Текст книги "Ancient Shores"

Автор книги: Jack McDevitt

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“Now,” he said as they settled down to business, “what exactly is it you gentlemen want to do on Johnson’s Ridge?”

As they’d agreed, Lasker took the lead. “We’d like to have permission to conduct a ground-radar search. To look for artifacts.”

The lawyer cocked his head as if he hadn’t heard correctly. “Really? Why? What would you expect to find?”

Lasker said, “It’s a general survey. We want to see if there’s anything up there. And we’d agree not to remove anything.”

Redfern took a pair of spectacles from his jacket pocket and fitted them carefully over his eyes. “Why don’t you tell me straight out what you’re looking for? Is there another yacht up there, Tom?”

Lasker looked at Max. “We’re looking at places all over the area, Mr. Redfern,” Max said. “You can never tell where you might find something.”

Lasker mouthed, “Trust him,” and Max sighed. Trust a lawyer? It flew in the face of his most cherished principles.

Redfern was apparently not satisfied with Max’s answer. He seemed to be still waiting for a response.

“We think,” said Max, “there might be some objects left over from the Paleolithic.”

The lawyer’s eyes narrowed, and he turned toward Lasker. “This is connected with the boat, Tom? Right?”

“Yes,” said Lasker. “There’s an outside possibility, and that’s all it is, that something might be buried on top of Johnson’s Ridge. It’s a long shot.”

Redfern nodded. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what you know about the yacht?” he said.

“It’s been in the newspapers,” said Max.

“Nothing’s been in the newspapers. Old boat dug up on a farm. It’s in very good condition, suggesting that it hadn’t been in the ground more than a week. And it lights up at night.” He stared across at the two men. “You want access to Johnson’s Ridge? Tell me what’s going on.”

“Can we get a guarantee of confidentiality?” asked Lasker.

“I would like to be free to confer with the chairman if need be. But I can assure you that otherwise what you tell me will go no farther.”

“Who’s the chairman?” asked Max.

“The head of the local Sioux,” said Lasker. “Name’s James Walker.”

“The head of the Sioux is a chairman?”

“Movie Indians have chiefs,” said Redfern. “Now tell me about the boat.”

Max nodded. “It might be a lot older than it looks.” A tractor-trailer went by and shook the building. Max described April’s findings, watching Redfern while he talked, expecting at every moment to be dismissed as a crank.

Instead he was heard without comment or visible reaction. When he’d finished, Redfern sat silently for a few moments. “You’re suggesting,” he said, “someone sailed a yacht on Lake Agassiz?”

When people put it like that, it always sounded dumb. “We’re not sure,” Max said. “It’s possible.”

“Okay.” Redfern opened a drawer, and took out a piece of memo paper. “How much are you willing to pay for the privilege?”

Lasker pushed back in his chair. “Since we won’t be doing any damage to the land, Arky, we’d hoped you’d just let us look around.”

Redfern nodded. “Of course. And I hope you understand, Tom, that if it were up to me, I’d say yes without hesitation. But the tribal council has its rules, and I have no alternative except to abide by them.” He looked at his visitors.

“I guess we’d be prepared to invest a hundred,” said Max.

Redfern nodded yes, not yes to the offer, but yes to some hidden impression of his own. “How exactly do you intend to conduct the search?”

“We’ll be using a ground-radar unit,” said Max.

Redfern wrote on his sheet of paper. His brow wrinkled, he made additional notes. Then he looked up. “It’s hard for me to see how I can accept less than a thousand.”

Max got to his feet. “That’s ridiculous,” he said.

“It’s customary,” said Redfern. He let the statement hang, as if its validity were obvious. Max thought it over. There were other places to look, but Johnson’s Ridge was an ideal harbor. If the boat had been housed anywhere in the area, it would have been there.

“We can’t manage a thousand,” he said. “But you might want to consider that if we do find something, everyone will benefit.”

“I’m sure of that,” said Redfern. He sighed. “Okay. I tell you what I’ll do. Let me speak with the chairman. He might be willing to make an exception and come down for a worthy cause. What kind of figure can I offer him?” He smiled politely at Max.

“How about five hundred?”

Redfern’s eyes slid momentarily shut. “I suspect he’ll consider that a bit tightfisted. But I’ll try.” He wrote on the paper again. “I’ll draw up a contract.” He smiled. “Of course you understand that any Native-American artifacts you might find will remain the property of the tribe. Anything else of value, we will share according to usual conditions.”

