Relic

He had progressed down one side of the room and was starting up the other when he stopped. Carefully, he reached up and brought down a box labeled CENTRAL RECVG/SHPG: AIR CARGO RECEIPTS. Squatting down, he rustled quickly through the papers.

Once again, he went back as far as 1975. Disappointed, he rustled through them again. Nothing.

As he returned the box to its high perch, his eye caught another label: BILLS OF LADING, 1970-1990. He couldn’t risk more than another five minutes, tops.

His finger stopped near the end of the pile. “Gotcha,” he whispered, pulling a smudged sheet free of the box. From his pocket, he extracted his microcassette recorder and quietly spoke the pertinent words, dates, and places: Belém; Port of New Orleans; Brooklyn. The Strella de Venezuela—Star of Venezuela. Odd, he thought. Awfully long layover in New Orleans.

“You seem pretty pleased with yourself,” the librarian said as she stowed the key back in the desk.

“Have a nice day,” Smithback said. He finished the entry on the archives clipboard: Sebastian Melmoth, in 11:10, out 11:25.

Back at the microfilm catalog, Smithback paused. He knew the New Orleans newspaper had a strange name, very antebellum-sounding—Times-Picayune, that was it.

He sca

He snapped the 1988 reel into the machine. As he neared October, he slowed, then stopped completely. A [180] large, 72-point ba

“Oh, God,” he breathed.

He now knew, without a shred of doubt, why the Whittlesey crates had spent so long in New Orleans.

= 28 =

“I’m sorry, Miss Green, but his door is still closed. I’ll give him your message as soon as possible.”

“Thanks,” Margo said, hanging up her phone with frustration. How could she be Frock’s eyes and ears if she couldn’t even talk to him?

When Frock was deeply involved in a project, he often locked himself in his office. His secretary knew better than to disturb him. Margo had tried to reach him twice already that morning, and there was no telling when he’d re-emerge:

Margo glanced at her watch. 11:20 A.M.—the morning was almost gone. She turned to her terminal and tried logging on to the Museum’s computer.

HELLO MARGO GREEN@BIOTECH@STF

WELCOME BACK TO MUSENET

DISTRIBUTED NETWORKING SYSTEM,

RELEASE 15-5

COPYRIGHT © 1989-1995 NYMNH AND CEREBRAL SYSTEMS INC.

CONNECTING AT 11:20:45 03-30-95

PRINT SERVICE ROUTED TO LJ56

 

***ALL USERS-IMPORTANT NOTICE***

DUE TO THIS MORNING’S SYSTEM OUTAGE, A RESTORE WILL BE PERFORMED AT NOON. EXPECT DEGRADED PERFORMANCE. REPORT ANY MISSING OR CORRUPTED FILES TO SYSTEMS ADMINISTRATOR ASAP.

ROGER THRUMCAP@ADMIN@SYSTEMS

 

YOU HAVE 1 MESSAGE(S) WAITING

[182] She brought up the electronic mail menu and read the waiting message.

MAIL FROM GEORGE MORIARTY@EXHIB@STF SENT 10:14:07 03-30-95

 

THANKS FOR THE LABEL COPY—LOOKS PERFECT, NO CHANGES NECESSARY. WE’LL PUT IT IN WITH OTHER FINISHING TOUCHES BEFORE OPENING TO THE GENERAL PUBLIC.

CARE TO HAVE LUNCH TODAY?

—GEORGE

 

REPLY, DELETE, FILE (R/D/F)?

Her telephone rang, shattering the silence. “Hello?” she said.

[183] “Margo’? Hi. It’s George,” came Moriarty’s voice.

“Hi,” she replied. “Sorry, just got your message now.’

“I figured as much,” he responded cheerfully. “Thanks again for helping out.”

“Glad to,” replied Margo.

Moriarty paused. “So...” he began hesitantly. “How about that lunch?”

“Sorry,” Margo said. “I’d like to, but I’m waiting for a call back from Dr. Frock. Could be five minutes, could be next week.”

She could tell by the silence that Moriarty was disappointed.

