Текст книги "Relic"
Автор книги: Lincoln Child
Соавторы: Douglas Preston
Жанр:
Триллеры
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 27 страниц)
I am flabbergasted, and elated—this tale fits into myth cycles we had only heard secondhand. I tell Carlos to get more details about Mbwun—woman breaks away—great strength for one so old—melts into brush. Carlos follows her, comes back empty-handed—he looks frightened, I don’t push matters. Investigate hut. When we return to trail, guides gone.
“She knew they were going to take the figurine back!” Smithback said. “That must have been the curse she was talking about!”
He read on.
Sept. 17. Crocker missing since last night. I fear the worst. Carlos very apprehensive. I will send him back after Maxwell, who must be halfway to the river by now—can’t afford to lose this relic, which I believe priceless. I will continue on in search of Crocker. There are trails throughout these woods that must be Kothogan—how civilization [251] can harness this kind of landscape is beyond me—perhaps the Kothoga will be saved after all.
That was the end of the journal.
Smithback closed the book with a curse. “I can’t believe it! Nothing we didn’t already know. And I sold my soul to Rickman ... for this!”
= 36 =
Behind his desk in the command post, Pendergast was fiddling with an ancient Mandarin puzzle made of brass and knotted silken cord. He seemed totally absorbed. Behind him, the learned sounds of a string quartet emerged from the speakers of a small cassette player. Pendergast did not look up as D’Agosta walked in.
“Beethoven’s String Quartet in F Major, Opus 135,” he said. “But no doubt you knew that, Lieutenant. It’s the fourth movement Allegro, known as Der schwer gefaßte Entschluß—the ‘Difficult Resolution.’ A title that could be bestowed on this case, as well as the movement, perhaps? Amazing, isn’t it, how art imitates life.”
“It’s eleven o’clock,” D’Agosta said.
“Ah, of course,” Pendergast said, rolling his chair back and standing up. “The Security Director owes us a guided tour. Shall we go?”
The door of Security Command was opened by Ippolito himself. To D’Agosta, the place looked like the control [253] room of a nuclear power plant, all dials and buttons and levers. Across one wall was a vast miniature city of lighted grids, arranged in intricate geometries. Two guards monitored a battery of closed-circuit screens. In the center, D’Agosta recognized the relay box for the repeater stations used to ensure strong signals for the radios the police and Museum guards carried.
“This,” said Ippolito, spreading his hands and smiling, “is one of the most sophisticated security systems in any museum in the world. It was designed especially for us. It cost us a pretty penny, I can tell you.”
Pendergast looked around. “Impressive,” he said.
“It’s state of the art,” said Ippolito.
“No doubt,” Pendergast said. “But what concerns me right now, Mr. Ippolito, is the safety of the five thousand guests who are expected here tonight. Tell me how the system works.”
“It was primarily designed to prevent theft,” the security director went on. “A large number of the Museum’s most valuable objects have small chips attached in inconspicuous places. Each chip transmits a tiny signal to a series of receivers located around the Museum. If the object is moved even one inch, an alarm goes off, pinpointing the location of the object.”
“And then what happens?” asked D’Agosta.
Ippolito grinned. At a console, he pressed some buttons. A large screen illuminated floor plans of the Museum.
“The interior of the Museum,” Ippolito continued, “is divided into five cells. Each cell includes a number of exhibit halls and storage areas. Most of these run from basement to roof, but, because of the Museum’s structural framework, the perimeters in cells two and three are a little more complicated. When I flick a switch on this panel here, thick steel doors drop down from the ceilings to seal off the interior passages between cells. The Museum windows are all barred. Once we’ve sealed off a certain cell, the burglar is trapped. He can move [254] around within one section of the Museum, but he can’t get out. The grid was laid out in such a way that the exits are external to it, making monitoring easy.” He moved over to the layouts. “Let’s say someone manages to steal an object, and by the time the guards arrive, he’s left the room. It won’t make any difference. Within a few seconds, the chip will have sent a signal to the computer, instructing it to seal off that entire cell. The whole process is automatic. The burglar is trapped inside.”
“What happens if he takes the chip off before he runs?” D’Agosta asked.
“The chips are motion sensitive,” Ippolito continued. “That would set off the alarm, too, and the security doors would instantly descend. A burglar couldn’t move fast enough to get out.”
Pendergast nodded. “How do you reopen the doors once the burglar has been caught?”
“We can open any set of doors from this control room, and each security door has a manual override on it. It’s a keypad, actually. Punch in the right code, and the door comes up.”
