The walls of his office were lined with old, glassfronted bookcases, many of the shelves filled with relics [36] and oddities from his early years in the field. Books were piled in enormous, tottering stacks against a wall. Two large bow windows looked out over the Hudson River. Upholstered Victorian chairs sat on the faded Persian carpet, and on Frock’s desk lay several copies of his latest book, Fractal Evolution.
Next to the books, Margo recognized a large chunk of gray sandstone. Embedded in its flat surface was a deep depression, oddly smudged and elongated along one end with three large indentations at the other. According to Frock, this was a fossil footprint of a creature unknown to science: the single piece of physical evidence to support his theory of aberrant evolution. Other scientists differed: Many didn’t believe it was a fossil at all, calling it “Frock’s folly.” Most of them had never seen it.
“Clear away that stuff and sit down,” Frock said, wheeling back to his favorite spot under one of the bow windows. “Sherry? No, of course, you never do. Silly of me to forget.”
On the indicated chair lay several back issues of Nature and the typescript of an unfinished article titled “Phyletic Transformation and the Tertiary ‘Fern Spike.’ ” Margo moved them to a nearby table and sat down, wondering if Dr. Frock would mention something about the deaths of the two little boys.
He looked at her for a moment, motionless. Then he blinked, and sighed. “Well, Miss Green,” he said. “Shall we begin?”
Disappointed, Margo flipped open her notebook. She skimmed her notes, then began explaining her analysis of Kiribitu plant classification and how it related to her next dissertation chapter. As she spoke, Frock’s head gradually dropped to his chest and his eyes closed. A stranger might think him asleep, but Margo knew Frock was listening with intense concentration.
When she finished, he roused himself slowly. “Classification of medicinal plants by use, rather than [37] appearance,” he murmured at last. “Interesting. That article reminds me of an experience I had among the Ki tribe of Bechuanaland.” Margo waited patiently for the reminiscence that was sure to follow.
“The Ki, as you know”—Frock always assumed his listener was as familiar with a subject as he was—at one time used the bark of a certain bush as a headache remedy. Charrière studied them in 1869 and noted their, use of this bush in his field journals. When I showed up three quarters of a century later, they had stopped using the remedy. They believed instead that headaches were caused by sorcery.” He shifted in his wheelchair.
“The accepted remedy was now for the kinfolk of the headache victim to identify the sorcerer and, naturally, go off and murder him. Of course, the kin of the dead sorcerer were then required to avenge this death, so they often went right back and killed the person with the headache. You can imagine what eventually happened.”
“What?” Margo asked, assuming Frock was about to explain how all of this fit into her dissertation.
“Why,” Frock said, spreading his hands, “it was a medical miracle. People stopped getting headaches.”
His generous shirtfront shook with laughter. Margo laughed too—for the first time that day, she realized.
“Well, so much for primitive medicine,” Frock said a little wistfully. “Back then, fieldwork was still fun.” He paused for a minute. “There will be a whole section on the Ki tribe in the new Superstition exhibition, you know,” he went on. “Of course, it will be terribly played up for mass consumption. They’ve brought in some young fellow fresh from Harvard to curate the show. Knows more about computers and massmarketing than pure science, I’m told.”
Frock shifted again in his wheelchair. “In any case, Miss Green, I think what you’ve described will make a fine addition to your work. I suggest you obtain some samples of the Kiribitu plants from the herbarium and proceed from there.”
[38] Margo was gathering her papers when Frock suddenly spoke again. “Bad business this morning.”
Margo nodded.
Frock remained silent for a moment. “I fear for the Museum,” he said finally.
Surprised, Margo said, “They were brothers. It’s a tragedy for the family. But things will die down soon—they always do.”
“I think not,” Frock said. “I’ve heard something about the condition of the bodies. The force used was … of a nonnormal nature.”
“Surely you don’t think it was a wild animal?” Margo asked. Perhaps Frock was as crazy as everyone said.
Frock smiled. “My dear, I make no assumptions. I will await further evidence. For the moment, I simply hope this unpleasantness will not influence your decision on whether to remain with the Museum. Oh, yes, I’ve heard about it, and I was very sorry to get the news of your father’s death. But you’ve displayed three gifts that are indispensable to a first-class researcher: a sense of what to look for, a sense of where to look for it, and the zeal to see your theories through.” He moved the wheelchair closer to her. “Academic zeal is just as important as zeal in the field, Miss Green. Always remember that. Your technical training, your lab work, has been excellent. It would be a shame if our profession were to lose someone of your talents.”
Margo felt a mix of gratitude and resentment. “Thank you, Dr. Frock,” she replied. “I appreciate the kind words—and your concern.”
The scientist waved his hand, and Margo said goodbye. But at the door, she heard Frock speak again.
“Miss Green?” he asked.
“Yes?”
“Please be watchful.”
= 7 =
Outside she nearly collided with Smithback. He leaned toward her, winking roguishly. “How about lunch?”
“No,” said Margo. “Too busy.” Twice in one day—she wasn’t sure she could stand such a full dose of Smithback.
“Come on,” he urged. “I’ve got some more grisly details about the murders.”
“It figures.” She quickened her pace down the hall, irritated that her curiosity was aroused.
Smithback grabbed her arm. “I hear they’re serving a delicious aged and oven-dried lasagna in the cafeteria.” He steered her toward the elevator.
The lunchroom was filled with the usual crowd of curators, beefy guards talking loudly, and assorted technicians and preparators in white lab coats. One curator was passing specimens around to a table of fellow scientists, who were murmuring in admiration and interest. Margo took a closer look. The specimens were pickled parasitic worms, coiled in jars of cloudy formaldehyde.
[40] They sat down and Margo tried to saw through the crust of her lasagna.
“Just like I promised,” Smithback said, picking up a piece in his hand and biting off a corner with a crunch. “Been on the steam table since nine o’clock this morning, at least.”
He chewed noisily. “Well, the police finally made it official. There were two murders here last night. Brilliant to have figured it out! And you remember all those questions the reporters asked about wild animals? Well, there’s also a chance they were mauled to death by a wild animal.”
“Not while I’m eating,” Margo said.
“That’s right. Literally shredded, by the sound of it.”
Margo looked up. “Please.”
“I kid you not,” Smithback continued. “And the heat is on to get this thing solved, particularly with the big exhibition coming up. I hear the cops have even enlisted a special coroner. Someone who reads gaping claw wounds like Helen Keller reads braille.”
“Damn it, Smithback,” Margo said and dropped her fork. “I’m sick of this—your cavalier attitude and your gory particulars while I’m having lunch. Can’t I eat first and hear about this stuff later?”