Relic

I and I alone define what will be in this book and what will not. Understood?”

“No.”

Rickman stood up. “This is growing tiresome. You will either sign this document now, or you will be terminated.”

“Terminated? What, do you mean shot or fired?”

“I will not stand for that kind of levity in my office. Either sign this agreement, or I will accept your resignation immediately.”

“Fine,” Smithback said. “I’ll simply take my manuscript to a commercial publisher. You need this book as much as I do. And you and I both know I could get a huge advance for the inside story on the Museum murders. And, believe me, I know the inside story. All of it.”

Rickman’s face was ghastly, yet still she held her smile. Her knuckles whitened against her desk.

“That would be a violation of your contract,” she said slowly. “The Museum has the Wall Street law firm of Daniels, Soller and McCabe on retainer. Undoubtedly you’ve heard of them. Should you take such action, you would instantly be party to a breach of contract lawsuit, [245] as would your agent and any publisher foolish enough to sign a contract with you. We’d bring everything we have to bear on this case, and I wouldn’t be surprised if, after you lose, you never find work in your chosen field again.”

“This is a gross violation of my First Amendment rights,” Smithback managed to croak out.

“Not at all. We would merely be seeking remedy for breach of contract. Nothing heroic in it for you, and it wouldn’t even make the Times. If you are really thinking of taking this course of action, Bill, I’d consult a good lawyer first and show him the contract you signed with us. I’m sure he’ll tell you it’s as airtight as they come. Or if you’d prefer, I’ll accept your resignation right now.” She opened a desk drawer and extracted a second piece of paper, leaving the drawer open as she did so.

Her intercom buzzed noisily. “Mrs. Rickman? Dr. Wright on line one.”

Rickman picked up the telephone. “Yes, Winston. What? The Post again? Yes, I’ll talk to them. You sent for Ippolito? Good.”

She hung up and went to the office door. “Make sure Ippolito’s on his way to the Director’s office,” she said to her secretary. “As for you, Bill, I don’t have any more time to bandy civilities. If you won’t sign the agreement, then pack your things and get out.”

Smithback had grown very quiet. All of a sudden, he smiled. “Mrs. Rickman, I see your point.”

She leaned toward him, simpering, eyes bright. “And—?” she prompted.

“I’ll agree to the restrictions,” he said.

Rickman moved back behind her desk, triumphant. “Bill, I’m very glad I won’t need to use this.” She put the second sheet of paper back in her drawer and closed it. “I suppose you’re intelligent enough to know you have no choice.”

Meeting her eyes, Smithback reached for the folder. [246] “You don’t mind if I read this over again before I sign, do you?”

Rickman hesitated. “No, I suppose not. Although you’ll find it says exactly what it did the first time you read it. There’s no room for misinterpretation, so please don’t look for gray areas.” She looked around the office, swept up her pocketbook, and headed for the door. “Bill, I’m warning you. Don’t forget to sign it. Please follow me out, and give the signed document to my secretary. You’ll be sent a copy.”

Smithback’s lips pursed in distaste as he watched her fa

Then, moving back to the desk, he grabbed the memo and scrawled an illegible signature across the bottom. He handed it to the secretary on the way out. “Save that signature, it’ll be valuable someday,” he said over his shoulder, letting the door close with a bang.

Margo was hanging up her phone as Smithback walked in. Once again, she had the lab to herself: her office mate, the preparator, had apparently taken a sudden extended vacation.

“I just talked to Frock,” she said. “He was pretty disappointed that we didn’t find anything more in the crate, and that I didn’t get a chance to look for any remaining seed pods. I think he was hoping for evidence of a creature. I wanted to tell him about the letter and Jörgensen, but he said he couldn’t talk. I think Cuthbert was in there with him.”

“Probably asking about that Request for Access form he sent up,” Smithback said. “Doing his Torquemada [247] imitation.” He gestured toward the door. “How come this was unlocked?”

Margo looked surprised. “Oh. Guess I forgot again.”

“Mind if I lock it, just in case?” He fumbled with the door, then, gri

Margo’s look of curiosity turned to astonishment. “My God! Is that the journal?”

Smithback nodded proudly.

“How did you get it? Where did you get it?”

“Rickman’s office,” he said. “I had to make a terrible sacrifice for it. I signed a piece of paper forbidding me ever to speak to you again.”

“You’re joking.”

“Only partly. Anyway, at one point in the torture she opened her desk drawer, and I saw this little beat-up book. Looked like a diary. Seemed like a strange thing for Rickman to keep in her desk. Then I remembered your story about how she’d supposedly borrowed the journal.” He nodded smugly. “As I always suspected. So I nicked it as I was leaving her office.”

He opened the journal. “Now be quiet, Lotus Blossom. Daddy’s going to read you a bedtime story.”

Margo listened as Smithback began to read; slowly at first, but faster as he got the hang of the sloppy handwriting and frequent abbreviations. Most of the early entries were very short; cursory sentences giving a few details about the day’s weather and the expedition’s position.

Aug. 31. Rain all night—Ca

[248] “This is boring,” said Smithback, interrupting his reading. “Who cares that they ate ca

“Keep going,” urged Margo.

“There really isn’t that much here,” Smithback said, paging ahead. “Guess Whittlesey was a man of few words. Oh, God. I hope I didn’t sign my life away for nothing.”

The journal described the expedition’s progress deeper and deeper into the rain forest. The first part of the journey was made by Jeep. Then the party was helicoptered two hundred miles to the upper reaches of the Xingú. From there, hired guides rowed the party up the sluggish flow of the river toward the tepui of Cerro Gordo. Smithback read on.

Sept. 6. Left dugouts at dropoff site. On foot all the way now. First glimpse of Cerro Gordo this afternoon—rain forest rising into clouds. Cries of tutitl birds, captured several specimens. Guards murmuring among themselves.

Sept. 12. Last of corned beef hash for breakfast. Less humid than yesterday. Continued toward tepui—clouds broke free at noon—altitude of plateau possibly eight thousand feet—temperate rain forest—saw five rare candelaria ibex—recovered blow darts and tube, excellent condition—mosquitoes bad—Xingú dried peccary for di

“Why did Rickman snag this?” Smithback wailed. “There’s no dirt in here. What’s the big deal?”

Sept. 15. Wind from the S.W. Oatmeal for breakfast. Three portages today owing to brush jams in river—water up to chest—leeches lovely. Around di