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Mark felt a cool breeze on his cheek as the door beside him opened. The breeze bore with it the whiff of a familiar perfume. Mark turned to see Lisa standing in the half-open doorway.

“How are things going?” Lisa whispered.

“About like the other working groups,” he replied in a barely audible voice.

She smiled. “As bad as that, eh?”

“How was your presentation this morning?”

“Interrupted about every ten seconds for questions. It took nearly two hours to get through my speech.”

“It shows that they’re interested.”

“I am just glad that it’s over. What is your schedule for tomorrow?”

He shrugged. “I’m free unless some work comes out of this session. Why?”

“I am looking for a partner to go on a day trip. Interested?”

Mark’s broad grin told her his answer even before he managed to ask, “Where?”

“I thought we would take the ferry across the strait to Gibraltar. I’ve always wanted to see it.”

“Are we allowed? What about the radiation?”

“Pooh, that’s just a scary story!”

He shrugged. “If you say so. Anyone else going?”

“I’ll ask around,” Lisa said, “but I think everyone is busy. I really ought to prepare for the end-of-the-week summary session myself, but I figure I deserve at least one free day on Earth.”

“I agree,” he said. “Even though I’ve only been away a few weeks, I am surprised at how much I have missed this old planet. We will have to go back to PoleStar soon enough. We might as well get some sun while we are here. I’ll contact security and sign us out.”

“Fine. I will ask the front desk to call Tangier and arrange for us to be dropped off on the daily ferry run to Cadiz. Let you know later how early we have to be down at the dock.”

“I’ll be around,” he whispered as she slipped once more out the door. Suddenly the fact that his feet hurt and he was significantly minus on his sleep did not seem to matter.

#

The golden sun was just peeking above the eastern horizon as the hydrofoil departed Al-Hoceima. The boat had been specially chartered from a tour company in Tangier. A dozen conference attendees were aboard, but only Lisa Arden and Mark Rykand were bound for Gibraltar. The others were headed through the straits and ninety minutes beyond to the shopping streets of Cadiz. The long curving wake of the boat pointed back toward the North African shoreline now nearly lost in the early morning mist. The resort hotel itself was little more than a rectangular spot of white, with no outward sign that the future of the human race was being argued within its walls.

Mark was dressed against the early morning chill, clad in long pants, shirt, pocket belt, and a light jacket.

He and Lisa huddled behind strategically placed transparent windbreaks where the air was turbulent enough to tousle hair and pluck at loose clothing, but nowhere near the strength of the boat’s 100-kph slipstream. Lisa was similarly attired, except for shorts that showed off her legs to good advantage, but which caused her to shiver in the breeze. Both wore hiking shoes that made up in comfort what they lacked in elegance. Each of them carried a canteen on one hip and the makings for a picnic lunch spread around various pouches of their belts. They had purchased the clothes and equipment at the hotel gift shop, paying five times what it was worth after Lisa had warned him that they faced a dry day if they were to explore The Rock properly. Mark noticed that Lisa was shivering and suggested that they go below where it would be warmer.

“No!” she said, shouting to be heard over the wind noise. “I find this exhilarating. But then, it’s probably very routine for you.”

“Why?” he asked. As he spoke, he slipped an arm around her and guided her to a corner where they received more protection from the overhead slipstream. Lisa snuggled closer to gain more of the warmth of his body against her own. She obviously had no objections to the closeness. Besides, it made talking easier.

“Isn’t this the sort of thing you rich people do?”

He laughed. “I don’t know about the other ‘rich’ people, but I work for a living. I did, that is, until I happened to spot a certain young lady through a lighted viewport.”

Lisa’s complexion turned crimson as she recalled the circumstances of their first “meeting.” She turned to face the glass wall between her and the bow so that he could not see her reaction. They huddled together, swaying to the gentle action of the waves against the ship’s hydrofoils for nearly a minute before Mark broke the uncomfortable silence.

“Why Gibraltar?”

She shrugged. The motion made him aware of her closeness. “Gibraltar occupies a proud place in my nation’s history. Being so close, I thought I would like to see it.”

