Текст книги "Relic"
Автор книги: Lincoln Child
Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 27 страниц)
= 30 =
Five minutes later, in her office several floors below, Margo picked up the phone and dialed. Smithback was in a rare mood. As Margo explained Moriarty’s discovery of the deleted accession record and—in somewhat less detail—the events in Frock’s office, his mood grew even more cheerful.
She heard him chuckling. “Was I right about Rickman, or what? Concealing evidence. Now I’ll make her see the book my way, or—”
“Smithback, don’t you dare,” Margo warned. “This isn’t for your personal gratification. We don’t know the story behind that journal, and we can’t worry about it, right now. We haveto get into those crates, and we only have a few minutes to do it.”
“All right, all right,” came the answer. “Meet me at the landing outside Entomology. I’m leaving now.”
“I never thought Frock could be such a radical,” Smithback said. “My respect for the old feller has just gone [211] up two notches.” He was making his way down a long flight of iron stairs. They’d taken a back way in hopes of avoiding the police checkpoints set up at all elevator banks.
“You’ve got the key and the combination, right?” he asked from the bottom of the stairs. Margo checked her carryall, then followed him.
She glanced quickly up and down the corridor. “You know how the hall outside the Secure Area has lighted alcoves along it? You go ahead, I’ll follow a minute later. Talk to the guard, try to draw him into an alcove where the light is better, on the pretext of showing him this form. Get him to turn his back for a couple of minutes, and then I’ll unlock the door and go in. Just keep him occupied. You’re a good talker.”
“That’s your plan?” Smithback scoffed. “All right.” He spun on his heels, continued down the corridor, and vanished around the corner.
Margo waited, counting to sixty. Then she moved forward, pulling on a pair of latex gloves.
Soon she could hear Smithback’s voice, already raised in righteous protest. “This paper is signed by the Chairman of the department himself! Are you trying to tell me that ...”
She poked her head around the corner. About fifty feet down the hall was an intersection with another hallway that led to the police barricades. Further down was the door to the Secure Area itself, and, beyond that, Margo could see the guard. He had his back to her, and was holding her form in one hand.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she could hear him say, “but this hasn’t gone through Processing ...”
“You’re not looking in the right place,” Smithback responded. “Take it over here where you can read it, here in the light.”
They moved down the hall away from Margo, into an illuminated alcove. As they disappeared from view, Margo came around the corner and walked briskly down [212] the hall. At the Secure Area door, she inserted the key and pushed gingerly. The door swung open on oiled hinges. She peered around the edge to make sure she was alone; the darkened room seemed empty, and she eased the door shut behind her.
Her heart was already racing, the blood pounding in her ears. She caught her breath, fumbled for the light switch. The vaults stretched ahead of her in rows to the left and right. When she noticed the third door on the right had a yellow EVIDENCE sheet taped to it, she grasped its dial with one hand and took out Frock’s scrap of paper with the other. 56-77-23. She took a deep breath and began, remembering the locker she’d once used to store her oboe in high school music class. Right, left, right...
There was a loud click. Immediately, she grabbed the lever and pulled downward. The door opened.
Inside, the crates were dim shapes against the far wall. She turned on the light and glanced at her watch. Three minutes had passed.
She had to work very quickly now. She could see the ragged marks where one of the larger crates had been torn and splintered apart. The marks sent shivers down her spine. Kneeling in front of the smaller crate, she removed its top and plunged her hands into the packing material, parting the stiff fibers to expose the artifacts.
Her hand closed around something hard. Pulling it out, Margo saw a small stone, carved with odd designs. Not very promising. She exposed a collection of what looked like jade lip plugs, then flint arrowheads, some points, a blow gun tube with a set of darts, long and sharp, the tips blackened with some hardened substance. Don’t want to be pricked by those, she thought. Still nothing worth taking. She delved deeper. The next layer held a small plant press, screwed shut; a damaged shaman’s rattle covered in grotesque designs; and a beautiful manta made of woven cloth and feathers.
