central horn deep into the chest of the Tyrannosaurus. Both animals died together, locked in a terrible embrace.'
He cleared his throat. 'I can't wait for the movie.'
There was another round of laughter.
'The battle was so violent that beneath the Triceratops, paleontologists found five teeth from the Tyrannosaurus that had apparently broken off during the heat of the fight. This is one of them.' He nodded to the assistant, who closed the box.
'A block of stone containing the two dinosaurs, weighing some three hundred tons, was removed from the mountainside and stabilized at the Albuquerque Museum. It was then taken to the New York Museum of Natural History for further preparation. The two skeletons are still partly embedded in the sandstone matrix.'
He glanced at his card again.
'According to scientists consulted by Christie's, these are the two most perfect dinosaur skeletons ever found. They are of incalculable value to science. The chief paleontologist at the New York Museum has called it the greatest fossil discovery in history.'
He carefully replaced the card and picked up the gavel. As if on signal, three bid spotters moved wraithlike onto the stage, waiting at quiet attention. Employees at the telephone stations stood motionless, phones in hand, lines open.
'We have an estimate on this lot of twelve million dollars, and an opening price of five million.' The chairman tapped his gavel.
There was a faint smattering of calls, nods, and genteelly raised paddles.
'I have five million. Six million. Thank you, I have seven million.' The spotters craned their necks, catching the bids, relaying them to the chairman. The
'I have eight million.'
A scattering of applause erupted as the record price for a dinosaur fossil was broken.
'Ten million. Eleven million. Twelve. Thank you, I have thirteen. I have fourteen. Fifteen.'
The show of paddles had dwindled considerably, but several telephone bidders were still active, along with half a dozen in the audience. The dollar display to the chairman's right rose rapidly, with the English and Euro equivalents beneath following in lockstep.
'Eighteen million. I have eighteen million. Nineteen.'
The murmuring became a groundswell and the chairman gave a cautionary rap with his gavel. The bidding continued, quietly but furiously. 'Twenty-five million. I have twenty-six. Twenty-seven to the gentleman on the right.'
The murmuring rose once again, and this time the chairman did not quell it.
'I have thirty-two million. Thirty-two and a half on the phone. Thirty-three. Thank you, I have thirty-three and a half. Thirty-four to the lady in the front.'
An electricity was building in the sale room: the price was mounting far higher than even the wildest predictions.
'Thirty-five on the phone. Thirty-five and a half to the lady. Thirty-six.'
Then there was a small stir in the crowd; a rustle, a shifting of attention. A number of eyes turned toward the door leading out into the main gallery. Standing on the crescent-moon steps was a remarkable-looking man of about sixty, a massive, even overwhelming presence. He had a shaved head and a dark Vandyke beard. A Valentino suit of dark blue silk was draped over his imposing frame, shimmering slightly in the light when he moved. A Turnbull & Asser shirt, uncompromisingly white, lay open at the neck. Over it was a string tie, held in place by a fist-size piece of amber, containing the only
'Thirty-six million,' the chairman repeated. But his eyes, like everyone else's, had strayed toward the new arrival. The man stood on the steps, his blue eyes sparkling with vitality and some private amusement. He slowly raised his paddle. A hush fell. On the remote chance anybody in the crowd had not recognized the man, the paddle was a give-away: it was numbered 001, the only number Christie's had ever allowed to be given permanently to a client.
The chairman looked at him, expectantly.
'One hundred,' the man said at last, softly but precisely.
The hush deepened 'I beg your pardon?' The chairman's voice was dry.
'One hundred million dollars,' the man said. His teeth were very large, very straight, and very white.
Again the silence was absolute.
'I have a bid of one hundred million,' said the chairman, a little shakily.
Time seemed to have been suspended. A telephone rang somewhere in the building, at the edge of audibility, and the sound of a car horn filtered up from the avenue.
Then the spell was broken with a smart rap of the gavel. 'Lot number one, for one hundred million dollars, sold to Palmer Lloyd!'
The room erupted. In a flash everyone was on their feet. There was exuberant clapping, cheers, a call of 'bravo' as if a great tenor had just concluded the performance of his career. Others were not as pleased, and the cheering and clapping was interlaced with hisses of disapproval, catcalls, low boos. Christie's had never witnessed a crowd so close to hysteria: all the participants, pro and con, were well aware that history had just been made. But the man who had caused it all was gone, out through the main gallery, down the green carpet past the cashier — and the multitude found themselves addressing an empty doorway.
Kalahari Desert,
June 1, 6:45 P.M.
SAM MCFARLANE sat cross-legged in the dust. The evening fire, built of twigs on bare ground, cast a trembling net of shadows over the thorn scrub surrounding the camp. The nearest settlement lay one hundred miles behind his back.
He looked around at the wizened figures squatting on their heels around the fire, naked except for dusty breech-clouts, their alert eyes gleaming. San Bushmen. It took a long time to gain their trust, but once gained, it was unshakable. Very different, McFarlane thought, from back home.
In front of each San lay a battered secondhand metal detector. The San remained immobile as McFarlane rose to his feet. He spoke slowly, awkwardly, in their strange click language. At first there were some snickers as he struggled with the words, but McFarlane had a natural affinity for languages, and as he continued the men fell back into respectful silence.
At the conclusion of his speech, McFarlane smoothed out a patch of sand. Using a stick, he began to draw a map. The San squatted on their heels, craning their necks to look at the drawing. Slowly the map took shape, and the San nodded their understanding as McFarlane pointed out the various landmarks. It was the Makgadikgadi Pans that lay north of the camp: a thousand square miles of dry lakebeds, sand hills, and alkali flats, desolate and uninhabited. In the deep interior of the Pans, he drew a small circle with his stick. Then he stabbed the stick in the center of the circle and looked up with a broad smile.
There was a moment of silence, punctuated by the lonely sound of a ruoru bird calling across the distant flats. The San began talking among themselves in low voices, the clicks and clucks of their language like the rattling of pebbles in a stream. A gnarled old figure, the headman of the band, pointed at the map. McFarlane leaned forward, straining to understand the rapid speech. Yes, they knew the area, the old man said. He began to describe trails, known only to the San, that crossed the remote area. With a twig and some pebbles, the headman began marking where the seeps were, where the game was, where edible roots and plants could be found. McFarlane waited patiently.
At last, quiet again settled on the group. The headman spoke to McFarlane, more slowly this time. Yes, they were willing to do what the white man wanted. But they were afraid of the white man's machines, and they also did not understand this thing the white man was looking for.
McFarlane rose again, pulled the stick out of the map. Then he took a small, dark lump of iron from his pocket, no bigger than a marble, and placed it in the hole left by the stick. He pushed it down and concealed it with sand. Then he stood; picked up his metal detector, and snapped it on. There was a brief, high-pitched whine. Everyone watched in nervous silence. He took two steps away from the map, turned, and began walking forward,
