Relic

There was a loud click. Immediately, she grabbed the lever and pulled downward. The door opened.

Inside, the crates were dim shapes against the far wall. She turned on the light and glanced at her watch. Three minutes had passed.

She had to work very quickly now. She could see the ragged marks where one of the larger crates had been torn and splintered apart. The marks sent shivers down her spine. Kneeling in front of the smaller crate, she removed its top and plunged her hands into the packing material, parting the stiff fibers to expose the artifacts.

Her hand closed around something hard. Pulling it out, Margo saw a small stone, carved with odd designs. Not very promising. She exposed a collection of what looked like jade lip plugs, then flint arrowheads, some points, a blow gun tube with a set of darts, long and sharp, the tips blackened with some hardened substance. Don’t want to be pricked by those, she thought. Still nothing worth taking. She delved deeper. The next layer held a small plant press, screwed shut; a damaged shaman’s rattle covered in grotesque designs; and a beautiful manta made of woven cloth and feathers.

On an impulse she stuffed the plant press, covered [213] with packing fibers, into her bag. The stone disc and rattle followed.

On the bottom layer, she found several jars containing small reptiles. Colorful, but nothing out of the ordinary.

Six minutes had passed. She sat up, listening, expecting any moment to hear the footsteps of the returning guard. But there was nothing.

She hastily stuffed the rest of the artifacts back into the crate and surrounded them with packing material. She picked up the lid, noting its loose i

Eight minutes. There was no time left.

Back in the central room, she listened, trying to make out the muffled sounds outside. She eased the door open a crack.

“What’s your badge number?” Smithback was saying loudly.

Margo couldn’t make out the guard’s reply. She slipped out and shut the door behind her, quickly peeling off her gloves and stuffing them into her carryall. She straightened up, looked herself up and down, then started walking past the alcove where Smithback and the guard were standing.

“Hey!”

She turned. The guard, flushed, was looking at her.

“Oh, there you are, Bill!” she said, thinking fast, hoping the guard hadn’t seen her come out the door. “Am I too late? Have you already been inside?”

“This guy won’t let me in!” Smithback complained.

“Listen, you,” the guard said, turning back to Smithback. “I’ve told you a thousand times, and I won’t tell you again. That form has to be properly processed before I can give you access. Understand?”

They’d pulled it off.

Margo looked back down the hall. In the distance, she saw a tall, lean figure approaching: Ian Cuthbert.

[214] She grabbed Smithback’s arm. “We’ve got to go. Remember our appointment? We’ll have to look at the collections some other time.”

“That’s right. Of course.” Smithback babbled heartily. “I’ll get this taken care of later,” he said to the guard.

Near the far end of the hall, she pushed Smithback into an alcove.

“Get behind those cabinets,” Margo whispered.

They heard Cuthbert’s footsteps behind them as they concealed themselves. Then the footsteps stopped, and Cuthbert’s voice echoed loudly down the corridor.

“Has anyone tried to gain access to the vaults?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. There was a man trying to get in. They were just here.”

“Who?” demanded Cuthbert. “Those people you were just speaking with?”

“Yes, sir. He had a form but it hadn’t been properly processed, so I didn’t let him in.”

“You did not let him in?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Who issued the form? Frock?”

“Yes, sir. Dr. Frock.”

“And you didn’t get the name of this person?”

“I think his name was Bill. I don’t know about the woman, but—”

“Bill? Bill? Oh, that’s bloody brilliant. The first thing you should do is ask for identification.”

“I’m sorry, sir. It was just that he insisted it was—”

But Cuthbert was already striding back angrily. The footfalls faded down the corridor.

At a nod from Smithback, Margo rose gingerly and dusted herself off. They stepped out into the hall.

“Hey, you there!” shouted the guard. “Come here, I need to see your ID! Wait!”

Smithback and Margo took off at a sprint. They raced [215] around a bend, then ducked into a stairwell and dashed up the wide concrete steps.

“Where are we going?” Margo panted.

“Damned if I know.”

They reached the next landing, and Smithback stepped out gingerly into the hallway. He looked up and down the corridor, then wrenched open a door marked MAMMALOGY, PONGIDAE STORAGE.

Inside, they stopped to catch their breath. The room was quiet and cool. As Margo’s eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, she noticed stuffed gorillas and chimpanzees standing in ranks like sentinels, and heaping piles of hairy skins on wooden racks. Against one wall were dozens of shelves lined with primate skulls.

Smithback listened intently at the door for a moment. Then he turned to Margo. “Lets see what you found,” he said.

“There wasn’t much,” Margo said, breathing heavily. “I took a couple of unimportant artifacts, that’s it. I did find this, though,” she said, reaching into her carryall.

“It was wedged in the lid of the crate.”

The unsealed envelope was addressed simply “H. C. Montague, NYMNH.”

The yellowed writing paper was embossed with a curious double-arrow motif. As Smithback peered over her shoulder, Margo held the sheet carefully up to the light and began to read.

Upper Xingú

Sept. 17, 1987

Montague,

I’ve decided to send Carlos back with the last crate and go on alone in search of Crocker. Carlos is trustworthy, and I can’t risk losing the crate should anything happen to me. Take note of the shaman’s rattle and other ritual objects. They seem unique. But the figurine I’ve enclosed, which we [216] found in a deserted hut at this site, is the proof I’ve been looking for. Note the exaggerated claws, the reptilian attributes, the hints at bipedalia. The Kothoga exist, and the Mbwun legend is not mere fabrication.

All my field notes are in this notebook. ...

= 31 =

Mrs. Lavinia Rickman sat in a wine-colored leather armchair in the Director’s office. The room was deathly silent. Not even traffic noises from the street three floors below penetrated the thick turret windows. Wright himself sat behind the desk, practically swallowed by the vast length of mahogany. A Reynolds portrait of Ridley A. Davis, the Museum’s founder, glared down from behind Wright.

Dr. Ian Cuthbert occupied a sofa along a far wall of the room. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his tweed suit loose on his spare frame. He was frowning. Normally humorless and irritable, he looked particularly austere on this afternoon.

Finally, Wright broke the silence.

“He’s called twice already this afternoon,” the Director snapped at Cuthbert. “I can’t avoid him forever. Sooner or later he’s going to raise a stink about being denied access to the crates. He may well drag this [218] Mbwun business into it. There’s going to be controversy.”

Cuthbert nodded. “As long as it’s later rather than sooner. When the exhibition is open and ru

There was another long silence.

“I hate to play devil’s advocate,” Cuthbert continued at last, “but when the dust settles from all this, you, Winston, are going to have the necessary increase in attendance. These rumors of a curse may be a