Relic

“Long day,” he said to Waters.

“Yeah,” said Waters.

“I’m almost done. You won’t believe what this program can do.”

“You’re probably right,” said Waters without enthusiasm. He checked his watch. Three more hours until his relief.

“Watch.” The geek hit a button. Waters moved a little closer to the screen. He peered at it. Nothing, just a bunch of writing, gibberish that he supposed was the program.

Then, the image of a bug appeared on the screen. At first it was still. Then it stretched its green legs and started walking across the lettering on the screen. Then another animated bug appeared on the screen. The two bugs noticed each other, and moved closer. They started screwing.

Waters looked at the geek. “What is this?” he asked.

“Just watch,” the geek said.

Soon, four bugs were born, and they started screwing. Pretty soon the screen was full of bugs. Then, the bugs began to eat the letters on the screen. In a couple of minutes, all the words on the screen were gone, and there was nothing left but bugs walking around. Then, the bugs started eating each other. Soon, nothing was left but blackness.

“Pretty cool, huh?” the geek said.

“Yeah,” said Waters. He paused. “What does the program do?”

“It’s just ...” the geek looked a little confused. “It’s just a cool program, that’s all. It’s doesn’t do anything.”

“How long did it take you to write that?” asked Waters.

“Two weeks,” said the geek proudly, sucking air through his teeth. “On my own time, of course.”

The geek turned back to his terminal, and the tapping resumed. Waters relaxed, leaning against the wall [300] nearest the Computer Room door. He could hear the faint sounds of the dance band over his head, the thump of the drums, the low vibration of the basses, the whine of the saxophones. He thought he could even hear the sounds of thousands of footsteps, shuffling and sliding. And here he was, stuck in this psycho ward with nothing but a key-tapping geek for company. The biggest excitement he had was when the geek got up for another Diet Coke.

At that moment, he heard a noise from inside the electrical systems room.

“You hear that?” he asked.

“No,” said the geek.

There was another long silence. Then, a definite thump.

“What the hell was that?” said Waters.

“I du

Waters ran his hand over the smooth buttstock of his shotgun and eyed the door leading to the electrical room. Probably nothing. Last time, with D’Agosta, it had been nothing. He should just go in there and check things out. Of course, he could always call for backup from Security Command. It was just down the hall. His buddy Garcia was supposed to be in there ... right?

Perspiration broke across his brow. Instinctively, Waters raised an arm to wipe it off. But he made no move toward the electrical room door.

= 43 =

As Margo rounded the corner into the Great Rotunda, she saw a scene of pandemonium: people shaking off drenched umbrellas, chattering in small and large groups, the racket of their conversations adding to the din from the reception beyond. She pushed Frock up to a velvet rope strung beside the metal detectors, a uniformed policeman standing watchfully next to it. Beyond, the Hall of the Heavens was flooded with yellow light. An enormous chandelier hung from the ceiling, sending flashing rainbows everywhere.

They displayed their Museum IDs to the policeman, who obediently opened the rope and let them through, checking Margo’s carryall as he did so. As Margo passed by, the cop gave her a fu

“Hurry,” said Frock. “Up front, to the lectern.” The lectern and podium were on the far end of the hall, near the entrance to the exhibition. The hand-carved [302] doors were chained, and the word SUPERSTITION was formed by an arc of crude bone-like letters across the top. On either side were wooden stelae, resembling huge totem poles or the pillars of a pagan temple. Margo could see Wright, Cuthbert, and the Mayor gathered on the platform, talking and joking, while a sound man fiddled with the nearby mikes. Behind them stood Ippolito amid a gaggle of administrators and aides, talking into his radio and gesturing furiously at someone out of sight. The noise was deafening.

“Excuse us!” bellowed Frock. Reluctantly, people moved aside.

“Look at all these people,” he yelled back at Margo. “The pheromonal level in this room must be astronomical. It will be irresistible to the beast! We’ve got to stop this right now.” He pointed to one side. “Look—there’s Gregory!” He gestured to Kawakita, standing by the edge of the dance floor, drink in hand.

The Assistant Curator worked his way toward them. “There you are, Dr. Frock. They’ve been looking for you. The ceremony’s about to start.”

Frock reached out and gripped Kawakita’s forearm. “Gregory!” he shouted. “You’ve got to help us! This event has got to be cancelled, and the Museum cleared at once!”

“What?” said Kawakita. “Is this some kind of joke?” He looked quizzically at Margo, then back at Frock.

“Greg,” said Margo over the commotion, “we’ve discovered what’s been killing people. It’s not a human being. It’s a creature, a beast. It’s nothing we’ve ever come across before. Your Extrapolation program helped us to identify it. It feeds on the packing fibers in the Whittlesey crates. When it can’t get those, it needs the human hypothalamus hormones as a substitute. We believe it must have a regular—”

“Whoa! Hold on. Margo, what are you talking about?”

[303] “Dammit, Gregory!” Frock thundered. “We don’t have any more time to explain. We’ve got to get this place cleared now.”

Kawakita backed up a step. “Dr. Frock, with all due respect ...”

Frock clutched his arm harder and spoke slowly and deliberately. “Gregory, listen to me. There is a terrible creature loose in this Museum. It needs to kill, and it will kill. Tonight. We must get everyone out.”

Kawakita backed up another step, looking toward the podium. “I’m sorry,” he said over the noise. “I don’t know what this is all about, but if you’re using my extrapolation program for some kind of joke ...” He prized his arm free of Frock’s gasp. “I really think you should go up to the platform, Dr. Frock. They’re waiting for you.”

“Greg—” Margo tried to say, but Kawakita had moved away, looking at them speculatively.

“To the podium!” said Frock. “Wright can do it. He can order this place evacuated.”

Suddenly they heard a drumroll and a fanfare.

“Winston!” shouted Frock, rolling into the open space in front of the platform. “Winston, listen! We’ve got to evacuate!”

Frock’s final words hung in the air as the fanfare faded away.

“There is a deadly beast loose in the Museum!” Frock shouted into the silence.

A sudden murmur arose in the crowd. Those closest to Frock backed away, looking at each other and muttering in low tones.

Wright glared at Frock while Cuthbert quickly separated himself from the group. “Frock,” he hissed. “What in bloody hell are you doing?” He bounded off the platform and came over.

“What is the matter with you, Frock? Have you gone mad?” he said in a vicious whisper.

Frock reached out, “Ian, there is a terrible beast loose [304] in the Museum. I know we’ve had our differences, but trust me, please. Tell Wright we’ve got to get these people out. Now.”

Cuthbert looked at Frock intently. “I don’t know what you’re thinking,” the Scotsman said, “or what your game is. Perhaps it’s some desperate eleventh-hour attempt to derail the exhibition, to turn me into a laughingstock. But I will tell you this, Frock: If you make one more outburst, I will have Mr. Ippolito forcibly remove you from these premises and I will see to it that you never set foot in here again.”