“What are those?” asked Max.

Redfern produced another piece of paper. “In this case,” he said, “section four would seem to apply.” He handed the document to Lasker. “These are our standard guidelines for anyone applying to do archeological work on tribal land.”

“I think,” said Max, “we need a lawyer.”

Redfern looked amused. “I always recommend that anyone entering into a legal transaction seek counsel. I’ll draw up the agreement, and you can come by later this afternoon and sign, if you like.” He rose, business apparently concluded. “Now, is there anything else I can do for you?”

Max had been admiring the bow. “Have you ever used it?”

“It was my father’s,” he said, as if that answered the question.

Peggy Moore had grown up in Plymouth, New Hampshire, in the shadow of the White Mountains. She’d gone to school in New York, left three marriages in her wake, and had little patience with people who got in her way. She handled a wide range of duties at GeoTech, and running a ground-search radar team was what she most preferred to do. Not because it was challenging, but because it could yield the most satisfying results. There was nothing quite like sitting in front of a monitor and spotting the rock formations that promise oil. Except maybe the Nebraska find that had been the highlight of her career: a mastodon’s bones.

She had assumed that the hunt on Lasker’s farm had been for another boat. But now, without explanation, her team had been sent to the top of Johnson’s Ridge. What in hell were they looking for?

It was a question that had begun to keep her awake nights. Moore suspected there was something illegal going on. Nothing else explained the compulsive secrecy. Yet Max (who reminded her of her first husband) seemed too tentative to be a criminal, and the Laskers were clearly up-front types. She was not sure about April Cannon, with whom she’d spent little time. Cannon possessed a streak of ruthlessness and was probably not above bending the law, given the right reason. But that still did not answer the basic question. What were they looking for? Hidden treasure? Buried drugs? A lost cache of nerve gas?

She watched Sara track the input from Charlie’s radar. The weather had moderated somewhat, warmed up after the last few days, and Charlie was cutting his pattern across the top of the ridge. The scans were fed into the system and translated into images of rock and earth.

They’d had a couple of days of unseasonable warmth, and the snow cover had melted. The ground was consequently wet and dangerous, so Moore had drawn the survey course carefully, keeping Charlie safely away from the edge of the precipice. She kept a close eye on his progress and occasionally warned him back in, sacrificing coverage to safety.

The ground-search unit was giving them reasonable imagery to about a hundred feet. For archeological purposes—assuming that was the real reason they were here—that would be more than adequate.

The western section of Johnson’s Ridge, the summit of the rear wall, was grassy and flat, a long plateau about two thousand yards north to south and a hundred fifty yards across the spine. On the south, a ravine split it off from the rising hills on its flank. The north side ended in a wall of trees.

“Concentrate along the rim,” Max had said.

“Slower,” she told Charlie, who was still uncomfortably close to the edge.

“Roger,” said Charlie. He was wearing an outsized lumberjack coat and a woolen hat with its earflaps pulled down.

Moore wanted to find something. Not only because she wanted to know what was going on, but because she was a professional and intended to deliver a product to the customer even when he made the project unnecessarily difficult. Still, it was irritating that Max and his associates wouldn’t trust her. Nobody was going to steal their beads and arrowheads, or whatever. And that was another aspect of this that pointed toward a geological motif: These did not seem like people who would be interested in digging up old cookpots. But she had explained that if they wanted to find, say, gold, they had to tell her about it if they expected to get results.

She was seated with her feet on one of the work-benches, sipping coffee, when a very peculiar picture worked its way onto the bank of screens. “Son of a bitch,” she said, freezing the image on her personal display.

9

For the moonlit places where men once laughed

Are now but bones in the earth…

–Walter Asquith, Ancient Shores

Max was in Tucson to bid on a Halifax bomber when the call came in.

“I think we got it right out of the box.” April’s voice, hushed. “Something’s buried on the lip of the ridge.”

“What? Another boat?” Max was standing near a window in the lone terminal of a small private airport. The Halifax was out on the runway, surrounded by the competition.

“No. This is a lot bigger. About a hundred fifty feet across. And it’s right where you thought it might be. On the brink of the summit.”

“Damn.”

“Max,” she said, “it’s round.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

The word brought a long, pregnant silence at both ends.