“Very nice,” Pendergast murmured. “But the entire system is geared toward preventing someone from getting out. What we’re dealing with here is a killer who wants to stay in. How will all this help keep tonight’s guests safe?”
Ippolito shrugged. “No big deal. We’ll just use the system to create a secure perimeter around the reception hall and the exhibition. All the festivities are taking place inside Cell Two.” He pointed to the schematic. “The reception is taking place in the Hall of the Heavens, here. That’s just outside the entrance to the Superstitionexhibition, which is itself within Cell Two. All the steel doors for this cell will be closed. We’ll be leaving only four doors open: the East Door of the Great Rotunda—which is the gateway to the Hall of the Heavens—and three emergency exits. All will be heavily guarded.”
[255] “And what parts of the Museum exactly does Cell Two consist of?” asked Pendergast.
Ippolito pushed some buttons on the console. A large central section of the Museum glowed green on the panels.
“This is Cell Two,” Ippolito said. “As you can see, it reaches from the basement to the ceiling, as do all the cells. The Hall of the Heavens is here. The computer lab and the room we’re in now, Security Command, are both inside this cell. So is the Secure Area, the central archives, and a variety of other high-security areas. There will be no exit from the Museum except through the four steel doors, which we’ll keep open on override. We’ll seal the perimeter an hour before the party, drop all the other doors, and set up guards at the access points. I’m telling you, it’ll be more secure than a bank vault.”
“And the rest of the Museum?”
“We thought about sealing all five cells, but decided against it.”
“Good,” said Pendergast, eyeing another panel. “In the event of a crisis, we wouldn’t want any emergency personnel to be hampered.” He pointed at the illuminated panel. “But what about the subbasement? The basement areas of this cell may well connect with it. And that subbasement could lead almost anywhere.”
“Nobody would dare try to use that,” Ippolito snorted. “It’s a maze.”
“But we’re not talking about an ordinary burglar. We’re talking about a killer that’s eluded every search you, I, or D’Agosta here have mounted. A killer that seems to call the subbasement home.”
“There is only one stairwell connecting the Hall of the Heavens to other floors,” Ippolito explained patiently, “and it’ll be guarded by my men, just like the emergency exits. I’m telling you, we’ve got this figured out. The entire perimeter is going to be secure.”
Pendergast examined the glowing map for some time [256] in silence. “How do you know this schematic is accurate?” he asked finally.
Ippolito looked a little flustered. “Of course it’s accurate.”
“I asked: how do you know?”
“The system was designed straight off the architectural drawings from the 1912 reconstruction.”
“No changes since then? No doors knocked open here, sealed off there?
“All changes were taken into account.”
“Did those architectural drawings cover the Old Basement and subbasement areas?”
“No, those are older areas. But, like I told you, they’ll either be sealed or guarded.”
There was a long silence while Pendergast continued to look at the panels. Finally, he sighed and turned to face the Security Director.
“Mr. Ippolito, I don’t like it.”
A throat was cleared behind them. “What doesn’t he like now?”
D’Agosta didn’t have to turn around. That abrasive Long Island accent could belong only to Special Agent Coffey.
“I’m just reviewing the security procedures with Mr. Pendergast,” said Ippolito.
“Well, Ippolito, you’re gonna have to review them all over again with me.” He turned his narrow eyes on Pendergast. “Remember in the future to invite me to your private parties,” he said irritably.
“Mr. Pendergast—” Ippolito began.
“Mr. Pendergast is up here from the Deep South to give us a little help here and there when we need it. I’m running the show now. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” said Ippolito. He reviewed the procedures again while Coffey sat in an operator’s chair, twirling a set of earphones around his finger. D’Agosta wandered around the room, looking at the control panels. Pendergast listened carefully to Ippolito, looking for all the [257] world as if he hadn’t heard the speech before. When the Security Director finished, Coffey leaned back in his chair.
“Ippolito, you got four holes in this perimeter.” He paused for effect. “I want three of them plugged. I want only one way in and one way out.”
“Mr. Coffey, fire regulations require—”
Coffey waved his hand. “Let me worry about the fire regulations. You worry about the holes in your security net. The more holes we have, the more trouble we have waiting to happen.”
“That, I’m afraid, is precisely the wrongway to go,” Pendergast said. “If you close these three exits, the guests are going to be locked in. Should something happen, there would be only one way out.”