Less than an hour after leaving Al-Hoceima, a white smudge appeared on the forward horizon amidst the long black line of the distant shore. It grew quickly larger to reveal itself a gray-white mass of rock that vaguely resembled a crouching lion with its head to the north and its tail to the south. An irregular wound showed in the lion’s side just where the shoulder blades should have been and tiny buildings could be seen crouched all around its feet. From a distance, they appeared to be whole.

“How come it doesn’t look like its pictures?” Mark asked, staring through the electronically stabilized field glasses that he had borrowed from the boat’s steward. Beside him, Lisa had a pair of her own focused on their destination.

“The traditional view is from the land side of the northern face. We are approaching from the sea and the east.”

“What is that white mass in the center? It looks like someone has been doing extensive quarrying.”

“Those are the old water catchments,” she replied. “They used to collect rain water and deliver them to underground reservoirs for drinking. They were largely destroyed in the Sixteenth Siege.”

“The what?”

Lisa dropped her binoculars to hang by their strap around her neck. “On Gibraltar, they measured history by counting the number of sieges they have survived. There were sixteen of them, although the sixteenth was just a battle. See that discolored spot to the right of the catchments?”

He stared with his binoculars and nodded.

“That’s where the warhead from the doomed Turkish fleet landed. Luckily, it was only a tactical nuke, so the mass of the rock protected the town from the direct blast. Of course, they had to abandon Gibraltar afterwards. The water catchments were destroyed, people were afraid of the fallout and many of the old buildings were no longer safe to live in.”

Mark let loose with a low whistle as he studied the battered side of The Rock. “They took a direct hit from a nuclear shell and still went on to win the battle? No wonder people started talking about things being ‘safe as the Rock of Gibraltar!’”

“No, silly,” Lisa said with a laugh. “That came about as a result of the
Fourteenth
Siege.”

The hydrofoil sat back down into the water as it approached the long ruin that had once been Gibraltar’s southern harbor mole. When it was just a boat again, the ferry motored past the sunken hulks of ships caught in port during the last attack. Once clear of the rusting islands of steel and sea growths, the captain turned toward the stone quay that had been old when Victoria ruled England.

“We will be back to pick you up at sunset,” the chief steward told the two explorers as they clambered from rocking deck onto stone steps leading up to the quay.

“Right,” Mark replied. He and Lisa waved to the scientists ensconced in the lower dining deck, then turned their backs as the hydrofoil’s turbines began their growling song. By the time they had reached the top of the quay, the boat was heading toward one of the two ancient harbor exits for the voyage to Cadiz.

“What do you want to do first?” Mark asked as they reached the top of the steps.

Lisa did not answer. Instead, she stared out across the blue waters and pointed. “That must have been where D’Arcon’s battering ships anchored during the Fourteenth Siege!”

“Beg your pardon?”

Lisa turned to Mark. When she spoke, it was with the breathless excitement of one who is experiencing a lifelong dream. “For all the centuries Britain owned Gibraltar, Spain tried everything they could to get it back. From 1779 through 1782, the Spanish and French navies blockaded The Rock and tried several times to take it by storm. That was the Fourteenth Siege, also called The Great Siege.

“The King of Spain had ten big ships of the line turned into floating artillery batteries. It was an early attempt to build ironclads, except, of course, they did not use iron. They stripped the ships down to their bare hulls and built up one side with a false hull thick enough to stop British cannonballs. Then, because the British had been experimenting with firing red-hot cannonballs, the Spaniards installed pumps to keep the whole thing from catching fire.

They spent months in preparation. On 12 September 1782, the combined Spanish and French fleets entered Gibraltar Bay. The next morning, the ten battering ships anchored less than 900 meters off the town. They opened fire and slugged it out all day with the battery at King’s Bastion. The British fire was not very effective for the first few hours because it takes time to heat a cannonball. It wasn’t until shortly after noon that the defenders began to lob their red hot shot.”

“Unfortunately for the Spaniards, their captains hadn’t pumped enough water to keep their hulls wet. The first fires broke out in the afternoon, and by dark, several ships were ablaze, so much so that the British gunboats sent to harass them ended up rescuing their crews. By morning, only two ships were left. One burned while the other exploded. All in all, the Spaniards lost a couple of thousand men that night.”