On the radar printouts, it looked like a roundhouse with a bubble dome. “I’m damned if I’ve ever seen anything like it,” Moore said. “It’s not a ranger station and it’s not a silo. And it sure isn’t a farmhouse.” She looked suspiciously at Max. “I assume you know what it is.”

Max knew what he was hoping for. But the trace image didn’t look aerodynamic. He contented himself with shaking his head.

“What else can you make out?” April asked.

“Nothing. Nada. It’s just a big, round building. About five hundred feet in circumference.”

“How high is it?”

“Twenty feet at the perimeter. Thirty feet or so at the top of the bubble.” They were in the GeoTech van, which was parked uncomfortably close to the cliff edge, directly over the object. The wind pushed against the side of the vehicle. “Now here’s something else that’s strange,” Moore said. “The top of the summit is mostly rock, with a few feet of dirt thrown on top. Okay? But this thing is built inside a cut in the rock. Look, see these shadows? That’s all granite.”

April asked her to enlarge the image.

“The cut is also round,” Moore said. “Uh, I would have to say it was made specifically to accommodate the roundhouse.”

Max and April exchanged glances.

“Here’s something else,” said Moore. She pointed at dark shadings below and in front of the object. (If, that is, one could assume that the front was at the lip of the cliff.) “This is a channel cut through the rock.” It passed from a point directly under the structure out to the edge of the precipice.

“What’s the roundhouse made of?” April asked.

“Don’t know. I can tell you it isn’t rock, though.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Quality of the return. It almost reads like glass.” Moore tapped her fingers against the top of her work table. “I just can’t imagine what anything like this is doing up here. If we were down on the plain, I’d say it was an abandoned storage facility. It’s big enough. But why would anyone put a storage building up here? It almost looks like a place where people came to sit on the front porch and look out over the valley. Right?” She looked hard at Max. “But this thing doesn’t have a front porch.” Max squirmed under her irritation and was tempted to blurt everything out. But what was he going to tell her? That he thought she’d just found a flying saucer?

They climbed out of the van and stood looking down into the ground as if, by sheer will, they could see what lay beneath. It had snowed during the night, but the wind had been blowing hard all day and had swept the summit clear. It was just after sunset, and the temperature was dropping fast.

The radar tractor crisscrossed the ground at a distance, looking for other objects. The periodic roars of its engine knifed through the still air. Far below, a pair of headlights moved south along Route 32, and a couple of farmhouses lit up the gathering gloom. The landscape was fading, becoming intangible.

April surprised him. She put her arm through his and walked him along the brink, away from Moore. “The channel,” she said. “Are you thinking what I am?”

He nodded. “It was for the boat.”

She shivered with excitement. “I think we’ve hit the jackpot.”

“I think so,” said Max.

Neither spoke for a time. Max was savoring his feelings.

“Do you think,” she said, “the Sioux will agree to our digging up the area?”

“Sure. They stand to profit from this, too.”

They turned their backs to the wind and looked out over the void. “I don’t like the idea,” she said, “of putting this on a profit-and-loss footing. I wish we could just sneak in here and do this without saying anything to anybody. But we’re talking about a major project now.”

Max agreed. “An excavation’s not going to be easy. This thing is a lot bigger than the boat.” The ground crackled beneath his feet. “I wonder whether we shouldn’t wait for spring.”

“No.” April’s jaw tightened. “I am not going to sit on this for six months. We can get a small army of volunteers out here pretty quickly. When we show Lisa what we’ve got, I’m sure she’ll fund us. There’ll be no problem there.” She snuggled down into her coat. “We can post ads at UND and get some student workers. There are a lot of people in Fort Moxie, Cavalier, and Walhalla with not too much to do this time of year. I don’t think we’ll have any trouble assembling a workforce. First thing we need is to get some heavy equipment up here.” Her eyes were shining. “What do you think, Max? Have we got one?”

She was warm and vulnerable. Like Max, she was reluctant to give too much credence to the find until they knew for sure. “I don’t know,” he said.

Toward the east, the Red River Valley stretched away to the stars.

Lisa Yarborough had spent a pleasant evening with a half-dozen friends watching Cats, after which they had retired to the Thai Lounge. At about 1:30 she pulled into her garage. She let herself into the house, bolted the door, and checked her calls.

April’s voice said: “When you can, call me.”

She debated waiting until morning, but there had been a note in the voice that excited her curiosity.

April picked up on the second ring.

“What’ve you got?” said Lisa.

