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.
[35] Although Frock’s theory was backed by a brilliant series of articles and papers, much of the scientific world remained dubious. If bizarre forms of life exist, they asked, where are they hiding? Frock replied that his theory predicted rapid demise of genera as well as rapid development.
The more the experts called Frock misguided, even crazy, the more the popular press embraced his idea. The theory became known as the Callisto Effect, after the Greek myth in which a young woman is suddenly transformed into a wild creature. Although Frock deplored the widespread misconceptions of his work, he shrewdly used his celebrity to further his academic efforts. Like many brilliant curators, Frock was consumed by his research; sometimes, Margo suspected, everything else, including her work, bored him.
Across the room, the conservator got up and—without a word—left for lunch, a sure sign that it was approaching eleven o’clock. Margo scribbled a few sentences on a sheet of paper, cleared the screen, and scooped up her notebook.
Frock’s office was in the southwest tower, at the end of an elegant, Edwardian fifth-floor corridor; an oasis far from the labs and computer workstations that characterized much of the behind-the-scene Museum. The heavy oak door of the inner office read simply, DR. FROCK.
Margo knocked.
She heard a great clearing of the throat and the low rumble of a wheelchair. The door opened slowly and the familiar ruddy-complexioned face appeared, bushy eyebrows knitted in surprise. Then his gaze brightened.
“Of course, it’s Monday. Come in.” He spoke in a low voice, touching her wrist with a plump hand and motioning her to an overstuffed chair. 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, glassfronted bookcases, many of the shelves filled with relics [36] 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,
Next to the books, Margo recognized a large chunk of gray sandstone. Embedded in its flat surface was a deep depression, oddly smudged and elongated along one end with three large indentations at the other. 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. Other scientists differed: Many didn’t believe it was a fossil at all, calling it “Frock’s folly.” Most of them had never seen it.
“Clear away that stuff and sit down,” Frock said, wheeling back to his favorite spot under one of the bow windows. “Sherry? No, of course, you never do. Silly of me to forget.”
On the indicated chair lay several back issues of
He looked at her for a moment, motionless. Then he blinked, and sighed. “Well, Miss Green,” he said. “Shall we begin?”
Disappointed, Margo flipped open her notebook. She skimmed her notes, then began explaining her analysis of Kiribitu plant classification and how it related to her next dissertation chapter. As she spoke, Frock’s head gradually dropped to his chest and his eyes closed. A stranger might think him asleep, but Margo knew Frock was listening with intense concentration.
When she finished, he roused himself slowly. “Classification of medicinal plants by use, rather than [37] appearance,” he murmured at last. “Interesting. That article reminds me of an experience I had among the Ki tribe of Bechuanaland.” Margo waited patiently for the reminiscence that was sure to follow.
“The Ki, as you know”—Frock always assumed his listener was as familiar with a subject as he was—at one time used the bark of a certain bush as a headache remedy. Charriere studied them in 1869 and noted their, use of this bush in his field journals. When I showed up three quarters of a century later, they had stopped using the remedy. They believed instead that headaches were caused by sorcery.” He shifted in his wheelchair.
“The accepted remedy was now for the kinfolk of the headache victim to identify the sorcerer and, naturally, go off and murder him. Of course, the kin of the dead sorcerer were then required to avenge this death, so they often went right back and killed the person with the headache. You can imagine what eventually happened.”
“What?” Margo asked, assuming Frock was about to explain how all of this fit into her dissertation.
“Why,” Frock said, spreading his hands, “it was a medical miracle. People stopped getting headaches.”
His generous shirtfront shook with laughter. Margo laughed too—for the first time that day, she realized.
“Well, so much for primitive medicine,” Frock said a little wistfully. “Back then, fieldwork was still fun.” He paused for a minute. “There will be a whole section on the Ki tribe in the new
Frock shifted again in his wheelchair. “In any case, Miss Green, I think what you’ve described will make a fine addition to your work. I suggest you obtain some samples of the Kiribitu plants from the herbarium and proceed from there.”
[38] Margo was gathering her papers when Frock suddenly spoke again. “Bad business this morning.”
Margo nodded.
Frock remained silent for a moment. “I fear for the Museum,” he said finally.
Surprised, Margo said, “They were brothers. It’s a tragedy for the family. But things will die down soon—they always do.”
“I think not,” Frock said. “I’ve heard something about the condition of the bodies. The force used was … of a nonnormal nature.”
“Surely
