A woman to her left was waving a clipboard. “Do you have some pictures?”
April signaled to Ginny Lasker, who was standing beside a flip chart. She lifted the front page and threw it over the top, revealing a sketch of the roundhouse. “As far as we can tell,” April said, “the entire outer surface is made of the same material. It feels like beveled glass, by the way.”
“Glass?” said ABC.
“Well, it looks like glass.”
More hands:
“What’s inside?”
“Are you sure you haven’t made a mistake here somewhere?”
“Now that we have this material, will we be able to reproduce it?”
And so on. April responded as best she could. She had no idea what lay within. She had arranged to have the samples tested by a second lab, and the results were identical. And she had no idea whether anyone could learn to manufacture the material. “If we could,” she added, “we could make sails that will last a long time.”
“How long?” asked the Fargo Forum.
“Well.” She grinned. “Long.”
They had the security problem under control. ID badges were passed out to workers, and police kept tourists from wandering onto the excavation site.
The press conference, if nothing else, had alerted Max to the nature of the beast he was riding. He gave several interviews but was careful not to go beyond the limits they’d set. What is really happening here? Who built the roundhouse? Max refused to be drawn in. We don’t know any more than you do. He was, he said, content to leave the speculation to the media.
Journalists at the excavation outnumbered the workforce. They took pictures and asked questions and stood in several lines to look at the translucent green surface, which had now been reached in several locations.
Just before noon Tom Lasker caught up with Max in the control van. The phones were ringing off the hook, but they’d brought a few people in from the dig to help out. “They’ve broken in on the networks with this story, Max,” he said. “Bulletins on all the stations. By the way, Charlie Lindquist called. He loves us.”
“Who’s Charlie Lindquist?”
“President of the Fort Moxie city council. You know what he said?”
“No. What did he say?”
“He said this is better than Nessie. So help me.” Tom’s grin was a foot wide. “And the wild part of it is that it’s true, Max. This is the biggest thing in these parts since Prohibition. Cavalier, Walhalla, all these towns are going to boom.” There were raised voices outside. Max looked out the window and saw April trading one-liners with a contingent of reporters. “I think they like her,” he said.
“Yeah, I think they do. She gave them one hell of a story.”
The door opened, and April backed in. “Give me an hour,” she shouted to someone, “and I’ll be glad to sit down with you.”
“We’re into my childhood now,” she said, safely inside. “Some of them want to turn this into another story about how a downtrodden African-American makes good.” She sighed, fell into a chair, and noticed Lasker. “Hi, Tom. Welcome to the funny farm.”
“It’s like this at home, too,” he said. “Huge crowds, unlike anything we’ve seen before, and an army of reporters. They were interviewing the kids when I left this morning.”
April shrugged. “Maybe this is what life will be like from now on.”
“I can deal with it.” Max was enjoying himself.
“Hey,” she said, “I’m hungry. Have we got a sandwich here anywhere?”
Max passed over a roast beef and a Pepsi from the refrigerator. April unwrapped the sandwich and took a substantial bite.
“You were good out there,” Max said.
“Thanks.” Her lips curved into a smile. “I was a little nervous.”
“It didn’t show.” That was a lie, but it needed to be said.
Someone knocked. Lasker leaned back and looked out. He opened the door, revealing a thin, gray-haired man of extraordinary height.
The visitor looked directly at April, not without hostility. “Dr. Cannon?”
“Yes.” She returned his stare. “What can I do for you?”
The man wore an air of quiet outrage. His hair was thin but cropped aggressively over his scalp. The eyes were watery behind bifocals that, Max suspected, needed to be adjusted. His glance slid past Lasker and Max as if they were furnishings. “My name’s Eichner,” he said. “I’m chairman of the archeology department at Northwestern.” He looked down at April from his considerable height, which his tone suggested was moral as well as physical. “I assume you’re in charge of this—” He paused. “—operation?” He coated the term with condescension.
April never took her eyes from him. “What’s your business, Dr. Eichner?” she said.
“My business is preserving the past, Dr. Cannon. You’ll forgive me for saying so, but this artifact, this whatever-it-is that your people are digging at, may be of great value.”
“We know.”
He flicked a cool glance at Max, as if challenging him to disagree. “Then you ought to know that the possibility of damage, and consequently of irreparable loss, is substantial. There are no controls. There is no professional on site.”
“You mean a professional archeologist.”
“What else might I mean?”
“I assume,” said Max, “you’re interested in the position.”
“Frankly,” Eichner said, still talking to April, “I’m far too busy to take over a field effort just now. But you have an obligation to get somebody up here who knows what he, or she, is doing.”
“I can assure you, Dr. Eichner,” said April, “that we are exercising all due caution.”
“All due caution by amateurs is hardly reassuring.” He produced a booklet and held it out for her. The legend National Archeological Association was printed on the cover. “I suggest you call any university with a reputable department. Or the Board of Antiquities. Their number is on page two. They’ll be happy to help you find someone.”
When she did not move, he dropped the booklet on the table. “I can’t prevent what you’re doing,” he said. “I wish I could. If it were possible, I would stop you in your tracks this moment. Since I cannot, I appeal to reason.”
April picked up the booklet. She slipped it into her purse without glancing at it. “Thank you,” she said.
He looked at her, looked at the purse. “I’m quite serious,” he said. “You have professional responsibilities here.” He opened the door, wished them all good day, and was gone.
Nobody spoke for a minute. “He’s probably right,” said Lasker.
Max shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not a chance. The archeology department at Northwestern doesn’t know any more about digging up this kind of thing than we do.”
“I agree,” said April. “Anyhow, Schliemann was an amateur.”
“Didn’t I read somewhere,” said Lasker, “that he made a mess of Troy?”
Everything April had hoped for was on track. She was living the ultimate scientific experience, and she was going to become immortal. April Cannon would one day be right up there with the giants. And she could see no outcome now that would deny her those results. She was not yet sure precisely what she had discovered, but she knew it was monumental.
They made all the networks that evening and were played straight, without the crazy-season motifs. The NewsHour with Jim Lehrer produced a panel of chemists who generally agreed that there had to be an error or misunderstanding somewhere. “But,” said Alan Narimoto of the University of Minnesota, “if Dr. Cannon has it right, this is a discovery of unparalleled significance.”