“Something’s buried on the ridge. We don’t know what it is yet, but it shouldn’t be there.”

“Is it connected with the boat?”

“We won’t know until we dig it up. I don’t want to make promises. Maybe somebody started to put a silo in up there. I just don’t know. But it’s big. And round. Lisa, I’m not objective about this anymore. But the present owners have had the property since the 1920s. They say there shouldn’t be anything there.”

“Okay. How much do you need?”

They fell quickly into the habit of creating prosaic explanations for the roundhouse. There were, after all, any number of things it might have been. A sanitarium for people who had needed to get away. A government test facility of one kind or another. A forgotten National Guard training installation. But there was a distinct division between what they said and what they were thinking.

Max took charge of getting a steam shovel up to the site. The night before the Northern Queen Construction Company was to start, Max, April, and the Laskers gathered under Christmas lights at the Prairie Schooner for a celebration that was ostensibly connected with the season but which somehow touched on Max’s hunt for a harbor and its possibly successful conclusion. To add to the mood, which was simultaneously exuberant and tentative, Redfern delivered congratulations from the tribal chairman.

They sat at a corner table, watching couples lit by electric candles moving slowly to Buck Clayton’s “Don’t Kick Me When I’m Down, Baby.” The music caught at Max, made him feel sentimental and lonely and happy. Too much wine, he thought.

A man he had never seen before invited April to dance. She smiled and went off with him. He was blond and good-looking. About thirty. “His name’s Jack,” said Lasker. “He works over at the depot.”

Max was irritated to observe that she seemed to enjoy herself.

The important thing, she said a few minutes later, was that whatever happened up on the ridge, they still had the yacht. They had, in her opinion, indisputable evidence of the presence of an advanced technology. “But,” she added, “I can’t wait to get a close look at the roundhouse.” Her eyes glowed.

When Max asked Lasker almost offhandedly what he intended to do with the boat, the big man looked surprised. “Sell it,” he said. “As soon as I can get a handle on how much it’s worth.”

“It’s priceless,” said April.

“Not for long,” he said. “I’m anxious to be rid of the damned thing.”

This shocked April. “Why?” she asked.

“Because I’m tired of the circus tent and the T-shirts. I’m tired of being made to feel I’m not doing enough for the town. No, I’m going to cash it in at my first reasonable opportunity.”

Max relished the prospect that he might really be instrumental in finding a UFO. He pictured himself showing the president onto its flight deck. This would have been the navigational system, Mr. President. And here, on your right, is the warp drive initiator. No, there would not be a warp drive. It would be, what, hyperlight? Quantum? We estimate Alpha Centauri in eleven days at cruising speed. Yes. That was a line he would like very much to deliver.

He anticipated a TV movie and speculated who would play Max Collingwood. Preferably somebody both vulnerable and tough. He pictured himself among Esquire’s most eligible bachelors. Interviewed by Larry King. (He wondered whether he would get nervous when the TV cameras rolled.) If things went well, he decided, he would keep the Lightning and construct a warbird museum in which it would be the centerpiece.

The Collingwood Memorial Museum.

They were trying not to draw attention to themselves, but as the liquor flowed and spirits picked up, it became more difficult. They drank to one another, to Lisa Yarborough, to the ground-radar crew, to Lake Agassiz, and to Fort Moxie (“the center of American culture west of the Mississippi”).

“I think what we need here,” said Max, “is an archeologist. Seems to me we could hire one to direct the dig. That way we avoid the screwups we’ll make if we try to do it on our own.”

“I disagree,” said April.

“Beg pardon?”

“We don’t want an archeologist.” She studied her glass in the half-light of the electric candles. “We don’t want anybody else involved if we can help it. Bring in an archeologist and he’ll tell us we’re amateurs and try to take over the operation. Eventually he’ll wind up getting the credit.” Her expression suggested she knew about these things and Max should trust her. “You have to understand about academic types. Most of them are predators. They have to be to survive. You let any of them in and they’ll never let go.” She took a deep breath. “Look, let’s be honest. This is not a standard archeological site. Nobody knows any more about this stuff than we do.”

“You mean,” said Max, “you’re the only scientific type associated with this, and you’d like to keep it that way.”

She looked exasperated. “Max, this is our baby. You want to bring in some heavy hitters? Do that, and see how long we keep in control of things.”

