Scorpion's Advance by Ken McClure Page A

the humid warmth creep into the space between his collar and his neck. Perspiration was trickling freely down his forehead by the time he had collected his baggage and cleared Customs. He walked out on to the concrete reception area which was now crowded with embracing groups of people as sons and lovers were welcomed home.
    Anderson stopped and looked around, a gesture that immediately marked him out as a target for a competing horde of taxi drivers, who surrounded him, tugging at his arm and rhyming off a discordant chorus of destinations.
    Throughout the pantomime, which strained his patience to the limit, Anderson had been aware of a tall, bespectacled man hanging back beyond the edge of the group. A slight smile on his face said that he was enjoying the display. Anderson looked directly at him and the smile disappeared. The man approached and rasped something in Hebrew. The taxi drivers melted away.
    'Dr Anderson?' enquired the man, without smiling. 'I am Arieh Cohen, one of Professor Strauss's colleagues. He asked me to meet you.'
    The fact that Cohen did not smile convinced Anderson that he had been, right in thinking that Cohen had hung back deliberately. It had been on the cards that there might be some resentment in the Israeli lab to an outsider questioning their results. He wondered if Cohen's hostility might be general. If it was? Well, he was no schoolgirl; he could take any shit they cared to throw, do his job and then get out.
    The Volvo pulled out on to the highway and Anderson tugged at his collar as the heat of the night began to stifle him. Incredibly, the car heater seemed to be on. Anderson put his hand in front of the grille in disbelief.
    ‘ I'm afraid the ventilation system is faulty,' said Cohen.
    Anderson did not know whether to believe him or not. He wound down the passenger window without the nicety of asking first and took deep breaths of the warm breeze. Fearing a complete breakdown in relations between them, Anderson tried to feign some semblance of normality. 'Forgive me, I'll just have to take off my jacket.' He smiled.
    'That would be the intelligent thing to do,' said Cohen coldly.
    Anderson ignored the jibe. ‘Is it always this hot?' he asked.
    ‘I n Tel Aviv, yes. It's the humidity that's bothering you, not the heat. You'll get used to it.'
    ‘I f you say so.'
    The drive into Tel Aviv took fifteen minutes. Cohen did not say much so Anderson just took in the road signs as they flashed by and was suddenly aware of being in the Holy Land. The names on the boards made him think of days gone by, cold mornings in the school hall in Dumfries with infant voices raised in programmed praise. That 'Green Hill' was no longer so far away, it was thirty-seven kilometres east at the last intersection.
    As they entered the outskirts of Tel Aviv, Cohen explained that Professor Strauss had arranged for him to stay in university accommodation, conveniently near the university itself. The students, he said, were still on vacation so it would be relatively quiet and he would have an apartment to himself.
    'Sounds fine,' said Anderson.
    'It's rather basic.'
    They were now deep in Tel Aviv traffic and moving slowly.
    'The university is on the north side of the city,' said Cohen, 'perhaps you would care for a cold drink before we go up there?'
    Anderson, who was becoming more and more conscious of the stifling heat now that they were caught up in traffic, readily agreed. Cohen turned off the main street and twisted in and out of a maze of side streets before they reached the waterfront and the slightest suggestion of a cool breeze flirted with Anderson's cheek.
    ' Atarim Square,' announced Cohen, as they walked towards a brightly lit area full of bars and cafes. 'Tourist Tel Aviv, tourist tastes, tourist prices.'
    Anderson was sure an insult had been intended but for the moment thoughts of cold beer took precedence over everything else. They found a table by the sea wall overlooking the yacht marina and