Page 1 of Under the Arabian Sky

CHAPTER1

Just like wavescrossing an undulating sea, all sand dunes make a voyage. They are taken by the wind from east to west, from north to south, across lands so hot and barren that no city, no village, no man would dare to stand in their way. For if they tried, the desert would simply consume them. Over the centuries, many had simply… vanished.

“He’s gone.”

I could barely hear Professor Henderson over the hammering of the rain on the old, tiled roof outside my office window at Oxford. I was three floors up in a faculty building in desperate need of repair, trying to patch a leak in the window seal with a handkerchief and some ink blotting paper while attempting to decipher the words of Henderson’s phone call. Unfortunately, between the bucketing rain and the pigeons huddled on the window ledge, cooing and complaining and shaking the water off their feathers, I wasn’t having much luck.

“Gone? Did you say ‘gone’? What do you mean… ‘gone’?”

“I mean he’s gone, Arthur. He just disappeared.”

“Who? Cavendish? When? How?”

“Nobody really knows. Apparently, he just… walked off into the desert.”

“What do you mean, he ‘walked off into the desert’?”

“Exactly that. He went out there and never returned. That was two weeks ago now. They’ve given up the search.”

“Two weeks?”

“Yes, two weeks. Bloody hell, man. Are you going to repeat everything I say? And what in carnation is that bloody racket?”

“It’s raining. Hard.”

“But it’s August. Isn’t the sun supposed to be shining?”

“This is England. I don’t think the weather owns a calendar.” The rain came down even heavier as though punishing me for my sarcasm. “I’m seriously considering building an ark right now.”

“Well if you do you might want to sail it to Oman. We need someone on the ground there to replace Cavendish.”

“Oman! I can’t go to Oman.”

“Why not? You’re half the age of the rest of us, you’ve got all the science and expertise to do Cavendish’s job. All you need is to get out of that bloody office and get out in the field for once.”

“But Oman?”

“Arthur, you’re an arenologist. You have a PhD in the study of sand. Oman is ninety-nine-point-nine percent desert. That’s what arenologists do… they go to where the sand is. You are the one exception to that rule, you do know that, right?”

“And with very good reason.”

“I know, I know… you hate travelling. You don’t travel.”

“That’s not quite true. I don’t mind travelling. It’s the flying I hate.”

“Then build your bloody ark. Hire a boat. Catch a swingers’ cruise. Swim for all I care. Just get your bags packed and get your arse to Oman before all of Cavendish’s research vanishes too. Arthur, I’m your boss. I’m not asking you to do this, I’m telling you. Otherwise, you can find a job somewhere else, am I clear?”

I paused, unsure whether the ripple down my spine was the result of nerves or the chill that had set in with the rain. Given the scarcity of gainful employment in the field of arenology, I was rather confident I’d be Googling sea voyages to Oman the second I got off the call.

“How long do I have to stay for?”

“Why ask? We both know you’ve got nothing keeping you in Oxford.”

“How long?”

“A few months. Maybe longer. Just until we can find a more permanent arrangement. Hell, you might even want to stay.”

“I doubt it.”

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