The Northern Queen Construction Company supplied a baby steam shovel and a crew. The steam shovel had trouble negotiating the switchback that ran up the escarpment, but once it arrived its operators went to work single-mindedly.

“You’re sure you guys won’t damage this thing, right?” asked Max.

“We’ll be careful,” said the crew chief, a gray-haired, thickset man bundled inside a heavy coat. He’d been told the object was an old grain storage facility in which several major works of art were thought to be hidden. (Max was becoming creative.) “Of course,” he continued, “you understand we only get you close to the thing. Afterward there’ll be a lot of digging to do, and that’s going to be up to you.”

They used stakes and string with pieces of white cloth fluttering in the wind to mark out the target area. Peggy Moore was standing just outside the radar van, her arms folded over a Boston Red Sox jacket (the weather had warmed up), while the Northern Queen crew moved into position. A few yards away, Charlie was posted on the radar tractor.

In the van, the atmosphere was electric. April had assumed a post near the main screen (the rule that noncompany people had to stay out of the van had been long since forgotten), from which she was directing the excavation. Max was losing confidence now that the moment of truth was near and had become convinced that they were going to unearth a silo or a long-forgotten Native-American habitation. April’s Martians were light-years away.

The steam shovel lined itself up just outside the markers and stopped. The man in the cab looked at a clipboard, got on his walkie-talkie, and then rolled the engine forward a few yards. The jaws rose, opened, and paused. They plunged into the earth, and the ground shook.

The operator moved levers and the jaws rose, trailing pebbles and loose dirt, and dumped their load off to the side. Then they swung back. The plan was to dig a broad trench around the target. Tomorrow April’s volunteers, who were mostly farmers without too much to do at this time of year, would begin the actual work of uncovering the roundhouse.

A few snowflakes drifted down from an overcast sky.

Peggy Moore had a video camera and was recording the operation. The woman was no dummy. Max realized he should have thought of it himself. The videos might be worth a lot of money before this was over.

In fact, they were going to have to break down soon and call a press conference. How long would it take before the media figured out something was happening on Johnson’s Ridge? But there was a problem with a press conference: What did you tell them? You couldn’t talk about UFOs and then dig up an old outhouse.

By sundown a twelve-foot-wide, thirty-foot-deep trench had been driven into the promontory. Like the canyon, it was shaped like a horseshoe, enclosing the target area on three sides, within about fifteen feet of the object. They laid ladders and planking in the ditch and threw wooden bridges across. “You’ll want to be careful,” the crew chief explained. “There’s a potential for cave-ins, and if you dig around the bridges, which you will probably have to, you’ll want to make adjustments so they don’t collapse. I suggest you get a professional in, somebody that knows what they’re doing.”

“Thanks,” said April. “We’ll be careful.”

He held out a document for her to sign.

April looked at it.

“It explains about hazards, safety precautions, recommends you get somebody.”

“It’s also a release,” said April.

“Yeah. That, too.” He produced a clipboard.

She glanced across the document and signed it. The crew chief handed her a copy. She folded it several times and slid it into a pocket.

The steam shovel began to move away, rolling toward the access road through a light wind that blew a steady stream of snow over the summit. The crew chief surveyed his work with satisfaction. “Good night, folks,” he said. “Be careful.”

When he had left, they walked slowly around the trench, poking flashlight beams down into it. “That’s going to be a lot of digging,” said Max.

April nodded. “We’ve got a lot of people.”

10

Shopkeepers, students, government officials, farmers,

Ordinary men and women, they came,

And were forever changed…

–Walter Asquith, Ancient Shores

In the morning, a horde of volunteer workers crowded into the auditorium at the Fort Moxie City Hall. The press was represented by Jim Stuyvesant, the town’s gray eminence and the editor and publisher of the weekly Fort Moxie News. Stuyvesant didn’t know much about why there had been a call for workers, other than that there was going to be an excavation on Johnson’s Ridge, but in a town where the news was perpetually slow, this was front-page stuff.

At eight sharp April tapped her microphone, waited for the crowd to quiet, and thanked everyone for coming. “We don’t know much about this structure,” she said. “We don’t know how durable it is, and we don’t know how valuable it is. Please be careful not to damage anything. We aren’t in a hurry.” Stuyvesant, who was his own photographer, took some pictures. “If you find anything that’s not rock and dirt, please call a supervisor over.”

“Is it Indian stuff?” asked a man in a red-checked jacket up front.

