"Tom! Glad to see you awake." He came and leaned on the footrest of the bed. "How the heck are you?"
"Been better."
He cautiously settled his huge frame down in a cheap plastic hospital chair. "I've been in touch with some of my old pals in the Company. Apparently heads have rolled over the way this whole thing was handled, the callous disregard for human life, not to mention the bungled op. The classified agency that ran the op's been disbanded. A government panel's looking into the whole business, but you know how it is . . ."
"Right."
"There's something else, something incredible. A scientist at the Museum of Natural History in New York got hold of the piece of the dinosaur, studied it, and has released a paper about it. It's explosive stuff. The T. Rex died of an infection-brought in on the asteroid that caused the mass extinction. No kidding-the dinosaur died of an alien infection. At least that's what they say." Ford told him how Apollo 17 brought back some of the particles on a moon rock. "When they saw the rock was impregnated with an alien microbe, they diverted it to the Defense Intelligence Agency, which in turn set up a black detachment to study it. The DIA named the black agency LS480, short for Lunar Sample 480. They've been studying these particles for the last thirty years, all the while keeping their antennae out in case any more showed up."
"But it still doesn't explain how they found out about the dinosaur."
"The NSA has a ferocious eavesdropping capability. We'll never know the details-seems they intercepted a phone call. They jumped on it immediately. They'd been waiting thirty years and they were ready."
Tom nodded. "How's Hitt?"
"Still in bed upstairs. He's doing fine. Pilot and copilot are both dead, though. Along with Masago and several soldiers. A real tragedy."
"And the notebook?"
Wilier stood up, took it out of his pocket, laid it on the bed. "This is for you. Sally tells me you always keep your promises."
6
MELODIE HAD NEVER been inside the office of Cushman Peale, the museum's president, and she felt oppressed by its atmosphere of old New York privilege and exclusion. The man behind the antique rosewood desk added to the effect, dressed in Brooks Brothers gray, with a gleaming mane of white hair brushed back. His elaborate courtesies and self-deprecating phraseology did a poor job of concealing an unshakable assumption of superiority.
Peale guided her to a wooden Shaker chair placed to one side of a marble fireplace and seated himself opposite. From the interior of his suit he removed a copy of her article and laid it on the table, carefully spreading it with a heavy veined hand.
"Well, well, Melodic. This is a fine piece of work."
"Thank you, Dr. Peale."
"Please call me Cushman."
"All right. Cushman."
Melodic leaned back in the chair. She could never be comfortable in this chair that would make a Puritan squirm, but at least she could fake it. She had a bad case of imposter syndrome-but she figured she'd get over it, eventually.
"Now let's see . . ." Peale consulted some notes he had jotted on the first page of the article. "You joined the museum five years ago, am I right?"
"That's right."
"With a Ph.D. from Columbia . . . And you've been doing a bang-up job in the Mineralogy lab every since as a... Technical Specialist First Grade?" He seemed almost surprised by the lowliness of her position.
Melodic remained silent.
"Well, it certainly seems time for a promotion." Peale leaned back and crossed his legs. "This paper shows great promise, Melodic. Of course, it's controversial, that's to be expected, but the Committee on Science has gone over it carefully and it seems likely the results will withstand scrutiny."
"They will."
"That's the right attitude, Melodic." Peale cleared his throat, delicately. "The committee did feel that the hypothesis that this, ah, Venus particle might be an alien microbe is perhaps a bit premature."
"That doesn't surprise me, Cushman." Melodic paused, finding it difficult to say his first name. Better get used to it, she thought. The deferential, eager-to-please Technician First Grade was history. "Any major scientific advance involves going out on a limb. I'm confident the hypothesis will stand up."
"Delighted to hear it. Of course, I'm only a museum president"-and here he gave a self-deprecating chuckle-"so I'm hardly in a position to judge your work. They tell me it's quite good."
Melodic smiled pleasantly.
He leaned back, placed his hands on his knees, flexed them. "I had a talk with the Committee on Science and it seems we'd like to offer you a position as Assistant Curator in the Department of Vertebrate Paleontology. This is a fine, tenure-track position which will lead, in time, if all goes well, to an appointment to the Humboldt Chair, which might have been occupied by the late Dr. Corvus had he lived. Naturally there will be a commensurate increase in salary."
Melodic allowed an uncomfortable amount of time to pass before responding. "That's a generous offer," she said. "I appreciate it."
"We take care of our own," said the president pompously.
"I wish I could accept it."
Peale's hands came apart. Melodic waited.
"You're turning us down, Melodic?" Peale looked incredulous, as if the idea of not wanting to stay at the museum was preposterous, unthinkable.
Melodic kept her voice even. "Cushman, I spent five years in the basement doing first-class work for this museum. Never once did I receive one iota of recognition. Never once was I thanked beyond a perfunctory pat on the back. My salary was less than the maintenance workers who emptied my trash."
"Of course we noticed you . . ." Peale was nonplussed. "And things will change. Let me say our offer to you isn't engraved in stone, either. Perhaps we need to take it back to the Committee on Science and see if there isn't something more we can do for you. An associate curatorship with tenure might even be possible."
"I already turned down a tenured position at Harvard."
Peak's brows shot up in perfect astonishment, quickly concealed. "My, they're quick on the draw." He managed a strained chuckle. "What sort of offer? If I may ask."
"The Montcrieff Chair." She tried to keep from grinning. Damn, she was enjoying this.
"The Montcrieff Chair? Well, now that's . . . quite extraordinary." He cleared his throat, eased back in his chair, gave his tie a quick adjustment. "And you turned it down?"
"Yes. I'm going with trie dinosaur ... to the Smithsonian." "The Smithsonian?" At the mention of the name of their big rival, his face reddened.
"That's right. To the National Museum of Natural History. The government plans to build a special Biosafety Level four laboratory in the White Sands Missile Range in New Mexico to study the dinosaur and the Venus particles. They've asked me to be the assistant director in charge of research, which comes with a tenured curatorial appointment at the national museum. Being able to continue my work on the specimen means a lot to me. The mystery of the Venus particles has yet to be cracked; I want to be the one to do it." "That's your final decision?" "Yes."
Peak rose, extended his hand, and mustered a weak smile. "In that case, Dr. Crookshank, allow me to be the first to congratulate you."
Breeding had produced one fine quality in Peak, thought Melodie: he was a good loser.
7
THE HOUSE, A small bungalow, sat on a pleasant side lane in the town of Marfa, Texas. A large sycamore tree cast a mottled pool of shade across the lawn, enclosed by a white picket fence. A 1989 Ford Fiesta was parked in the driveway, and a hand-painted sign that read studio hung outside a converted garage.
Tom and Sally parked on the street and rang the doorbell.
"In here," a voice called from the garage.
They walked around and the garage door came up, revealing a pleasant art studio inside.
A woman appeared wearing an oversized man's dress shirt flecked with paint, her red hair tied up in a cloth. She was short, brisk, and attractive, with a small upturned nose, boyish face, and a pugnacious air. "What can I do for you?"