On an impulse she stuffed the plant press, covered [213] with packing fibers, into her bag. The stone disc and rattle followed.
On the bottom layer, she found several jars containing small reptiles. Colorful, but nothing out of the ordinary.
Six minutes had passed. She sat up, listening, expecting any moment to hear the footsteps of the returning guard. But there was nothing.
She hastily stuffed the rest of the artifacts back into the crate and surrounded them with packing material. She picked up the lid, noting its loose inner lining. As she pried the lining away curiously, a brittle, water-damaged envelope slipped out into her lap; hastily, she crammed it into her bag.
Eight minutes. There was no time left.
Back in the central room, she listened, trying to make out the muffled sounds outside. She eased the door open a crack.
“What’s your badge number?” Smithback was saying loudly.
Margo couldn’t make out the guard’s reply. She slipped out and shut the door behind her, quickly peeling off her gloves and stuffing them into her carryall. She straightened up, looked herself up and down, then started walking past the alcove where Smithback and the guard were standing.
“Hey!”
She turned. The guard, flushed, was looking at her.
“Oh, there you are, Bill!” she said, thinking fast, hoping the guard hadn’t seen her come out the door. “Am I too late? Have you already been inside?”
“This guy won’t let me in!” Smithback complained.
“Listen, you,” the guard said, turning back to Smithback. “I’ve told you a thousand times, and I won’t tell you again. That form has to be properly processed before I can give you access. Understand?”
They’d pulled it off.
Margo looked back down the hall. In the distance, she saw a tall, lean figure approaching: Ian Cuthbert.
[214] She grabbed Smithback’s arm. “We’ve got to go. Remember our appointment? We’ll have to look at the collections some other time.”
“That’s right. Of course.” Smithback babbled heartily. “I’ll get this taken care of later,” he said to the guard.
Near the far end of the hall, she pushed Smithback into an alcove.
“Get behind those cabinets,” Margo whispered.
They heard Cuthbert’s footsteps behind them as they concealed themselves. Then the footsteps stopped, and Cuthbert’s voice echoed loudly down the corridor.
“Has anyone tried to gain access to the vaults?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. There was a man trying to get in. They were just here.”
“Who?” demanded Cuthbert. “Those people you were just speaking with?”
“Yes, sir. He had a form but it hadn’t been properly processed, so I didn’t let him in.”
“You did notlet him in?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“Who issued the form? Frock?”
“Yes, sir. Dr. Frock.”
“And you didn’t get the name of this person?”
“I think his name was Bill. I don’t know about the woman, but—”
“Bill? Bill? Oh, that’s bloody brilliant. The firstthing you should do is ask for identification.”
“I’m sorry, sir. It was just that he insisted it was—”
But Cuthbert was already striding back angrily. The footfalls faded down the corridor.
At a nod from Smithback, Margo rose gingerly and dusted herself off. They stepped out into the hall.
“Hey, you there!” shouted the guard. “Come here, I need to see your ID! Wait!”
Smithback and Margo took off at a sprint. They raced [215] around a bend, then ducked into a stairwell and dashed up the wide concrete steps.
“Where are we going?” Margo panted.
“Damned if I know.”
They reached the next landing, and Smithback stepped out gingerly into the hallway. He looked up and down the corridor, then wrenched open a door marked MAMMALOGY, PONGIDAE STORAGE.
Inside, they stopped to catch their breath. The room was quiet and cool. As Margo’s eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, she noticed stuffed gorillas and chimpanzees standing in ranks like sentinels, and heaping piles of hairy skins on wooden racks. Against one wall were dozens of shelves lined with primate skulls.
Smithback listened intently at the door for a moment. Then he turned to Margo. “Lets see what you found,” he said.
“There wasn’t much,” Margo said, breathing heavily. “I took a couple of unimportant artifacts, that’s it. I did find this, though,” she said, reaching into her carryall.
