Relic (Pendergast, #1)

by Douglas Preston

Winston Wright, Director of the Museum,

Ippolito, the Museum’s Security Director, stood

His usually impeccable Savile Row suit was rumpled, and his thin hair was drooping over one ear. His pale skin was gray, and his eyes looked bloodshot.

Mrs. Rickman,

‘Broadway.’ Stretching the entire length of the Museum—six city blocks—it was said to be the longest single hallway in New York City.

Maori

She understood how somebody could end up a permanent rider on the government-grant gravy train, or what the scientists derisively referred to as an ABD—All But Dissertation.

Frock—intellect behind the Callisto Effect, occupier of the Cadwalader Chair in Statistical Paleontology at Columbia University, Chairman of the Evolutionary Biology Department at the Museum—had chosen her as a research student, an honor awarded to only a handful each year. Frock started his career as a physical anthropologist. Confined to a wheelchair by childhood polio, he had nonetheless done pioneering fieldwork that was still the basis of many textbooks. After several severe bouts with malaria made further field research impossible, Frock diverted his ferocious energy to evolutionary theory. In the mid 1980s, he had started a firestorm of controversy with a radical new proposal.

Combining chaos theory and Darwinian evolution, Frock’s hypothesis disputed the commonly held belief that life evolved gradually. Instead, he postulated that evolution was sometimes much less gradual; he held that short-lived aberrations—“monster species”—were sometimes an offshoot of evolution. Frock argued that evolution wasn’t always caused by random selection, that the environment itself could cause sudden, grotesque changes in a species.

Frock replied that his theory predicted rapid demise of genera as well as rapid development.

Like many brilliant curators, Frock was consumed by his research; sometimes, Margo suspected, everything else, including her work, bored him.

The door opened slowly and the familiar ruddy-complexioned face appeared, bushy eyebrows knitted in surprise. Then his gaze brightened.

Frock was dressed, as usual, in a somber suit, white shirt, and loud paisley tie. His thick brush of white hair looked ruffled.

The walls of his office were lined with old, glass-fronted bookcases, many of the shelves filled with relics and oddities from his early years in the field. Books were piled in enormous, tottering stacks against a wall. Two large bow windows looked out over the Hudson River. Upholstered Victorian chairs sat on the faded Persian carpet, and on Frock’s desk lay several copies of his latest book, Fractal Evolution.

According to Frock, this was a fossil footprint of a creature unknown to science: the single piece of physical evidence to support his theory of aberrant evolution.

Ki tribe of Bechuanaland.”

Frock smiled. “My dear, I make no assumptions. I will await further evidence.

But you’ve displayed three gifts that are indispensable to a first-class researcher: a sense of what to look for, a sense of where to look for it, and the zeal to see your theories through.”

delicious aged and oven-dried lasagna in the cafeteria.”

Dr. Matilda Ziewicz.

Smithback cackled for a moment before filling his mouth again. He’d finished his own and was starting on Margo’s. For a thin guy, he ate like a beast.

artesian

Then, when the original Museum burned down in 1911, they built the present Museum on top of the old Museum’s basement.

Museum Beast.”

Lavinia Rickman, the Chief of Public Relations for the Museum, had hired Smithback to write his book. She had also worked out the Museum’s cut of the advance and royalties.

Dr. Cuthbert pitched the idea for an exhibition on Superstition

Margo shook her head. “What Rickman wants is a snow job for the Museum.

She’s taking out everything that’s the slightest bit controversial.

A young, slightly overweight man with horn-rimmed glasses materialized at their table, holding a tray balanced on a shiny leather briefcase. “May I join you?” he asked shyly.

meet George Moriarty. He’s the guy who’s curating the Superstition exhibition.”

He was about as average a Museum character as she could imagine: average height, a little pudgy, hair an average brown. His rumpled tweed jacket sported the heather tones that were regulation Museum-issue. The only things unusual about him were his large wristwatch, shaped like a sundial, and his eyes: an unusually clear hazel, shining with intelligence from

Jonathan Hamm

Leather leashes were wrapped around his black-gloved hands, and two hounds sat obediently at his feet.

Hamm let out a long breath. “Hounds. They’re hounds.

These were hounds, he’d explained, a blue-tick hound and a black-and-tan coonhound.

“Oh, yeah?” D’Agosta said. “Well, I’ve got a surprise for you. These blueprints don’t cover the subbasement.” When one of the dogs

I should have brought the spaniels. They’re unbeatable with an air scent!”

Cameroons

“Have you heard anything more about Charlie Prine?” Margo asked quietly. “Not much. Apparently he’s not a suspect. But I don’t think we’ll see him back here for quite a while. Dr. Cuthbert told me before lunch that he was severely traumatized.”

Of fifty million artifacts and specimens, only about 5 percent was on exhibition; the rest was available only to scientists and researchers.

It’s a great collection, but Eastman, the guy who assembled the Cameroon stuff, wasn’t exactly the most careful anthropologist when it came to documentation.”

Moriarty was suddenly more confident and animated. Margo decided that if he dumped the tweed jacket, shed a few pounds, and swapped the horn-rims for contacts, he could almost be cute.

Yukaghir

Journal of American Anthropology

Moriarty’s enthusiasm was refreshing.

Back came the memory of her next chapter. “Now wait a minute,” she said. “This is a big job, and I’ve got a dissertation to write.” The dismay on Moriarty’s face was almost comical. It hadn’t even occurred to him that she might have other things to do. “You mean you can’t help?” “Maybe I can squeeze it in,” she murmured.

Sun Dance

“Original wax cylinder recordings of the Sun Dance cycle songs, every one. Recorded in 1901.

“I don’t think anyone objects to the title,” Margo said. “I guess there are a few people who don’t feel your ends are truly scientific.” He shook his head. “Just the crusty old curators and the crackpots. Like Frock, for example. They chose the Superstition exhibition over his proposal for one on evolution. So of course he doesn’t have a good word to say about it.”

“Frock? Dr. Cuthbert says he’s gone off the deep end.