“So you think,” Pendergast said, “that the killer might be the same animal that made these tracks? A dinosaur?” Margo thought she detected amusement in Pendergast’s voice.
Frock looked at the agent, shaking his head vigorously. “No, Mr. Pendergast, not a dinosaur. Nothing as common as a dinosaur. We’re talking about the proof of my theory of aberrant evolution. You know my work. This is the creature I believe killed offthe dinosaurs.”
Pendergast remained silent.
Frock leaned closer to the FBI agent. “I believe,” he said, “this creature, this freak of nature, is the cause of the dinosaur’s extinction. Not a meteorite, not a change in climate, but some terrible predator—the creature that made the tracks preserved in this fossil. The embodiment of the Callisto Effect. It was not large, but it was extremely powerful and fast. It probably hunted in cooperative packs and was intelligent. But because superpredators are so short lived, they aren’t well represented in the fossil record. Except in the Transvaal Shales. And in these tracks here, from the Tzun-je-jin Badlands. Are you following me?”
“Yes.”
“We are ina population explosion today.”
Pendergast remained silent.
“ Human beings, Mr. Pendergast!” Frock continued, his voice rising. “Five thousand years ago there were only ten million of us on the globe. Today there are six billion! We’re the most successful form of life the earth has ever seen!” He tapped the copies of Fractal Evolutionthat lay on his desk. “Yesterday, you asked about my next book. It will constitute an extension of my theory on the Callisto Effect, applying it to modernlife. My [205] theory predicts that at any moment, some grotesque mutation will come about; some creature that will prey on the humanpopulation. I’m not saying the killer is the same creature that killed off the dinosaurs. But a similar creature ... well, look at these tracks again. They look like Mbwun! We call it convergent evolution, where two creatures look alike not because they’re necessarily related, but because they evolve to do the same thing. A creature that’s evolved to kill. There are too many similarities, Mr. Pendergast.”
Pendergast brought his briefcase onto his lap. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Dr. Frock.”
“Don’t you see? Something came back in that crate from South America. Unleashed in the Museum. A highly successful predator. That figurine of Mbwun is the proof. The indigenous tribes were aware of this creature, and built a religion around it. Whittlesey inadvertently sent it into civilization.”
“You’ve seen this figurine yourself?” Pendergast asked. “Dr. Cuthbert seemed reluctant to show it to me.”
“No,” Frock admitted. “But I have it on the best authority. I plan to make my own observations at the earliest opportunity.”
“Dr. Frock, we looked into the matter of the crates yesterday,” Pendergast said. “Dr. Cuthbert assured us there was nothing of value in them, and we have no reason to disbelieve him.” He stood up, impassive. “I thank you for your time and help. Your theory is most interesting, and I truly wish I could subscribe to it.” He shrugged. “However, my own opinion remains unchanged for the time being. Forgive me for being blunt, but I hope you will be able to separate your conjectures from the cold facts of our investigation, and help us in any way you can.” He walked toward the door. “Now, I hope you’ll excuse me. If anything comes to mind, please contact me.”
And he left.
[206] Frock sat in his wheelchair, shaking his head. “What a shame,” he murmured. “I had high hopes for his cooperation, but it seems he’s like all the rest.”
Margo glanced at the table next to the chair Pendergast had just vacated. “Look,” she said. “He left the DNA printout.”
Frock’s eyes followed Margo’s. Then he chuckled. “I assume that’s what he meant by anything else coming to mind.” He paused. “Perhaps he isn’t like all the rest, after all. Well, we won’t tell on him, Margo, will we?” he said, picking up the phone.
“Dr. Frock to speak with Dr. Cuthbert.” A pause. “Hello, Ian? Yes, I’m fine, thank you. No, it’s just that I’d like to get into the Superstitionexhibition right away. What’s that? Yes, I know it’s been sealed, but... No, I’m quite reconciled to the idea of the exhibition, it’s just that ... I see.”
Margo noticed Frock’s face redden.
“In that case, Ian,” Frock continued, “I should like to reexamine the crates from the Whittlesey expedition. Yes, the ones in the Secure Area. I know we saw them yesterday, Ian.”
There was a long silence. Margo could hear a faint squawking.
“Now look here, Ian,” Frock said. “I’m chairman of this department, and I have a right to ... Don’t you speak to me that way, Ian. Don’t you dare.”
Frock was shaking with rage in a way Margo had never seen before. His voice had dropped almost to a whisper.
“Sir, you have no business in this institution. I shall be making a formal grievance to the Director.”
Frock slowly returned the phone to its cradle, his hand trembling. He turned toward Margo, fumbling for his handkerchief. “Please forgive me.”
“I’m surprised,” said Margo. “I thought that as a Chairman ...” She couldn’t quite complete the sentence.
[207] “I had complete control over the collections?” Frock smiled, his composure returning. “So did I. But this new exhibition, and these killings, have aroused sentiments in people that I hadn’t suspected. Technically, Cuthbert outranks me. I’m not sure why he’s doing this. It would have to be something profoundly embarrassing, something that would delay or prevent his precious exhibition from opening.” He thought for a minute. “Perhaps he’s aware of this creature’s existence. After all, he was the one who moved the crates. Perhaps he found the hatched eggs, made the connection, hid them. And now he wants to deny me my right to study it!” He sat forward in the wheelchair and balled his fists.
“Dr. Frock, I don’t think that’s a real possibility,” Margo warned. Any thoughts she’d had of telling Frock about Rickman’s removal of the Whittlesey journal evaporated.
Frock relaxed. “You’re right, of course. This isn’t the end of it, though, you can be sure. Still, we don’t have time for that now, and I trust your observations of Mbwun. But, Margo, we mustget in to see those crates.”
“How?” said Margo.
Frock slid open a drawer of his desk and fished around for a moment. Then he withdrew a form which Margo immediately recognized: a ‘10-14,’ Request for Access.
“My mistake,” he went on, “was in asking.” He started to fill out the form longhand.
“But doesn’t that need to be signed by Central Processing?” Margo asked.
“Of course,” said Frock. “I will send the form to Central Processing via the usual procedure. And I’ll take the unsigned copy down to the Secure Area and bully my way in. No doubt the request form will be denied. But by the time that happens, I will have had time to examine the crates. And find the answers.”
“But Dr. Frock, you can’t do that!” Margo replied in a shocked tone.
“Why not?” Frock smiled wryly. “Frock, a pillar of [208] the Museum establishment, acting in an unorthodox manner? This is too important for such considerations.”
“I didn’t mean that,” Margo continued. She let her gaze drop to the scientist’s wheelchair.
Frock looked down. His face fell. “Ah, yes,” he said slowly. “I see what you mean.” Crestfallen, he started to return the paper to his desk.
“Dr. Frock,” Margo said. “Give me the form. I’ll take it down to the Secure Area.”
Frock’s hand froze. He looked at Margo appraisingly. “I asked you to be my eyes and ears, but I didn’t ask you to walk over coals for me,” he said. “I’m a tenured curator, a relatively important figure. They wouldn’t dare sack me. But you—” he drew a deep breath, raised his eyebrows. “They could make an example of you, expel you from the Ph.D. program. And I’d be powerless to prevent it.”
Margo thought for a moment. “I have a friend who’s very clever at this kind of thing. I think he could talk his way into or out of any situation.”