“It was wedged in the lid of the crate.”
The unsealed envelope was addressed simply “H. C. Montague, NYMNH.”
The yellowed writing paper was embossed with a curious double-arrow motif. As Smithback peered over her shoulder, Margo held the sheet carefully up to the light and began to read.
Upper Xingú
Sept. 17, 1987
Montague,
I’ve decided to send Carlos back with the last crate and go on alone in search of Crocker. Carlos is trustworthy, and I can’t risk losing the crate should anything happen to me. Take note of the shaman’s rattle and other ritual objects. They seem unique. But the figurine I’ve enclosed, which we [216] found in a deserted hut at this site, is the proof I’ve been looking for. Note the exaggerated claws, the reptilian attributes, the hints at bipedalia. The Kothoga exist, and the Mbwun legend is not mere fabrication.
All my field notes are in this notebook. ...
= 31 =
Mrs. Lavinia Rickman sat in a wine-colored leather armchair in the Director’s office. The room was deathly silent. Not even traffic noises from the street three floors below penetrated the thick turret windows. Wright himself sat behind the desk, practically swallowed by the vast length of mahogany. A Reynolds portrait of Ridley A. Davis, the Museum’s founder, glared down from behind Wright.
Dr. Ian Cuthbert occupied a sofa along a far wall of the room. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his tweed suit loose on his spare frame. He was frowning. Normally humorless and irritable, he looked particularly austere on this afternoon.
Finally, Wright broke the silence.
“He’s called twice already this afternoon,” the Director snapped at Cuthbert. “I can’t avoid him forever. Sooner or later he’s going to raise a stink about being denied access to the crates. He may well drag this [218] Mbwun business into it. There’s going to be controversy.”
Cuthbert nodded. “As long as it’s later rather than sooner. When the exhibition is open and running, with forty thousand visitors a day and favorable notices in all the periodicals, let him bloody well raise hell about whatever he likes.”
There was another long silence.
“I hate to play devil’s advocate,” Cuthbert continued at last, “but when the dust settles from all this, you, Winston, are going to have the necessary increase in attendance. These rumors of a curse may be annoying now, but when things are safe again, everyone’s going to want a vicarious shudder and some scandal. Everyone’s going to want to go inside the Museum and see for themselves. It’s good for business. I’m telling you, Winston, we couldn’t have arranged it better ourselves.”
Wright frowned at the Assistant Director. “Rumors of a curse. Maybe it’s true. Look at all the disasters that have followed that ugly little figurine halfway around the world.” He laughed mirthlessly.
“You’re not serious,” said Cuthbert.
“I’ll tell you what I’m serious about,” Wright snapped. “I don’t want to hear you talking like that again. Frock has important friends. If he starts complaining to them ... well, you know how stories grow and spread. They’ll think you’re withholding information. They’ll think you’re banking on these killings bringing people in to see the exhibition. How’s thatfor publicity, eh?”
“Agreed,” Cuthbert said with a wintry smile. “But I don’t need to remind you that, if this exhibition doesn’t open on time, everything becomes academic. Frock must be kept on a short leash. Now, he’s sending hired help to do his dirty work. One of them tried to get into the Secure Vault less than an hour ago.”
“Who?” Wright demanded.
[219] “The security guard made a right hash of it,” Cuthbert replied. “But he got the fellow’s first name—Bill.”
“Bill?” Rickman sat up.
“Yes, I think that was it,” Cuthbert said, turning to the public relations director. “Isn’t that the name of the journalist who’s doing the book on my exhibition? He’s your man, isn’t he? Is he under control? I hear he’s been asking a lot of questions.”
“Absolutely,” said Rickman, a bright smile on her face. “We’ve had our ups and downs with him, but he’s toeing the line now. Control the sources, and you’ve controlled the journalist, as I always say.”
“Toeing the line, is he’?” Wright said. “Then why did you feel it necessary to send that mail message round to half the western world this morning, reminding them not to talk to strangers?”