Coffey spread his hands in a gesture of frustration. “Hey, Pendergast, that’s just the point. You can’t have it both ways. Either you have a secure perimeter or you don’t. Anyway, according to Ippolito here, each security door has an emergency override. So what’s your problem?”
“That’s right,” said Ippolito, “the doors can be opened using the keypad in an emergency. All you need is the code.”
“May I ask what controls the keypad?” asked Pendergast.
“The central computer. The computer room is right next door.”
“And if the computer goes down?”
“We’ve got backup systems, with redundancies. Those panels on the far wall control the backup system. Each panel has its own alarm.”
“That’s another problem,” said Pendergast quietly.
Coffey exhaled loudly and spoke to the ceiling. “He still doesn’t like it.”
“I counted eighty-one alarm lights on that bank of controls alone,” Pendergast continued, oblivious to Coffey. “In a true emergency, with multiple system failure, [258] most of those alarms would be blinking. No team of operators could deal with that.”
“Pendergast, you’re slowing me down,” Coffey snapped. “Ippolito and I are going to work out these details, okay? We’ve got less than eight hours to show-time.”
“Has the system been tested?” Pendergast asked.
“We test it every week,” said Ippolito.
“What I mean is, has it ever been put to the test in a real situation? An attempted theft, perhaps?”
“No, and I hope it never is.”
“I regret to say it,” said Pendergast, “but this strikes me as a system designed for failure. I’m a great advocate of progress, Mr. Ippolito, but I’d strongly recommend an old-fashioned approach here. In fact, during the party, I would disable the whole system. Just turn it off. It’s too complex, and I wouldn’t trust it in an emergency. What we need is a proven approach, something we are all familiar with. Foot patrols, armed guards at every ingress and egress point. I’m sure Lieutenant D’Agosta will provide us with extra men.”
“Just say the word,” said D’Agosta.
“The word is no.” Coffey began to laugh. “Jesus, he wants to disablethe system right at the moment when it’s most needed!”
“I must register my strongest objections to this plan,” said Pendergast.
“Well, you can write up your objections, then,” said Coffey, “and send them by slow boat to your New Orleans office. Sounds to me like Ippolito here’s got things pretty well under control.”
“Thank you,” Ippolito said, swelling visibly.
“This is a very unusual and dangerous situation,” Pendergast continued. “It’s not the time to rely on a complex and unproven system.”
“Pendergast,” said Coffey, “I’ve heard enough. Why don’t you just head down to your office and eat that catfish sandwich your wife put in your lunchbox?”
[259] D’Agosta was startled at the change that came over Pendergast’s face. Instinctively, Coffey took a step back. But Pendergast simply turned on his heel and walked out the door. D’Agosta moved to follow him.
“Where’re you going?” asked Coffey. “You better stick around while we work out the details.”
“I agree with Pendergast,” D’Agosta said. “This isn’t the time to start messing with video games. You’re talking about people’s lives here.”
“Listen up, D’Agosta. We’re the big boys, we’re the FBI. We’re not interested in the opinions of a traffic cop from Queens.”
D’Agosta looked at Coffey’s sweaty red face. “You’re a disgrace to law enforcement,” he said.
Coffey blinked. “Thank you, and I will note that gratuitous insult in my report to my good friend, Chief of Police Horlocker, who will no doubt take appropriate action.”
“You can add this one, then: you’re a sack of shit.”
Coffey threw back his head and laughed. “I love people who slit their own throats and save you the trouble. It’s already occurred to me that this case is much too important to have a lieutenant acting as NYPD liaison. You’re gonna be pulled off this case in twenty-four hours, D’Agosta. Did you know that? I wasn’t going to tell you until after the party-didn’t want to spoil your fun—but I guess now’s a good time after all. So put your last afternoon on this case to good use. And we’ll see you at the four o’clock briefing. Be on time.”
D’Agosta said nothing. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised.
= 37 =
An explosive sneeze rattled beakers and dislodged dried plant specimens in the Museum’s auxiliary botanical lab.
“Sorry,” Kawakita apologized, sniffling. “Allergies.”
“Here’s a tissue,” Margo said, reaching into her carryall. She’d been listening to Kawakita’s description of his genetic Extrapolator program. It’s brilliant, she thought. But I’ll bet Frock supplied most of the theory behind it.
“Anyway,” Kawakita said, “you start with gene sequences from two animals or plants. That’s the input. What you get is an extrapolation—a guess from the computer of what the evolutionary link is between the two species. The program automatically matches up pieces of DNA, compares like sequences, then figures out what the extrapolated form might be. As an example, I’ll do a test run with chimp and human DNA. What we should get is a description of some intermediate form.”