“We don’t know what it is.” April smiled. “After you help us find out, we’ll let you know. Please stay with your team. Tomorrow you can report directly to the work site. Or come here if you prefer. We’ll have a bus leaving at eight and every hour after that, on the hour, until two P.M. We’ll quit at four-thirty. You can quit when you want, but please check out with your team leader. Unless you don’t care whether you get paid.”

The audience laughed. They were in a good mood—unexpected Christmas money was coming, and the weather was holding.

“Any questions?”

“Yeah.” One of the students. “Is there going to be something hot to drink out there?”

“We’ll have a van dispensing coffee, hot chocolate, sandwiches, and hamburgers. Hot chocolate and coffee are on the house. Please be careful about refuse. There’ll be containers; use them. Anyone caught littering will be asked to leave. Anything else?”

People began buttoning parkas, moving toward the doors.

They poured out of the old frame building and piled into buses and cars and pickups. Stuyvesant took more pictures and waited for April. “Dr. Cannon,” he said, “what actually is on the ridge?”

“Jim,” she said, “I honestly don’t know, and I don’t want to speculate. It’s probably just an old storage facility from the early part of the century. Give me a few days and you can come look at it.”

Stuyvesant nodded. The Fort Moxie News traditionally reported stories that people wanted to see printed: trips to Arizona, family reunions, church card parties. He was therefore not accustomed to people who dodged his questions. He had an additional problem that daily newspapers did not: a three-day lead time before the News hit the street. He was already past the deadline for the next edition. “I can’t believe anybody would put a storage shed on top of a ridge. It’s a little inconvenient, don’t you think?”

“Jim, I really have to go.”

“Please bear with me a minute, Dr. Cannon. You’re a chemist, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Why is a chemist interested in an archeological site?”

April had not expected to be put under the gun. “It’s my hobby,” she said.

“Is there an archeologist here somewhere? A real one? Directing things?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, no. Not really.”

“Dr. Cannon, several weeks ago somebody dug up a yacht in the area. Is this project connected with the yacht?”

“I just don’t know,” April said, aware that she was approaching incoherence. “Jim, I’m sorry. I have to go.” She saw Max, waved, and started toward him.

But Stuyvesant kept pace. “There’s a rumor it’s a UFO,” he said.

She stopped and knew she should think before she said anything. She didn’t. “No comment,” she blurted out.

It was, of course, among the worst things she could have said.

They rented three vans: one to use as a kitchen, the second to serve as a control center, and the third to be a general-purpose shelter. They also erected a tent in which to store equipment.

Max had established himself at the Northstar Motel in Fort Moxie. He called Stell to tell her he’d be staying near the site for several days and asked her to arrange to get his car delivered so he would have local transportation.

Lasker agreed to take over the administrative aspects of the dig. He wasted no time designing an overall plan, appointing supervisors, devising work teams and assigning them rotating responsibilities, and putting together a schedule that allowed the workers almost as much time in shelter as exposed to the elements.

He also thought nothing of throwing a few spadefuls of earth himself. His attitude caught on, especially when April and Max joined in. Consequently, things happened quickly. And on the same day that the Fort Moxie News hit the stands with its UFO story, Lem Hardin, who worked part-time at the lumberyard, broke through to a hard green surface.

UFO ATOP JOHNSON’S RIDGE?

SCIENTISTS:

“NO COMMENT”

by Jim Stuyvesant

Fort Moxie, Dec. 17—

Dr. April Cannon, who is directing an excavation effort on Johnson’s Ridge, refused today to deny escalating rumors that she has found a flying saucer.

Cannon heads a workforce of more than two hundred people who are trying to unearth a mysterious object, which was found recently after an intensive radar search. Archeologists at the University of North Dakota commented that Johnson’s Ridge is an unlikely site for Native-American artifacts, and they are at a loss to explain the reasons behind the Cannon initiative.

The story was picked up immediately by the major wire services.

Max’s first intimation of the breakthrough came with a loud round of distant cheers. He got up from his desk and was reaching for his coat when the phone rang. “The roof,” Lasker told him.

The word passed quickly around the site, and people scrambled up ladders and dropped wheelbarrows to hurry over to see. What they saw, those who could get close enough, was a small emerald-colored patch protruding out of the dirt at the bottom of a ditch.

April was already there when Max arrived. She was on her knees, gloves off, bent over the find. Max climbed down beside her.