Mrs. Rickman quickly held up a lacquered hand. “He’s been taken care of.”
“You’d damned well better make sure of that,” Cuthbert said. “You’ve been in on this little party from the beginning, Lavinia. I’m sure you don’t want this journalist of yours digging up any dirty knickers.”
There came a hiss of static over the intercom, and a voice said: “Mr. Pendergast to see you.”
“Send him in,” said Wright. He looked sourly at the others. “This is it.”
Pendergast appeared in the doorway, a newspaper tucked under one arm. He paused for a moment.
“My, this isa charming tableau,” he said. “Dr. Wright, thank you for seeing me again. Dr. Cuthbert, always a pleasure. And you are Lavinia Rickman, ma’am, are you not?”
“Yes,” Rickman replied, smiling primly.
“Mr. Pendergast,” said Wright, with a small, formal smile. “Please take any seat you wish.”
“Thank you, Doctor, but I prefer to stand.” Pendergast moved over to the massive fireplace and leaned against the mantle, arms folded.
[220] “Have you come to make a report? No doubt you’ve asked for this meeting to inform us of an arrest.”
“No,” said Pendergast. “I’m sorry, no arrests. Frankly, Dr. Wright, we’ve made very little progress. Despite what Ms. Rickman has been telling the newspapers.”
He showed them the newspaper’s headline: ARREST NEAR IN “MUSEUM BEAST” MURDERS.
There was a short silence. Pendergast folded the paper and carefully placed it on the mantelpiece.
“What’s the problem?” asked Wright. “I don’t understand what’s taking so long.”
“There are many problems, as you are no doubt aware,” said Pendergast. “But I’m not really here to brief you on the case. It’s enough if I remind you simply that a dangerous serial killer remains loose in the Museum. We have no reason to believe he has stopped killing. As far as we know, all his killings have been nocturnal. In other words, after 5 P.M. As the special agent in charge of this investigation, I’m regretfully informing you that the curfew we’ve set up must remain in force until such time as the killer is found. There will be no exceptions.”
“The opening. … Rickman bleated.
“The opening will have to be postponed. It may be for a week, it may be for a month. I can’t make any promises, I’m afraid. I’m very sorry.”
Wright stood up, his face livid. “You said the opening could go on as scheduled provided there were no more killings. That was our agreement.”
“I made no agreement with you, Doctor,” Pendergast said mildly. “I’m afraid we are no closer to catching the murderer than we were at the beginning of the week.” He gestured toward the newspaper on the mantle. “Headlines like these make people complacent, incautious. The opening would probably be very well attended. Thousands of people, in the Museum after dark ...” He shook his head. “I have no other choice.”
[221] Wright stared at the agent in disbelief. “Because of your incompetence, you expect us to delay the opening, and do the Museum irreparable harm in the process? The answer is no.”
Pendergast, unruffled, walked forward into the center of the room. “Forgive me, Dr. Wright, if I didn’t make myself clear. I’m not here to ask your permission; I’m merely notifying you of my decision.”
“Right,” the Director answered, his voice shaking. “I see. You can’t do your own job, but you still want to tell me how to do mine. Do you have any idea what delaying the opening would do to our exhibition? Do you know what kind of message it would send to the public? Well, Pendergast, I’m not going to allow it.”
Pendergast stared steadily at Wright. “Any unauthorized personnel found on the premises after five o’clock will be arrested and charged with trespassing at a scene of crime. This is a misdemeanor. Second violations will be charged with obstruction of justice, which is a felony, Dr. Wright. I trust I make myself sufficiently clear?”
“The only thing that’s clear right now is your path to the door,” Wright said, his voice rising. “It’s unobstructed. Please take it.”
Pendergast nodded. “Gentlemen. Ma’am.” Then he turned around and moved silently out of the room.