[261] “The Missing Link,” Margo nodded. “Don’t tell me it draws a picture of the animal, too?”
“No!” Kawakita laughed. “I’d get a Nobel Prize if it could do that. What it does instead is give you a list of morphological and behavioral features the animal or plant might possess. Not definite, but probable. And not a complete list, of course. You’ll see when we finish this run.”
He typed a series of instructions, and data began flowing across the computer screen: a rapid, undulating progression of zeros and ones. “You can turn this off,” said Kawakita. “But I like to watch the data download from the gene sequencer. It’s as beautiful as watching a river. A trout stream, preferably.”
In about five minutes the data stopped and the screen went blank, glowing a soft blue. Then the face of Moe, from the Three Stooges, appeared, saying through the computer’s speaker: “I’m thinking, I’m thinking, but nothing’s happening!”
“That means the program’s running,” Kawakita said, chuckling at his joke. “It can take up to an hour, depending on how far apart the two species are.”
A message popped on the screen:
ESTIMATED TIME TO COMPLETION: 3.03.40 min.
“Chimps and humans are so close—they share ninety-eight percent of the same genes—that this one should be fairly quick.”
A light bulb suddenly popped on the screen over Moe’s head.
“Done!” said Kawakita. “Now for the results.”
He pressed a key. The computer screen read:
FIRST SPECIES:
Species: Pan troglodytes
Genus: Pan
[262] Family: Pongidae
Order: Primata
Class: Mammalia
Phylum: Chordata
Kingdom: Animalia
SECOND SPECIES:
Species: Homo sapiens
Genus: Homo
Family: Hominidae
Order: Primata
Class: Mammalia
Phylum: Chordata
Kingdom: Animalia
Overall Genetic Match: 98.4%
“Believe it or not,” said Kawakita, “the identification of these two species was made solely on the genes. I didn’t tell the computer what these two organisms were. That’s a good way to show unbelievers that the Extrapolator isn’t just a gimmick or a kludge. Anyway, now we get a description of the intermediate species. In this case, as you said, the Missing Link.”
Intermediate form morphological characteristics:
Gracile
Brain capacity: 750cc
Bipedal, erect posture
Opposable thumb
Loss of opposability in toes
Below average sexual dimorphism
Weight, male, full grown: 55 kg
[263] Weight, female, full grown: 45 kg
Gestation period: eight months
Aggressiveness: low to moderate
Estrus cycle in female: suppressed
The list went on and on, growing more and more obscure. Under “osteology,” Margo could make out almost nothing.
Atavistic parietal foramina process
Greatly reduced iliac crest
10-12 thoracic vertebrae
Partially rotated greater trochanter
Prominent rim of orbit
Atavistic frontal process with prominent zygomatic process
That must mean beetle browed, thought Margo to herself.
Diurnal
Partially or serially monogamous
Lives in cooperative social groups
“Come on. How can your program tell something like this?” Margo asked, pointing to monogamous.
“Hormones,” said Kawakita. “There’s a gene that codes for a hormone seen in monogamous mammal species, but not in promiscuous species. In humans, this hormone has something to do with pair bonding. It isn’t present in chimps, who are notoriously promiscuous animals. And the fact that the female’s estrus cycle is suppressed—you also see that only in relatively monogamous species. The program uses a whole arsenal of tools—subtle AI algorithms, fuzzy logic—to interpret [264] the effect of whole suites of genes on the behavior and look of a proposed organism.”
“AI algorithms? Fuzzy logic? You’re losing me,” Margo said.
“Well, it really doesn’t matter. You don’t need to know all the secrets, anyway. What it boils down to is making the program think more like a person than a normal computer would. It makes educated guesses, uses intuition. That one trait, ‘cooperative,’ for example, is extrapolated from the presence or absence of some eighty different genes.”
“That’s all?” Margo said jokingly.
“No,” Kawakita replied. “You can also use the program to guess at a singleorganism’s size, shape, and behavior by entering the DNA for one creature instead of two, and disabling the extrapolation logic. And assuming the funding holds up, I plan to add two other modules for this program. The first will extrapolate back in time from a single species, and the second will extrapolate forward. In other words, we’ll be able to learn more about extinct creatures of the past, and guess at beings of the future.” He grinned. “Not bad, huh?”
“It’s amazing,” said Margo. She feared her own research project seemed puny by comparison. “How did you develop it?”
