“When?”
“When the lake was here.”
They were in a steakhouse. Max listened to the murmur of conversation, the clink of silverware. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Max’s insides churned. A waitress arrived, and he settled for a Caesar salad rather than the club sandwich he’d been planning. “So what we’re saying is that we’ve got a ten-thousand-year-old boat up there?”
April squirmed. “I’d rather not jump to conclusions, Max. Let’s just stick with the facts for now. One, the boat will not rot, rust, or decay over extremely long periods of time. Two, the lanyards that are in the Lasker barn were once tied up to a piece of wood that was cut from a spruce tree. The tree that the wood fibers came from was alive ten thousand years ago.”
“But the boat,” said Max, “is new.”
“The boat will always look new, Max. You could put it back in the ground and dig it up to celebrate your sixtieth birthday, and it would look exactly as it does today.”
“That doesn’t sound possible.”
April nodded. “I know. Look, it’s outside our experience. But that doesn’t make it irrational.” Her voice dropped. “I’m not sure what kind of alternative explanation might fit the facts. The age of the wood fibers is not in dispute. Neither is the composition of the original samples. I think somebody was here. A long time ago somebody with advanced technology went sailing on Lake Agassiz. They tied up at least once to a tree or a pier.”
“So who was it?” asked Max. “Are we talking UFOs? Or what?”
“I don’t know. But it’s a question worth asking.”
Diet Cokes came. Max took a pull at his while he tried to get his thoughts in order. “It doesn’t make much sense,” he said. “Assume for a minute you’re right. Where does that leave us? With the notion that people came here from another world to go sailing? I mean, are we seriously suggesting that?”
“It’s not out of the realm of possibility. Try looking at the big picture, Max. And I mean big. How many water lakes are there, I wonder, within a radius of, say, twenty light-years? Agassiz might have looked pretty good to a load of tourists.” She smiled. “Look, let’s stay away from the speculation and concentrate on what we know. What we know is that we have an artificial element that’s unique in the world.”
“How do we know that?” asked Max.
“I guarantee it.”
“You guarantee it. April, I hate to say this, but a couple of days ago I wouldn’t have known who you were. No offense, but maybe you’re wrong.”
“Maybe I am. In the meantime, Max, consider this: If I do know what I’m talking about, the boat is literally beyond value.” She realized she was getting too loud; she leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Look. You’d like a second opinion. I know we don’t need one. Get a second opinion, and we get a second chemist. I’d just as soon keep this as exclusive as we can. We are sitting on a monumental discovery, and we are all going to be on the cover of Time. You. Me. The Laskers.” Her dark eyes filled with excitement. “There’s another reason to keep this close for the time being.”
“What’s that?” asked Max.
“There might be something else out there.”
Lisa Yarborough had launched her professional career as a physics teacher in a private school near Alexandria, Virginia. But she had been (and still was) an inordinately striking woman who just flat-out enjoyed sex. While she discussed energy and resistance by daylight, she demonstrated after dark a great deal of the former and hardly any of the latter.
Lisa discovered early that there was profit to be made from her hobby. Not that she ever stooped to imposing tariffs, but men insisted on showing her a substantial degree of generosity. Furthermore, indirect advantages could accrue to a bright, well-endowed young woman who had never been shackled by either inhibition or an undue sense of fair play. She left the Alexandria school in the middle of her second year amid a swirl of rumors to take a lucrative position with a firm doing business with the Pentagon; her new company thought she could influence the military’s purchasing officers. She proved successful in these endeavors, using one means or another, and moved rapidly up the corporate ladder. If it was true that, in her own style, she slept her way to the top, she nevertheless refrained from conducting liaisons with men in her own chain of command, and in that way maintained her self-respect.
Eventually she developed an interest in government and took a position as executive assistant to a midwestern senator who twice sought, without success, his party’s presidential nomination. She moved over to lobbying and did quite well for the tobacco industry and the National Education Association. At the law firm of Barlow and Biggs, she functioned as a conduit to several dozen congressmen. She received a political appointment and served a brief tour as an assistant commissioner in the Department of Agriculture. And eventually she became a director in a conservative think tank.
It was in the latter role that Lisa discovered a facility for writing. She had kept scrupulous diaries since she was twelve, a habit that began around the time she’d first retired into the backseat of her father’s Buick with Jimmy Proctor. Jimmy had been her first real connection, so to speak, and she’d found the experience so exhilarating that she’d wanted to tell someone. But her girlfriends at the Chester Arthur Middle School weren’t up to it. And her parents were Baptists.
Lisa should have been a Baptist, too. She had been exposed to the full range of ecclesiastical activities. She’d gone to youth group meetings on Tuesdays and Thursdays, services on Wednesdays and Sundays. But by senior year she’d slept with half the choir.
While she was at the think tank helping demolish Dukakis’s bid for the White House, she’d decided to use her diaries to write an autobiography. Her promise to go into delicious detail about an array of prominent persons throughout government and the media produced a seven-figure advance. The think tank had promptly fired her because she did not confine herself to prominent Democrats.
Old paramours and one-night stands had come to see her, pleading for selective amnesia. When persuasion and bribes didn’t work, they resorted to tears and threats, but she went ahead with the project. “If I don’t tell the truth,” she told a TV talk show host, “what will people think of me?”
The book was Capitol Love. It became a best-seller and then a TV movie, and Lisa bought a chain of autoparts stores with the proceeds. The rest, as they say, is history.
Lisa had first met April Cannon while Lisa was working at the Department of Agriculture. She’d gone to a dinner hosted by an environmental-awareness group. Her date had been one of the speakers, a tall, enthusiastic stag burdened with the conviction that the loss of forests had already exceeded the limits from which recovery might be possible. He also believed that women in general and Lisa in particular could not resist his charms. Lisa, who had planned to cap the evening in her usual style, changed her mind. April had been unimpressed with her date as well, and the two had fled together into the Washington night.
They had been close friends since.
Lisa was therefore not surprised when April called and asked to see her. Her interest grew when her friend refused to state the reason for the meeting.
The day after the phone call, April arrived with a nondescript individual in tow. “Lisa,” she said, “this is Max Collingwood.”
The women knew each other too well to indulge in small talk. April quietly explained what had been happening at Tom Lasker’s farm. When she had finished, Lisa was slow to respond. “You’re certain?” she asked. “How about fraud?”
“There’s no mistake. And fraud is not possible.” April slid a manila envelope onto the table, opened it, and took out a handful of photos. They were pictures of the yacht. Interior. Exterior. Sails. Closeups of rails and stanchions. And the markings.
“They are odd,” Lisa agreed. “And there’s no language match?”