And so was Mermoz. In fact, he was sitting in his car—another battered old Citroën—completely naked. Or at least, he appeared to be. He was looking around to make sure no one was watching, and his hand was covering his face as he motioned to me with just a slight movement of his head. I reluctantly opened the door and got in. I say “reluctantly” for obvious reasons. I was wondering if he was some kind of a pervert. But I was big and strong and confident in my ability to protect myself and, more importantly, at this moment he was the only way I could get into the Chauvet Cave. The only way. And besides, he was a famous writer. How weird could he be? That seemed like a stupid question almost the moment I thought it. It turned out that he wasn’t naked. He was wearing a small hat…and a pair of boxer shorts. He was also completely bald. And I mean completely. He hadn’t one strand of hair left on his head, or on his chin, for that matter. Because his hand had been over his face, I hadn’t noticed his brand-new cue-ball look when I first saw him through the car door.
