Relic

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 co

“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 must get 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 ma

“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.”

Frock remained motionless for a moment. Then he tore off the copy and gave it to her. “I’ll have the original delivered upstairs. I have to, if we’re going to maintain the charade. The guard may call Central Processing to verify receipt. You won’t have much time. As soon as it comes in they’ll be on the alert. You will have to be gone by then.”

From a desk drawer, he withdrew a yellow paper and a key. He showed them to Margo.

“This paper holds the combination to the Secure Area vaults,” he said. “And here’s the key to the vault itself. All directors have them. With luck, Cuthbert won’t have thought to change the combinations.” He handed them to Margo. “These will get you through the doors. It’s the guards you’ll have to deal with.” He was talking fast now, his eyes locked on Margo’s. “You know what to look for in the crates. Any evidence of eggs, living organisms, even cult objects associated with the creature. [209] Anything that can prove my theory. Check the smaller crate first, Whittlesey’s crate. That’s the one that contained the Mbwun figurine. Check the others if you have time, but, for Heaven’s sake, expose yourself to as little risk as possible. Go now, my dear, and Godspeed.”

The last thing Margo saw as she left the office was Frock beneath the bow windows, his broad back turned away from her, drumming his fists repeatedly against the arms of his wheelchair. “Damn this thing!” he was saying. “Damn it to hell!”

= 30 =

Five minutes later, in her office several floors below, Margo picked up the phone and dialed. Smithback was in a rare mood. As Margo explained Moriarty’s discovery of the deleted accession record and—in somewhat less detail—the events in Frock’s office, his mood grew even more cheerful.

She heard him chuckling. “Was I right about Rickman, or what? Concealing evidence. Now I’ll make her see the book my way, or—”

“Smithback, don’t you dare,” Margo warned. “This isn’t for your personal gratification. We don’t know the story behind that journal, and we can’t worry about it, right now. We have to get into those crates, and we only have a few minutes to do it.”

“All right, all right,” came the answer. “Meet me at the landing outside Entomology. I’m leaving now.”

“I never thought Frock could be such a radical,” Smithback said. “My respect for the old feller has just gone [211] up two notches.” He was making his way down a long flight of iron stairs. They’d taken a back way in hopes of avoiding the police checkpoints set up at all elevator banks.

“You’ve got the key and the combination, right?” he asked from the bottom of the stairs. Margo checked her carryall, then followed him.

She glanced quickly up and down the corridor. “You know how the hall outside the Secure Area has lighted alcoves along it? You go ahead, I’ll follow a minute later. Talk to the guard, try to draw him into an alcove where the light is better, on the pretext of showing him this form. Get him to turn his back for a couple of minutes, and then I’ll unlock the door and go in. Just keep him occupied. You’re a good talker.”

“That’s your plan?” Smithback scoffed. “All right.” He spun on his heels, continued down the corridor, and vanished around the corner.

Margo waited, counting to sixty. Then she moved forward, pulling on a pair of latex gloves.

Soon she could hear Smithback’s voice, already raised in righteous protest. “This paper is signed by the Chairman of the department himself! Are you trying to tell me that ...”

She poked her head around the corner. About fifty feet down the hall was an intersection with another hallway that led to the police barricades. Further down was the door to the Secure Area itself, and, beyond that, Margo could see the guard. He had his back to her, and was holding her form in one hand.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she could hear him say, “but this hasn’t gone through Processing ...”

“You’re not looking in the right place,” Smithback responded. “Take it over here where you can read it, here in the light.”

They moved down the hall away from Margo, into an illuminated alcove. As they disappeared from view, Margo came around the corner and walked briskly down [212] the hall. At the Secure Area door, she inserted the key and pushed gingerly. The door swung open on oiled hinges. She peered around the edge to make sure she was alone; the darkened room seemed empty, and she eased the door shut behind her.

Her heart was already racing, the blood pounding in her ears. She caught her breath, fumbled for the light switch. The vaults stretched ahead of her in rows to the left and right. When she noticed the third door on the right had a yellow EVIDENCE sheet taped to it, she grasped its dial with one hand and took out Frock’s scrap of paper with the other. 56-77-23. She took a deep breath and began, remembering the locker she’d once used to store her oboe in high school music class. Right, left, right ...