suppose. You’re just one of Griffin’s creatures. What’s my schedule?”
The driver parked the limo in one of the student lots and hurried around to open Leyster’s door. An undistinguished brick building squatted behind some low bushes nearby. Save for the remnants of the old Agricultural College, the campus dated back to the 1960s and it looked it. As they walked across the lot, Molly flicked open her administrative assistant and began to read.
Leyster was first scheduled to meet informally with an honors colloquium of generation-three grad students. Then there was tea with the head of the Department of Geology. After which he’d give a formal talk to a gathering of generation-two recruits. “Both groups are still time virgins,” Molly said. “The gen-two kids have been brought forward from the recent past, and the gen-three guys were shipped back from the near future. But none of them have been to the Mesozoic yet. So they’re all pretty excited. Oh, and neither batch is supposed to know about the other.”
“Why on earth would you schedule two separate groups for the same time?”
Molly Gerhard shrugged. “Probably because this is when the university let us have the buildings. But it could just as well be simply because that’s what we did. A lot of the system runs on predestination.”
Leyster grunted.
“For the colloquium, all that’s expected of you is to mingle with the kids. Larry”—that was the driver—“will be on hand to make sure nobody tells you anything you shouldn’t know. I expect you’ll find the gen-three group pretty interesting. They’re the first to be recruited knowing that time travel exists. They grew up with titanosaurs on TV and ceratopsians in the zoos.”
“Well, let’s get it over with.”
The generation-three recruits had taken over a student lounge, and were sprawled over the couches or sitting cross-legged on the floor with the television at their center of focus. In one corner, a live archaeopteryx was shackled to a segment of log by a short length of chain.
Leyster paused in the doorway. “Those are going to be vertebrate paleontologists?”
“What did you expect? They’re most of them from the 2040s, after all.”
“What’s that they’re watching?”
“Nobody told you? Today’s July 17, 2034.” If there was an Independence Day for paleontologists, it was today. This was when Salley held her famous press conference, announcing—as if it were her right—the existence of time travel. After today, paleontologists could publish their work, talk about it in public, show footage of a juvenile triceratops being mobbed by dromaeosaurs, sign movie contracts, make public appeals for funding, become media stars. Today was when a quiet and rather dry science, whose practitioners had once been slandered by a physicist as “less scientists than stamp collectors,” went Hollywood.
Before Leyster could react to the news, two of the group’s lecturers saw him and hurried forward with outstretched arms. He faded into their handshakes. Molly turned her back on him, hit her mark, and begin working the room.
“Hi. I’m Dick Leyster’s niece, Molly Gerhard.”
“I’m Tamara. He’s Caligula.” The girl pulled a dead rat out of a paper bag and dangled it over the archie. With a shriek, the little horror leaped for it. “You one of our merry little crew?”
“No, I don’t have the educational background, I’m afraid. Though sometimes I think maybe I’d like to get a job with you guys. If something turns up.”
“If you’re Leyster’s niece, I guess it will. Hey, Jamal! Say hello to Leyster’s niece.”
Jamal sat precariously balanced in a stuffed chair with one broken leg. “Hello to Leyster’s niece.” He leaned forward, hand extended, and the chair overtoppled forward, to be stopped by an agile little hop of his foot and a grin that was equal parts cocky and shy. “So the prim in the ugly clothes is Leyster? Go figure.”
“Jamal has an MBA in dinosaur merchandising. We’re pretty sure he’s the first.”
“Is there money in dino merchandising?”
“You’d be surprised. Let’s say you’ve got a new critter—something glam, a giant European carnivore, let’s say. You’ve got three resources you can sell. First the name. Euroraptor westinghousei for a modest sponsorship, Exxonraptor europensis for the big bucks. Then there’s the copyrightable likeness, including film, photos, and little plastic toys. Finally and most valuable of the lot, there’s the public focus on your beastie—all that interest and attention which can be used to subtly rub the sponsor’s name in the public’s face. But you’ve got to move fast. You want to have the package on the corporate desk before word hits the street. That rush of media attention is extremely ephemeral.”
“Jamal’s going to be a billionaire.”
“You bet I am. You just watch me, girl.”
“Who else is here?” Molly Gerhard asked Tamara. “Introduce me around.”
“Well, I don’t know most of them. But, lessee, there’s Manuel. Sylvia. The tall, weedy one is Nils. Gillian Harrowsmith. Lai-tsz. Over there in the corner is Robo Boy.”
“Robo Boy?”
“Raymond Bois. If you knew him, you’d understand. Jason, with his back to us. Allis—”
“Shhh!” Jamal said. “It’s coming on.”
There was a fast round of shushings, while on the screen a camera focused on the empty lobby of the Geographic building. Molly Gerhard recalled hearing that Salley had chosen the site because she knew an administrator there who’d let her have it on short notice. She hadn’t told him how big an event it would be, of course. A narrator was saying something, but there was still too much chatter to hear.
“Here she comes!” somebody shouted.
“God, this takes me back.”
“Hush up, I want to listen.”
There were whistles and hoots as Salley hit the screen. To Molly’s eye, she was dressed almost self- parodically, safari jacket over white blouse, Aussie hat at a jaunty angle; still, on camera it looked good. She was carrying a wire cage, draped in cloth.
“Look at how much make-up she’s wearing!”
“She’s cute. In a twenty-years-out-of-date kind of way.”
“Turn it up!” Somebody touched the controls and Salley’s voice filled the room:
–for coming here. It is my extreme pleasure to be able to announce a development of the utmost importance to science.
The moment was coming up fast. Smiling, she bent to remove the cloth from the cage, and one of the girls squealed, “Oh my God, she’s wearing a push-up bra!”
“Is she really? She isn’t really.”
“Trust me on this one, sweetie.”
But first, I must show you my very special friend. She was born one hundred fifty million years ago, and she’s still only a hatchling.”
With a flourish, she whipped away the cloth.
As one, the students cheered.
A baby allosaur looked up, blinking and confused, at the camera. Its eyes were large and green. Because it was young, its snout was still short. But when it opened its mouth, it revealed a murderous array of knife-sharp teeth. Except for its face and claws, it was covered with soft, downy white feathers.
It was mesmerizing. It short-circuited every instinctive reaction Molly had.
But she wasn’t here to watch TV.
Molly drew back a little, alertly watching the interactions between students, noting who hung together, and which individuals sat adamantly alone. Filing away everything for future reference. Generation three was the single most likely source group for their mole—recruited from a period when the existence of researchers in the Mesozoic was open knowledge but still new enough to be shocking to the radical fundamentalists. Not that she believed her target would be unveiled that easily. She was only establishing a presence today. Still, every little bit helped.
No, just the Mesozoic. Nothing closer. Nothing further away.
She noticed how Leyster leaned forward in his chair and stared at Salley, frowning and unblinking. One of