Closing the door quietly, Pendergast stopped for a moment in the Director’s outer office. Then, staring at the door, he quoted,
So I return rebuk’d to my content,
And gain by ills thrice more than I have spent.
Wright’s executive secretary stopped her gum chewing in mid-snap. “Howzat?” she inquired.
“No, Shakespeare,” Pendergast replied, heading for the elevator.
¯
[222] Inside, Wright fumbled at the telephone with shaking hands.
“What the hell happens now?” exploded Cuthbert. “I’ll be damned if a bloody policeman’s going to boot us out of our own Museum.”
“Cuthbert, be quiet,” said Wright. Then he spoke into the handset. “Get me Albany, right away.”
There was a silence while he was put on hold. Wright looked over the receiver at Cuthbert and Rickman, controlling his heavy breathing with an effort. “Time to call in some favors,” he said. “We’ll see who has the final word here: some inbred albino from the Delta, or the Director of the largest natural history museum in the world.”
= 32 =
The vegetation here is very unusual. The cycads and ferns look almost primordial. Too bad there isn’t time for more careful study. We’ve used a particularly resilient variety as packing material for the crates; feel free to let Jörgensen take a look, if he’s interested.
I fully expect to be with you at the Explorer’s Club a month from now, celebrating our success with a brace of dry martinis and a good Macanudo. Until then, I know I can entrust this material and my reputation to you.
Your colleague,
Whittlesey
Smithback looked up from the letter. “We can’t stay here. Let’s go to my office.”
His cubbyhole lay deep in a maze of overflow offices on the Museum’s ground level. The honeycomb [224] passages, full of noise and bustle, seemed a refreshing change to Margo after the damp, echoing basement corridors outside the Secure Area. They walked past a large green Dumpster overflowing with back issues of the Museum’s magazine. Outside Smithback’s office, a large bulletin board was plastered with a variety of irate letters from subscribers, for the amusement of the magazine staff.
Once before, hot on the trail of an issue of Sciencelong overdue from the periodical library, Margo had penetrated Smithback’s messy lair. It was as she remembered it: his desk a riot of photocopied articles, half-finished letters, Chinese take-out menus, and numerous books and journals the Museum’s libraries were no doubt very eager to find.
“Have a seat,” Smithback said, pushing a two-foot stack of paper brusquely off a chair. He closed the door, then walked around his desk to an ancient bentwood rocker. Paper crackled beneath his feet.
“Okay,” he said in a low tone. “Now, you’re sure the journal wasn’t there?”
“I told you, the only crate I had a chance to look at was the one Whittlesey packed himself. But it wouldn’t have been in the others.”
Smithback examined the letter again. “Who’s this Montague the thing’s addressed to?” he asked.
“Don’t know,” Margo replied.
“How about Jörgensen?”
“Haven’t heard of him, either.”
Smithback pulled down the Museum’s telephone listing from a shelf. “No Montague here,” he murmured, flipping pages. “Aha! Here’s Jörgensen. Botany. Says he’s retired. How come he still has an office?”
“Not unusual in this place,” Margo replied. “Independently wealthy people with little else to fill up their time. Where’s his office?”
“Section forty-one, fourth floor,” Smithback said, [225] closing the book and dropping it on his desk. “Near the herbarium.” He stood up. “Let’s go.”
“Wait a minute, Smithback. It’s almost four o’clock. I should call Frock and let him know what ...”
“Later,” Smithback said, making for the door. “Come on, Lotus Blossom. My journalist’s nose hasn’t picked up a decent scent all afternoon.”
Jörgensen’s office was a small, windowless laboratory with a high ceiling. It held none of the plants or floral specimens Margo expected to see in a botanist’s lab. In fact, the room was empty except for a large workbench, a chair, and a coat rack. A drawer of the workbench was open, exposing a variety of worn tools. Jörgensen was bending over the workbench, fiddling with a small motor.
“Dr. Jörgensen?” Smithback asked.