“Somehow you don’t sound as though you are quoting from some dry history lesson.”

“Family history,” she said. “General Elliot was an ancestor of mine. He commanded The Rock during The Great Siege.”

Lisa turned and glanced up at the massive outcropping of limestone that loomed over them while Mark looked down the quay. A dark complexioned man in tan shirt and shorts was swiftly moving to meet them. The brassard on his left breast told them that he was the local constable.

“Hello,” he said in tones that mirrored Lisa’s own speech, but with Mediterranean undertones. “Who might you two be?”

Mark introduced himself and Lisa to the constable, who in turn informed them that his name was Maurice Farner-Smythe. Despite his warm manner, his gaze was penetrating, as he looked them over.

“What brings you here?” the constable asked.

“We thought we would explore Gibraltar for the day,” Lisa replied.

“Have you a permit from the Ministry of Monuments?”

“I didn’t know we needed one,” she said, sudden disappointment apparent in her voice.

“Tourists!” Farner-Smythe said with a laugh. “You are all the same. Never read the rules and regulations.

Well, I suppose with your boat gone I can’t very well order you back where you came from, now can I?”

“We’d be glad to purchase a permit if you have them available, Constable,” Mark said, reaching for the pouch where he carried his credit cards.

“Not to worry, Mr. Rykand. We are informal here on The Rock. You and the lady appear to be adequately equipped for the day. Just this once we’ll make an exception.” The constable’s tone told them that he made exceptions more often than not.

“Are there any radiation hazards we should know about?”

He answered with a snort. “If there were, Mr. Rykand, do you think I would be living here with my family?”

“I guess not.”

“The rules are that you must not disturb any artifact or natural formation. No chipping your initials into the battlements, no picking up souvenirs, no throwing rocks off the summit to watch them bounce off the old walls. Several of the old tunnels were rendered unsafe by the blast on the eastern slope. They are well marked and you would do well to stay out of them. Do you agree to these terms?”

“We agree,” Lisa replied.

“Also, stay out of the ruins of the town. The buildings are not safe and there are some hermits in there that might not react well to seeing a young woman dressed in hiking shorts. Other than that, use good judgment. I do not want to have to rescue you two from some ledge in the middle of the night. Are we still agreed?”

They both nodded.

“In that case, have a pleasant day. You can follow that road off to the left there. It will take you to the upper galleries and St. George’s Hall. From there, you can climb the trail to Rock Gun if you are feeling especially athletic. Most people also want to see St. Michael’s cave while they are here. Just follow the summit path to the south. It will take you right to it. Damage any of the stalagmites and I will personally hang you up by the nearest available appendage. Oh, and welcome to Gibraltar!”

#

Mark had thought himself in good shape. By the time he and Lisa had trudged half the distance to the upper galleries cut into Gibraltar’s north face, he was not so sure. Either the weeks in microgravity aboard PoleStar had caused his muscles to atrophy more than he had thought; or else, he had been kidding himself. As they hiked up the path separated from the old road by a fence of rusted cable strung between pipe posts, they passed through a mixed forest of scrub pine trees, scraggly grass, and stubby palms. The Rock was covered with green across the lower two thirds of its western face, while alabaster blocks of limestone rose precipitously to the jagged summit where the slope became too steep for topsoil to take hold.

They were each panting heavily as they reached the entrance to the galleries. They rested for a few minutes and then climbed the sloping tunnel to St. George’s Hall. The clammy air in the tunnel did not allow the perspiration to evaporate.

“What’s the story on this?” Mark asked as he tottered to one of the openings that let light and air into the long underground gallery. There were iron bolts in the tunnel floor and the walls that might have once anchored guns.

“They began work on this during The Great Siege. One of the regimental artificers had worked as a miner. He suggested that they tunnel up to a formation called The Notch to mount a cannon there and lob shells into the Spanish ramparts at La Linea. After twenty meters of tunneling they blasted an air hole in the cliff and suddenly realized that they had no need to go as far as The Notch. The air hole itself made a first-rate gun port. For more than a century this place was crowded with artillery pieces ready to rake any army stupid enough to try a charge across the isthmus from Spain.”