Ancient Shores

“We’re into my childhood now,” she said, safely inside. “Some of them want to turn this into another story about how a downtrodden African-American makes good.” She sighed, fell into a chair, and noticed Lasker. “Hi, Tom. Welcome to the fu

“It’s like this at home, too,” he said. “Huge crowds, unlike anything we’ve seen before, and an army of reporters. They were interviewing the kids when I left this morning.”

April shrugged. “Maybe this is what life will be like from now on.”

“I can deal with it.” Max was enjoying himself.

“Hey,” she said, “I’m hungry. Have we got a sandwich here anywhere?”

Max passed over a roast beef and a Pepsi from the refrigerator. April unwrapped the sandwich and took a substantial bite.

“You were good out there,” Max said.

“Thanks.” Her lips curved into a smile. “I was a little nervous.”

“It didn’t show.” That was a lie, but it needed to be said.

Someone knocked. Lasker leaned back and looked out. He opened the door, revealing a thin, gray-haired man of extraordinary height.

The visitor looked directly at April, not without hostility. “Dr. Ca

“Yes.” She returned his stare. “What can I do for you?”

The man wore an air of quiet outrage. His hair was thin but cropped aggressively over his scalp. The eyes were watery behind bifocals that, Max suspected, needed to be adjusted. His glance slid past Lasker and Max as if they were furnishings. “My name’s Eichner,” he said. “I’m chairman of the archeology department at Northwestern.” He looked down at April from his considerable height, which his tone suggested was moral as well as physical. “I assume you’re in charge of this—” He paused. “—operation?” He coated the term with condescension.

April never took her eyes from him. “What’s your business, Dr. Eichner?” she said.

“My business is preserving the past, Dr. Ca

“We know.”

He flicked a cool glance at Max, as if challenging him to disagree. “Then you ought to know that the possibility of damage, and consequently of irreparable loss, is substantial. There are no controls. There is no professional on site.”

“You mean a professional archeologist.”

“What else might I mean?”

“I assume,” said Max, “you’re interested in the position.”

“Frankly,” Eichner said, still talking to April, “I’m far too busy to take over a field effort just now. But you have an obligation to get somebody up here who knows what he, or she, is doing.”

“I can assure you, Dr. Eichner,” said April, “that we are exercising all due caution.”

“All due caution by amateurs is hardly reassuring.” He produced a booklet and held it out for her. The legend National Archeological Association was printed on the cover. “I suggest you call any university with a reputable department. Or the Board of Antiquities. Their number is on page two. They’ll be happy to help you find someone.”

When she did not move, he dropped the booklet on the table. “I can’t prevent what you’re doing,” he said. “I wish I could. If it were possible, I would stop you in your tracks this moment. Since I ca

April picked up the booklet. She slipped it into her purse without glancing at it. “Thank you,” she said.

He looked at her, looked at the purse. “I’m quite serious,” he said. “You have professional responsibilities here.” He opened the door, wished them all good day, and was gone.

Nobody spoke for a minute. “He’s probably right,” said Lasker.

Max shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not a chance. The archeology department at Northwestern doesn’t know any more about digging up this kind of thing than we do.”

“I agree,” said April. “Anyhow, Schliema

“Didn’t I read somewhere,” said Lasker, “that he made a mess of Troy?”

Everything April had hoped for was on track. She was living the ultimate scientific experience, and she was going to become immortal. April Ca

They made all the networks that evening and were played straight, without the crazy-season motifs. The NewsHour with Jim Lehrer produced a panel of chemists who generally agreed that there had to be an error or misunderstanding somewhere. “But,” said Alan Narimoto of the University of Mi

“How is that?” asked Lehrer.

“Setting aside for the moment where it came from, if we are able to re-create the manufacturing process and produce this element—” Narimoto shook his head and turned to a colleague, Mary Esposito, from Duke, who picked up the thread.

“We would be able,” she said, “to make you a suit of clothes, Jim, that would probably not wear out before you did.”

ABC ran a segment in which April stood beside the roundhouse with a two-inch wide roll of cellophane tape. “Ordinary wrapping tape,” she said. She tore off a one-foot strip, used it to seal a cardboard box, and then removed the tape. Much of the box came with it. “Unlike cardboard, our element interacts very poorly with other elements,” she continued. She tore a second strip and placed it against the side of the building, pressed it down firmly, loosened the top, and stood clear. The tape slowly peeled off and fell to the ground. “It resists snow, water, dirt, whatever. Even sticky tape.” The camera zeroed in on the green surface. “Think of it as having a kind of ultimate car wax protection.”

The coverage was, if cautious, at least not hostile. And April thought she looked good, a model of reserve and authority. Just the facts, ma’am.

Atomic number way up there. Over the edge and around the corner and out of sight. This element is very high on the periodic chart. In fact, it would be safe to say it is off the chart. The science writer from Time had positively blanched. What a glorious day it had been. And tonight researchers across the country would be seeing the story for the first time. She hadn’t published yet. But that was all right, because she had proof. And she was, as of now, legend. It was a good feeling.

There was no bar at the Northstar Motel. April was too excited to sleep, and, unable to read, she was about to call Max and suggest they go out and celebrate some more (although they both had probably already had too much to drink at a rousing di

It was Bert Coda, the associate director at Colson. Coda had been around since World War II. He was a tired, angry, frustrated man who had substituted Colson Labs for wife, family, God, and country a long time ago.

His greeting was abrupt. “April,” he said, “have you lost your mind?”

That caught her attention. “What do you mean?”

“You talked to all those cameras today.”

“And?”

“You never mentioned the lab. Not once.”

“Bert, this had nothing to do with the lab.”

“What are you talking about? Last time I noticed, you were working for us. When did you quit? Did you pack it in when I wasn’t looking?”

“Listen, I was trying to keep the lab out of it.”

“Why? Why on earth would you want to do that?”

“Because we’re talking UFOs here, Bert. Maybe little green men. You want to be associated with little green men? I mean, Colson is supposed to be a hardnosed scientific institution.”

“Please stop changing the subject.”

“I’m not changing the subject.”

“Sure you are. This is about publicity. Tons of it. And all free. I didn’t hear much talk out there today about UFOs.”

“You will.”

“I don’t care.” It was a dangerous rumble. “April, you are on every cha