The old man turned and gazed at Smithback. He was almost completely bald, with bushy white eyebrows overhanging intense eyes the color of bleached denim. He was bony and stooped but Margo thought he must be at least six feet four.
“Yes?” he said in a quiet voice.
Before Margo could stop him, Smithback handed Jörgensen the letter.
The man began reading, then started visibly. Without taking his eyes from the letter, he reached around for the battered chair and carefully eased himself into it.
“Where did you get this?” he demanded when he had finished.
Margo and Smithback looked at each other.
“It’s genuine,” Smithback said.
Jörgensen stared at them. Then he handed the letter back to Smithback. “I don’t know anything about this,” he said.
There was a silence. “It came from the crate John Whittlesey sent back from the Amazon expedition seven years ago,” Smithback prompted hopefully.
[226] Jörgensen continued to stare at them. After a few moments, he returned to his motor.
The two watched him tinker for a moment. “I’m sorry we interrupted your work,” Margo said at last. “Perhaps this isn’t a good time.”
“What work?” asked Jörgensen, without turning around.
“Whatever that is you’re doing,” Margo replied.
Jörgensen suddenly barked out a laugh. “This?” he said, turning to face them again. “This isn’t work. This is just a broken vacuum cleaner. Since my wife died, I’ve had to do the housework myself. Darn thing blew up on me the other day. I only brought it in here because this is where all my tools are. I don’t have much work to do anymore.”
“About that letter, sir—” Margo pressed.
Jörgensen shifted in the creaky chair and leaned back, looking at the ceiling. “I hadn’t known it existed. The double-arrow motif served as the Whittlesey family crest. And that’s Whittlesey’s handwriting, all right. It brings back memories.”
“What kind?” asked Smithback eagerly.
Jörgensen looked over at him, his brows contracting with irritation. “Nothing that’s any of your business,” he said tartly. “Or at least, I haven’t heard just why it might be your business.”
Margo shot Smithback a shut-up look. “Dr. Jörgensen,” she began, “I’m a graduate student working with Dr. Frock. My colleague here is a journalist. Dr. Frock believes that the Whittlesey expedition, and the crates that were sent back, have a link to the Museum murders.”
“A curse?” said Jörgensen, raising his eyebrows theatrically.
“No, not a curse,” said Margo.
“I’m glad you haven’t bought into that one. There’s no curse. Unless you define a curse as a mixture of [227] greed, human folly, and scientific jealousy. You don’t need Mbwun to explain ...”
He stopped. “Why are you so interested?” he asked suspiciously.
“To explain what?” Smithback interjected.
Jörgensen looked at him with distaste. “Young man, if you open your mouth one more time I’m going to ask you to leave.”
Smithback narrowed his eyes but remained silent. Margo wondered if she should go into detail about Frock’s theories, the claw marks, the damaged crate, but decided not to. “We’re interested because we feel that there’s a connection here that no one is paying attention to. Not the police, and not the Museum. You were mentioned in this letter. We hoped you might be able to tell us more about this expedition.”
Jörgensen held out a gnarled hand. “May I see that again?”
Reluctantly, Smithback complied.
Jörgensen’s eyes passed over the letter again, hungrily, as if sucking in memories. “There was a time,” he murmured, “I would have been reluctant to talk about this. Maybe afraid would be a better word. Certain parties might have sought to fire me.” He shrugged. “But when you get as old as I am, you don’t have much to be afraid of. Except maybe being alone.”
He nodded slowly to Margo, clutching the letter. “I would have been on that expedition, if it hadn’t been for Maxwell.”
“Maxwell? Who’s he?” asked Smithback.
Jörgensen shot him a look. “I’ve knocked down bigger journalists than you,” he snapped. “Now I said, be quiet. I’m talking to the lady.”
He turned to Margo again.