“Tell you what, though,” she said. “You could swing by for me on your way to the cafeteria. If Frock’s called by then, maybe I’ll be free. If he hasn’t ... well, perhaps you could hang out for a couple of minutes while I wait, help me with the Times crossword or something.”

“Sure!” Moriarty replied. “I know every three-letter Australian mammal there is.”

Margo hesitated. “And perhaps while you’re down here, we can take a peek into the accession database, see about the Whittlesey crates ... ?”

There was a silence. Finally, Moriarty sighed. “Well, if it’s that important to you, I guess it couldn’t hurt anything. I’ll stop by around twelve.”

Half an hour later, a knock sounded. “Come in,” she called out.

“The damn thing’s locked.” The voice was not Moriarty’s.

She opened the door. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Do you suppose it’s luck or fate?” Smithback said, coming in quickly and shutting the door behind him. “Listen, Lotus Blossom, I’ve been a busy man since last night.”

[184] “So have I,” she said. “Moriarty will be here any minute to get us into the accession database.”

“How did you—”

“Never mind,” Margo replied smugly.

The door opened, and Moriarty peered in. “Margo?” he asked. Then he caught sight of Smithback.

“Don’t fret, professor, it’s safe,” the writer said. “I’m not in a biting mood today.”

“Don’t mind him,” Margo said. “He has this a

“Yes, and make yourself comfortable,” Smithback said, pointedly gesturing to the chair in front of Margo’s terminal.

Moriarty sat down slowly, looking at Smithback, then at Margo, then at Smithback again. “I guess you want me to check the accession records,” he said.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Margo said quietly. Smithback’s presence made the whole thing seem like a setup.

“Okay, Margo.” Moriarty put his fingers on the keyboard. “Smithback, turn around. The password, you know.”

The Museum’s accession database contained information on all the millions of catalogued items in the Museum’s collections. Initially, the database had been accessible to all employees. However, someone on the fifth floor had gotten nervous at having the artifacts’ detailed descriptions and storage locations available to anyone. Now, access was limited to senior staff—Assistant Curators, such as Moriarty, and above.

Moriarty was sullenly tapping keys. “I could be given a reprimand for this, you know,” he said. “Dr. Cuthbert’s very strict. Why didn’t you just get Frock to do it for you?”

“Like I said, I can’t get in to see him,” Margo replied.

Moriarty gave the ENTER key a final jab. “Here it is,” [185] he said. “Take a quick look., I’m not going to bring it up again.”

Margo and Smithback crowded around the terminal as the green letters crawled slowly up the screen:

ACCESSION FILE NUMBER 1989-2006

DATE: APRIL 4, 1989

COLLECTOR: JOHN WHITTLESEY, EDWARD MAXWELL, ET AL

CATALOGUER: HUGO C. MONTAGUE

SOURCE: WHITTLESEY/MAXWELL AMAZON BASIN EXPEDITION

LOCATION: BUILDING 2, LEVEL 3, SECTION 6, VAULT 144

NOTE: THE FOLLOWING CATALOGUED ITEMS WERE RECEIVED ON FEBRUARY 1, 1989 IN SEVEN CRATES SENT BACK BY THE WHITTLESEY/MAXWELL EXPEDITION FROM THE UPPER XINGU RIVER SYSTEM. SIX OF THE CRATES WERE PACKAGED BY MAXWELL, ONE BY WHITTLESEY. WHITTLESEY AND THOMAS R. CROCKER JR. DID NOT RETURN FROM THE EXPEDITION AND ARE PRESUMED DEAD. MAXWELL AND THE REST OF THE PARTY PERISHED IN A PLANE CRASH EN ROUTE TO THE UNITED STATES. ONLY WHITTLESEY’S CRATE HAS BEEN PARTIALLY CATALOGUED HERE; THIS NOTE WILL BE SUPERCEDED AS THIS CRATE AND THE MAXWELL CRATES ARE FULLY CATALOGUED. DESCRIPTIONS ARE TAKEN FROM JOURNAL WHEREVER POSSIBLE.

HCM 4/89

[186] “Did you see that?” Smithback said. “I wonder why the cataloguing was never finished.”