylish black kneelength
skirt that emphasized her hourglass figure. Her dark crimson
hair, pinned up in a neat coif on the back of her head, gleamed in
the ambience of the powerful footlights lining the stage. Dazzling
silver earrings complimented the shiny bracelets that encircled her
slender wrists. Although he couldn’t see it, Indy somehow knew
that Sophia was also wearing her prized necklace. She never went
anywhere without it. Except maybe the shower, he mused with a
smile.
The elaborate golden proscenium arch soared high above her,
framing a massive sixty-foot projection screen where fanciful
images of Atlantean life played out to Sophia’s enthusiastic
narration. Indy nearly cringed as the redhead spun a hackneyed
yarn of pseudo-history that sounded like something pilfered from a
dime novel. But the sold-out crowd was hanging on every word in
rapt attention. The place was quiet enough to hear the proverbial
pin drop. He couldn’t believe that anybody would actually pay to
see Sophia, who had filled his ear with this garbage for the entire
duration of the Jastro expedition—six long months tenting out in
the remote Icelandic wilderness. Back then, he would have paid
gladly just to get away from her. But these people were here
voluntarily. Water always finds its own level, he supposed.
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