Kawakita hesitated, staring at her a little suspiciously. “When I first started working with Frock, he told me he was frustrated by the spottiness of the fossil record. He said he wanted to fill in the gaps, learn what the intermediate forms were. So I wrote this program. He gave me most of the rule tables. We started testing it with various species. Chimps and humans, as well as various bacteria for which we had a lot of genetic data. Then an incredible thing happened. Frock, the old devil, was expecting it, but I wasn’t. We compared the domesticated dog with the hyena, and what we got was not a smoothly intermediate species, but a bizarre life form, totally different from either dog or hyena. This happened with a [265] couple of other species pairs, too. You know what Frock said to that?”
Margo shook her head.
“He just smiled and said, ‘Now you see the true value of this program.’ ” Kawakita shrugged. “You see, my program vindicated Frock’s theory of the Callisto Effect by showing that small changes in DNA can sometimes produce extreme changes in an organism. I was a little miffed, but that’s the way Frock works.”
“No wonder Frock was so anxious that I use this program,” Margo said. “This can revolutionize the study of evolution.”
“Yeah, except nobody is paying any attention to it,” said Kawakita bitterly. “Anything connected with Frock these days is like the kiss of death. It’s really frustrating to pour your heart and soul into something, and then just get ignored by the scientific community. You know, Margo, between you and me, I’m thinking of dumping Frock as an adviser and joining Cuthbert’s group. I think I’d be able to carry much of my work over with me. You might want to consider it yourself.”
“Thanks, but I’ll stick with Frock,” Margo said, offended. “I wouldn’t have even gone into genetics if it weren’t for him. I owe him a lot.”
“Suit yourself,” said Kawakita. “But then, you might not even stay at the Museum, right? At least, that’s what Bill Smithback tells me. But I’ve invested everything in this place. My philosophy is, you don’t owe anyone but yourself. Look around the Museum: look at Wright, Cuthbert, the whole lot. Are they out for anyone but themselves? We’re scientists, you and I. We knowabout survival of the fittest and ‘nature red in tooth and claw.’ And survival applies to scientists, too.”
Margo looked at Kawakita’s glittering eyes. He was right in a way. But at the same time, Margo felt that human beings, having figured out the brutal laws of nature, could perhaps transcend some of them.
[266] She changed the subject. “So the G.S.E. works the same way with plant DNA as with animal DNA?” “Exactly the same,” Kawakita replied, returning to his businesslike manner. “You run the DNA sequencer on two plant species, and then download the data into the Extrapolator. It’ll tell you how closely the plants are related, and then describe the intermediate form. Don’t be surprised if the program asks questions or makes comments. I added a lot of little bells and whistles here and there while I was developing my artificial intelligence chops.”
“I think I’ve got the idea,” said Margo. “Thanks. You’ve done some amazing work.”
Kawakita winked and leaned over. “You owe me one now, kid.”
“Anytime,” said Margo. Kid. Owing him one. She disliked people who talked like that. And when Kawakita said it, he meant it.
Kawakita stretched, sneezed again. “I’m off. Gotta grab some lunch, then go home and pick up my tux for the party tonight. I wonder why I even bothered to come in today—everybody else is home preparing for tonight. I mean, look at this lab. It’s deserted.”
“Tux, eh?” said Margo. “I brought my dress with me this morning. It’s nice, but it’s not a Nipon original or anything.”
Kawakita leaned toward her. “Dress for success, Margo. The powers that be take a look at some guy wearing a T-shirt, and even though he’s a genius they can’t visualizehim as Director of the Museum.”
“And you want to be Director?”
“Of course,” said Kawakita, surprised. “Don’t you?”
“What about just doing good science?”
“Anybody can do good science. But someday I’d like a larger role. As Director, you can do a lot more for science than some researcher fiddling in a dingy lab like this. Today it’s just not enough to do outstanding [267] research.” He patted her on the back. “Have fun. And don’t break anything.”
He left, and the lab settled into silence.
Margo sat for a moment, motionless. Then she opened up the folder with the Kiribitu plant specimens. But she couldn’t help thinking there were more important things to be done. When she’d finally reached Frock on the phone, and told him about what little she’d found in the crate, he had grown very quiet. It was as if, suddenly, all the fight had gone out of him. He’d sounded so depressed, she hadn’t bothered to tell him about the journal and its lack of new information.