“Maxwell was one of the leaders of the expedition. Maxwell and Whittlesey. That was the first mistake, letting Maxwell muscle his way in, making the two of them [228] coleaders. They were at odds right from the beginning. Neither one had full control. Maxwell’s gain was my loss—he decided they didn’t have room for a botanist on the expedition, and that was it for me. But Whittlesey was even less happy about it than I. Having Maxwell along put his hidden agenda at risk.”
“What was that?” Margo asked.
“To find the Kothoga tribe. There were rumors of an undiscovered tribe living on a tepui, a vast tableland above the rain forest. Although the area had not been scientifically explored, the consensus was that the tribe was extinct, that only relics remained. Whittlesey didn’t believe this. He wanted to be their discoverer. The only problem was, the local government denied him a permit to study on the tepui. Said it was reserved for their own scientists. Yankee go home.”
Jörgensen snorted, shook his head.
“Well, what it was really being reserved for was depredation, land rape. Of course, the local government had heard the same rumors Whittlesey had. If there were Indians up there, the government didn’t want them in the way of timbering and mining. So anyway, the expedition had to approach from the north. A much less convenient route, but away from the restricted area. And they were forbidden to ascend the tepuiitself.”
“Did the Kothoga still exist?” Margo asked.
Jörgensen slowly shook his head. “We’ll never know. The government found something on top of that tepui. Maybe gold, platinum, placer deposits. You can detect lots of things with satellites these days. Anyway, the tepuiwas fired from the air in the spring of ‘88.”
“Fired?” Margo asked.
“Burned clear with napalm,” Jörgensen said. “Unusual and expensive to do it that way. Apparently, the fire got out of hand, spread, burned uncontrollably for months. Then they built a big road in there, coming up the easy way from the south. They hauled in Japanese hydraulic mining equipment and literally washed away [229] huge sections of the mountain. No doubt they leeched the gold and platinum or whatever with cyanic compounds, then just let the poison run into the rivers. There’s nothing, I mean nothing, left. That’s why the Museum never sent a second expedition down to search for the remains of the first.” He cleared his throat.
“That’s terrible,” breathed Margo.
Jörgensen gazed up with his unsettling cerulean eyes. “Yes. It isterrible. Of course, you won’t read about it in the Superstitionexhibition.”
Smithback held up one hand while slipping out his microcassette recorder with the other. “Excuse me, may I—?”
“No, you may notrecord this. This is not for attribution. Not for quotation. Not for anything. I’ve received a memo to that effect just this morning, as you probably know. This is for me: I haven’t been able to talk about this for years, and I’m going to do it now, just this once. So keep quiet and listen.”
There was a silence.
“Where was I?” Jörgensen resumed. “Oh, yes. So Whittlesey had no permit to ascend the tepui. And Maxwell was the consummate bureaucrat. He was determined to make Whittlesey play by the rules. Well, when you get out there in the jungle two hundred miles from any kind of government. ... What rules?” He cackled.
“I doubt if anybody knows exactly what didhappen out there. I got the story from Montague, and he pieced it together from Maxwell’s telegrams. Not exactly an unbiased source.”
“Montague?” Smithback interrupted.
“In any case,” Jörgensen continued, ignoring Smithback, “it appears Maxwell stumbled upon some unbelievable botany. Around the base of the tepui, ninety-nine percent of the plant species were absolutely new to science. They found strange, primitive ferns and monocotyledons that looked like throwbacks to the Mesozoic Era. Even though Maxwell was a physical [230] anthropologist, he went crazy over the strange vegetation. They filled up crate after crate with odd specimens. That was when Maxwell found those seed pods.”
“How important were they?”
“They were from a living fossil. Not unlike the discovery of the coelacanth in the 1930s: a species from an entire phylum they thought had become extinct in the Carboniferous. An entire phylum.”
“Did these seed pods look like eggs?” asked Margo.
“I couldn’t say. But Montague got a look at them, and he told me they were hard as hell. They’d need to be buried deep in the highly acidic soil of a rain forest in order to germinate. I imagine they’re still in those crates.”
“Dr. Frock thought they wereeggs.”
