It is the custom among the tribes of the Dakotas and the Northwest at such times to deemphasize their sense of loss. Rather than mourn, they celebrate the life and accomplishments of the spirit that had taken flesh and lived temporarily among them. Part of that celebration is a ritualized gift-giving by members of the family.
At the end of the ceremony, Max was surprised to be called forward by a teenager who identified himself as Arky’s brother. “We have something for you,” the boy said.
While an expectant stir ran through the party, he produced a long, narrow box wrapped in hand-woven fabric. Max thanked him and opened the package. It was the bow.
“I can’t take this,” Max protested.
James Walker stood and turned so the crowd could hear him. “In your own words,” he said, “the bow is a warrior’s weapon.”
Everyone cheered.
“I’m no warrior,” Max said. “I’m a businessman.”
The tribal chairman smiled. “You have a warrior’s spirit, Collingwood. Arky gave his life for you, and it is the family’s decision you should have the bow.” When Max still hesitated, he added, “He would wish that it find its home with you.”
One of the students showed the visitor in, looked inquisitively at April, and withdrew.
She rose and extended her hand. “Mr. Asquith?”
“Pleased to meet you, Dr. Cannon.” Asquith’s grip was uncertain. He seized her by her fingers. “I don’t know whether you’ve heard of me.”
The tone carried just enough self-deprecation to imply that Asquith understood he was in fact a person of no small significance. He was, of course, Walter Asquith, two-time Pulitzer prize-winning critic, essayist, poet, and novelist, best known for a series of scathing social commentaries, the most recent of which, Late News from Babylon, had topped the New York Times best-seller list for six months. April remembered from her college years a guest instructor who was at the end of a long career as an editor and writer. They’d been assigned Asquith’s Marooned in Barbary, a collection of blistering attacks on various literary personages and efforts, in one of which the instructor surfaced briefly to take an arrow between the eyes from the great man. He had proudly pointed out the page and line to his students, and April understood that the assault had been the apex of his career. Rather like being Dante’s barber.
“I know of your work, Mr. Asquith,” she said. “What can I do for you?”
He was big, round-shouldered, meaty. His hair was white and combed over a bald spot. He spoke in short, authoritative bursts and would, April thought, have made a good judge.
“I want to spend some time in Eden,” he said.
April wrote down the scheduler’s phone number and passed it over to him. “They’ll be happy to put you on the list.”
“No, I don’t think you understand. I’ve already been there. I want to go back. To be honest, I’d like to pitch a tent and move in. For a while.”
April glanced quite deliberately at her watch. She was no longer impressed by credentials. An outrageous request was outrageous, whatever its source. “I’m sorry, Mr. Asquith. I don’t think we can permit—”
“Dr. Cannon, I’m aware of the scientific significance of the Roundhouse. I wonder whether you grasp the psychological and philosophical implications. The slow, generally upward course of the human race has forked. We have plunged into a broad forest. The world as we know it is waiting for something to happen. But it is uncertain what that something will be. That is why the world’s financial markets are in chaos; why demonstrators are in front of the White House; why the United Nations is locked in its most acrimonious debate in a decade. When you stepped across the gulf a couple of weeks ago into whatever place that was, you began a new era.
“Someone needs to record all this. To tie the daily events to their historical and literary significance. We used to think that if the twentieth century would be remembered for any single moment, it would be the moon landing. But—” He looked steadily at her. “The moon landing is small potatoes, Dr. Cannon. The decisive moment, not of the century but of recorded history, is now. I know you have begun to bring in experts, mathematicians, geologists, astronomers, and whatnot. And that is all to the good. We need to do that. But we also need someone whose sole function will be to consider the meaning of what is happening here. To stand back while others measure and weigh and speculate, to apply these events against the progress of the human spirit.” He placed his hands together and laid his chin against them. “I think that I am uniquely qualified for such a role. I have, in fact, already compiled extensive notes. And I would be honored to be allowed to participate.”
Asquith had a point, April thought. “What did you have in mind? A series of news reports?”
“Oh, no,” he said. “Nothing like that. I would want to do a major work. My magnum opus.”
“Let me think about it,” she said. “I’ll get back to you.”
“The working title would be Ancient Shores.” He gave her a card. “We should start without delay.”
He let himself out. April decided she would do it. That kind of publicity couldn’t hurt them. But she’d run it past Max first.
She picked up her messages. Peg Moll, their scheduler and event coordinator, had received a call from a man identifying himself as the agent for Shaggy Dog. The rap group wanted to do a concert on Johnson’s Ridge. “They’re promising to sell two hundred thousand tickets,” Peg said.
When the phone rang, Max and April were discussing plans to send a repair crew into the chamber that had taken Arky’s life. (Already it had outdistanced Eden as the place that researchers most wanted to visit.)
April picked it up, listened for a minute, and said, “Thanks.” She replaced the receiver and turned to Max. “There are some investors,” she said, “forming a corporation to control travel to all the worlds connected to the Roundhouse. They’ve offered three-quarters of a billion dollars for exclusive rights.”
“The price is going up,” said Max.
“They call themselves Celestial Tours.” She smiled sadly.
Detroit, Apr. 1 (Reuters)—
The Detroit Free Press today reported that the Detroit Lions may move to Fargo, North Dakota. According to unnamed sources, the club has agreed to a deal with Manuel Corazon, CEO of Prairie Industries, and the sale will be announced tomorrow. Pending approval by the rest of the league, the team would move next year and become known as the Fargo Visitors.
Prairie Industries is a conglomerate specializing primarily in the manufacture of agricultural equipment.
Larry King special on TNT, April 1. Guest: Dmitri Polkaevich, winner of the Pulitzer prize for Iron Dreams, a definitive history of the USSR. Topic: the new Russian revolution. (Suggested by then-current fears that a right-wing Russian coup was imminent.)
King: You don’t feel, then, that a resurgence of nationalism is likely?
Polkaevich: The world is changing very rapidly, Larry. No, it is true there are those in Russia who would give us their own peculiar brand of fascism, if they could. Just as there are those who would return to Lenin. But the tide of history is running against them all.
King: Well, I’m happy to hear it. If I may ask before we go to the phones, where is the tide of history taking us?
Polkaevich: Predicting the future is a dangerous enterprise.
King: Yes. But you just implied—
Polkaevich: That some tendencies are evident. Larry, you have of course been following the events along the Canadian border?