She looked at her watch: after one o’clock. The DNA sequencing of each Kiribitu plant specimen was going to be time-consuming, and she had to complete the sequencing before she could use Kawakita’s Extrapolator. But as Frock had reminded her, this was the first attempt to do a systematic study of a primitive plant classification system. With this program, she could confirm that the Kiribitu, with their extraordinary knowledge of plants, had actually classified them biologically. The program would allow her to come up with intermediate plants, hypothetical species whose real counterparts might still be found in the Kiribitu rain forest. At least, that was Frock’s intention.
To sequence DNA from a plant, Margo had to remove part of each specimen. After a lengthy exchange of electronic mail that morning, she had finally been given permission to take 0.1 gram from each specimen. It was just barely enough.
She stared at the delicate specimens, smelling faintly of spice and grass. Some of them were powerful hallucinogens, used by the Kiribitu for sacred ceremonies; others were medicinal and quite possibly of great value to modern science.
She picked up the first plant with tweezers, slicing off the top portion of the leaf with an X-Acto knife. In a mortar and pestle, she ground it up with a mild enzyme [268] that would dissolve the cellulose and lyse the cells’ nuclei, releasing the DNA. She worked swiftly but meticulously, adding the appropriate enzymes, centrifuging the result and performing a titration, then repeating the process with other plants.
The final centrifuging took ten minutes, and while the centrifuge vibrated in its gray metal case, Margo sat back, her mind wandering. She wondered what Smithback was doing in his new role as Museum pariah. She wondered, with a small thrill of fear, whether Mrs. Rickman had discovered the missing journal. She thought about what Jörgensen had said, and about Whittlesey’s own description of his last days on earth. She imagined the old woman pointing a withered finger at the figurine in the box, warning Whittlesey about the curse. She imagined the setting: the ruined but overgrown by vines, the flies droning in the sunlight. Where had the woman come from? Why had she run off? Then she imagined Whittlesey taking a deep breath, entering that dark hut of mystery for the first time ...
Wait a minute, she thought. The journal had said they encountered the old woman before entering the deserted hut. And yet, the letter she found wedged in the lid of the crate clearly stated that Whittlesey discovered the figurine insidethe hut. He didn’t enter the but until after the old woman ran away.
The old woman was notlooking at the figurine when she cried out that Mbwun was in the crate! She must have been looking at something else in the crate and calling it Mbwun!But nobody had realized that, because they hadn’t found Whittlesey’s letter. They’d only had the journal for evidence, so they’d assumed Mbwun was the figurine.
But they were wrong.
Mbwun, the realMbwun, wasn’t the figurine at all. What had the woman said? Now white man come and take Mbwun away. Beware, Mbwun curse will destroy you! You bring death to your people!
[269] And that’s just what had happened. Death had come to the Museum. But what inside the crate could she have been referring to?
Grabbing the notebook from her carryall, she quickly reconstructed a list of what she had found in Whittlesey’s crate the day before:
Plant press with plants
Blow darts with tube Incised disk (found in the hut)
Lip plugs
Five or six jars with preserved frogs and salamanders (I think?)
Bird skins
Flint arrowheads and spear points
Shaman’s rattle
Manta
What else?She rummaged in her handbag. The plant press, disc, and shaman’s rattle were still there. She laid them on the table.
The damaged shaman’s rattle was interesting, but far from unusual. She’d seen several more exotic specimens in the Superstitionexhibition.
The disk was obscure. It showed some kind of ceremony, people standing in a shallow lake, bending over, some with plants in their hands, baskets on their backs. Very odd. But it certainly didn’t seem to be an object of veneration.
The list wasn’t helpful. Nothing inside the crate had looked remotely like a devil, or whatever else could inspire such terror in an old woman.
Margo carefully unscrewed the small, rusty plant press, its screws and plywood holding the blotter paper in place. She eased it open and lifted off the first sheet.
It held a plant stem and several small flowers. Nothing she had ever seen before, but not particularly interesting at first glance.
[270] The next sheets in the press contained flowers and leaves. It was not, Margo thought, a collection made by a professional botanist. Whittlesey was an anthropologist, and he had probably just picked these specimens because they looked showy and unusual. But why would he collect them at all? She went through all the specimens, and in the back found the note she was looking for.
“Selection of plants found in overgrown abandoned garden near hut (Kothoga?) on September 16, 1987. May be cultivated species, some may also be invasive after abandonment.” There was a little drawing of the overgrown plot, showing the location of the various plants. Anthropology, thought Margo, not botany. Still, she respected Whittlesey’s interest in the relationship the Kothoga had to their plants.
