“Yes. Why?” Smithback asked.
“You working for Rickman?” Von Oster said.
“Not really. She’s just, well, interfering mostly,” Smithback said.
Von Oster broke into a pink grin. “
“That’s just the way it happened,” Smithback said, gratified at having found an ally. “You wouldn’t believe the kind of crap she’s put me through. Oh, God.”
Von Oster clapped his hands. “I believe it! I believe it! She making trouble everywhere! This exhibit, she making all kind of trouble!”
Suddenly Smithback was interested. “How so?” he asked.
“She in there every day, saying
“That sounds like her,” Smithback said with a grim smile. “So what wasn’t good?”
“That, what you call it, that Kothoga tribe stuff. I was in there just yesterday afternoon and she was carrying on. ‘Everybody leave the exhibition! We bring in Kothoga figurine!’ Everybody had to drop work and leave.”
[126] “The figurine? What figurine? What’s so sensitive about it?” It suddenly occurred to Smithback that something so upsetting to Rickman might someday be useful to him.
“That Mbwun figurine, big deal in the exhibition. I not know much about. But she was very upset, I tell you!”
“Why?”
“Like I tell you, that figurine. You not heard? Lots of talk about it, very very bad. I try not to hear.”
“What kind of talk would that be, for instance?”
Smithback listened to the old man for quite a while longer. Finally, he backed himself out of the workshop, Von Oster pursuing as far as the elevator.
As the doors rolled shut, the man was still talking. “You unlucky, working for her!” he called after Smithback just before the elevator lurched upward. But Smithback didn’t hear him. He was busy thinking.
= 20 =
As the afternoon drew to a close, Margo looked up wearily from her terminal. Stretching, she punched a command to the printer down the hall, then sat back, rubbing her eyes. Moriarty’s case write-up was finally done. A little rough around the edges, perhaps; not as comprehensive as she would have liked; but she couldn’t afford to spend any more time on it. Secretly, she was rather pleased, and found herself eager to take a printout up to Moriarty’s office on the fourth floor of the Butterfield Observatory, where the project team for the
She thumbed through her staff directory, looking for Moriarty’s extension. Then she reached for her phone and dialed the four-digit number.
“Exhibition central,” drawled a voice. There were loud good-byes in the background.
“Is George Moriarty there?” Margo asked.
“I think he’s down at the exhibition,” the voice responded. “We’re locking up here. Any message?”
[128] “No, thanks,” Margo replied, hanging up. She looked at her watch: almost five. Curfew time. But the exhibition was being unveiled Friday evening, and she’d promised Moriarty the material.
As she was about to get up, she remembered Frock’s suggestion that she call Greg Kawakita. She sighed, picking up the phone again.
“Greg Kawakita speaking,” came the familiar baritone voice.
“Greg? This is Margo Green.”
“Hi, Margo. What’s up?” She could hear the clacking of keys coming over the line.
“I have a favor to ask. It’s a suggestion of Dr. Frock’s, actually. I’m doing an analysis of some plant specimens used by the Kiribitu tribe, and he suggested I run them through your Extrapolator. Perhaps it will find some genetic correspondences in the samples.”
There was silence. “Dr. Frock thought it might be a useful test of your program, as well as a help to me,” she urged.
Kawakita paused. “Well, you know, Margo, I’d like to help you out, I really would. But the Extrapolator really isn’t in shape yet to be used by just anybody. I’m still chasing down bugs, and I couldn’t vouch for the results.”
Margo’s face burned. “Just anybody?”
“Sorry, that was a poor choice of words. You know what I mean. Besides, it’s a really busy time for me, and this curfew won’t help matters any. Tell you what, why don’t you check with me again in a week or two? Okay? Talk to you then.”
The line went dead.
