Melodic leaned back in the chair. She could never be comfortable in this chair that would make a Puritan squirm, but at least she could fake it. She had a bad case of imposter syndrome-but she figured she'd get over it, eventually.
'Now let's see . . .' Peale consulted some notes he had jotted on the first page of the article. 'You joined the museum five years ago, am I right?'
'That's right.'
'With a Ph.D. from Columbia . . . And you've been doing a bang-up job in the Mineralogy lab every since as a... Technical Specialist First Grade?' He seemed almost surprised by the lowliness of her position.
Melodic remained silent.
'Well, it certainly seems time for a promotion.' Peale leaned back and crossed
his legs. 'This paper shows great promise, Melodic. Of course, it's controversial, that's to be expected, but the Committee on Science has gone over it carefully and it seems likely the results will withstand scrutiny.'
'They will.'
'That's the right attitude, Melodic.' Peale cleared his throat, delicately. 'The committee did feel that the hypothesis that this, ah, Venus particle might be an alien microbe is perhaps a bit premature.'
'That doesn't surprise me, Cushman.' Melodic paused, finding it difficult to say his first name. Better get used to it, she thought. The deferential, eager-to-please Technician First Grade was history. 'Any major scientific advance involves going out on a limb. I'm confident the hypothesis will stand up.'
'Delighted to hear it. Of course, I'm only a museum president'-and here he gave a self-deprecating chuckle-'so I'm hardly in a position to judge your work. They tell me it's quite good.'
Melodic smiled pleasantly.
He leaned back, placed his hands on his knees, flexed them. 'I had a talk with the Committee on Science and it seems we'd like to offer you a position as Assistant Curator in the Department of Vertebrate Paleontology. This is a fine, tenure-track position which will lead, in time, if all goes well, to an appointment to the Humboldt Chair, which might have been occupied by the late Dr. Corvus had he lived. Naturally there will be a commensurate increase in salary.'
Melodic allowed an uncomfortable amount of time to pass before responding. 'That's a generous offer,' she said. 'I appreciate it.'
'We take care of our own,' said the president pompously.
'I wish I could accept it.'
Peale's hands came apart. Melodic waited.
'You're turning us down, Melodic?' Peale looked incredulous, as if the idea of not wanting to stay at the museum was preposterous, unthinkable.
Melodic kept her voice even. 'Cushman, I spent five years in the basement doing first-class work for this museum. Never once did I receive one iota of recognition. Never once was I thanked beyond a perfunctory pat on the back. My salary was less than the maintenance workers who emptied my trash.'
'Of course we noticed you . . .' Peale was nonplussed. 'And things will change. Let me say our offer to you isn't engraved in stone, either. Perhaps we need to take it back to the Committee on Science and see if there isn't something more we can do for you. An associate curatorship with tenure might even be possible.'
'I already turned down a tenured position at Harvard.'
Peak's brows shot up in perfect astonishment, quickly concealed. 'My, they're quick on the draw.' He managed a strained chuckle. 'What sort of offer? If I may ask.'
'The Montcrieff Chair.' She tried to keep from grinning. Damn, she was enjoying this.
'The Montcrieff Chair? Well, now that's . . . quite extraordinary.' He cleared his throat, eased back in his chair, gave his tie a quick adjustment. 'And you turned it down?'
'Yes. I'm going with trie dinosaur ... to the Smithsonian.' 'The Smithsonian?' At the mention of the name of their big rival, his face reddened.
'That's right. To the NationalMuseum of Natural History. The government plans to build a special Biosafety Level four laboratory in the WhiteSandsMissileRange in New Mexico to study the dinosaur and the Venus particles. They've asked me to be the assistant director in charge of research, which comes with a tenured curatorial appointment at the national museum. Being able to continue my work on the specimen means a lot to me. The mystery of the Venus particles has yet to be cracked; I want to be the one to do it.' 'That's your final decision?' 'Yes.'
Peak rose, extended his hand, and mustered a weak smile. 'In that case, Dr. Crookshank, allow me to be the first to congratulate you.'
Breeding had produced one fine quality in Peak, thought Melodie: he was a good loser.
7
THE HOUSE, A small bungalow, sat on a pleasant side lane in the town of Marfa, Texas. A large sycamore tree cast a mottled pool of shade across the lawn, enclosed by a white picket fence. A 1989 Ford Fiesta was parked in the driveway, and a hand-painted sign that read STUDIO hung outside a converted garage.
Tom and Sally parked on the street and rang the doorbell.
'In here,' a voice called from the garage.
They walked around and the garage door came up, revealing a pleasant art studio inside. A woman appeared wearing an oversized man's dress shirt flecked with paint, her red hair tied up in a cloth. She was short, brisk, and attractive, with a small upturned nose, boyish face, and a pugnacious air. 'What can I do for you?'
'I'm Tom Broadbent. This is my wife, Sally.'
She broke into a smile. 'Right. Robbie Weathers. Thanks so much for coming.'
They followed her into a surprisingly pleasant studio with a clerestory. The walls were white and hung with landscape paintings. Odd rocks, weathered pieces of wood, old bones, and rusty pieces of iron were arranged like sculpture on tables against the far wall.
'Have a seat. Tea? Coffee?'
'No thanks.'
They sat on a futon folded up to be a couch, while Robbie Weathers washed her hands and pulled off her head scarf, shaking out her curly hair. She pulled up a wooden chair and sat opposite them. The sun streamed in. There was an awkward silence.
'So,' she said, looking at Tom, 'you're the person who found my father.'
'That's right.'
'I want you to tell me all about it, how you found my father, what he said
everything.'
Tom began to tell the story, relating to her how he heard the shots, rode to investigate, found her father dying on the canyon floor.
She nodded, her face clouding. 'How had he ... fallen?'
'On his face. He'd been shot several times in the back. I turned him over, gave him CPR, and his eyes opened.'
'Might he have lived if they'd gotten him out in time?'
'The wounds were fatal. He didn't have a chance.'
'I see.' Her knuckles hid whitened where her hand gripped the side of the chair.
'He was clutching a notebook in his hand. He told me to take it and give it to
„ you.
'What were his exact words?'
'He said, It's for Robbie. . . My daughter. . . Promise to give it to her. . . She'll know how to find the. . . treasure ...'
'Treasure,' repeated Robbie, with a faint smile. 'That's how he used to talk about his fossils. He never used the word 'fossil,' because he was paranoid about someone jumping his claims. Instead he used to pose as a half- crazed treasure hunter. He often carried around a conspicuously fake treasure map, to mislead people into thinking he was a quack.'
'That explains one thing I long wondered about. Anyway, I accepted the notebook from him. He was . . . close to death. I did what I could but he didn't have a chance. His only concern was for you.'
Robbie swiped a tear out of her eye.
