p&c.thunderhead-第6章

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ics　professor　at　Stanford；　Leland　Watkins。　Now　he　works　for　JPL。〃　
　〃JPL？〃　
　〃The　Jet　Propulsion　Laboratory　at　Cal　Tech。　It's　a　branch　of　NASA。〃　
　〃How's　that　going　to　help　us？〃　
　〃This　guy's　been　working　on　the　shuttle　program。　I　read　about　this　specialized　radar　system　they　have　that　can　see　through　thirty　feet　of　sand。　They　were　using　it　to　map　ancient　trails　in　the　Sahara　Desert。　If　they　can　map　trails　there；　why　not　in　Utah？〃　
　Nora　stared　at　her　brother。　〃This　radar　can　see　old　roads？〃　
　〃Right　through　the　sand。〃　
　〃And　you　took　a　class　from　this　guy？　You　think　he　still　remembers　you？〃　
　Skip's　face　suddenly　became　guarded。　〃Oh；　yeah。　He　remembers　me。〃　
　〃Great！　So　call　him　up　and…〃　
　Skip's　look　stopped　her。　〃I　can't　do　that；〃　he　said。　
　〃How　e？〃　
　〃He　doesn't　like　me。〃　
　〃Why　not？〃　Nora　was　discovering　that　a　lot　of　people　didn't　like　Skip。　
　〃He　had　this　really　cute　girlfriend；　a　graduate　student；　and　I　。　。　。〃　Skip's　face　colored。　
　Nora　shook　her　head。　〃I　don't　want　to　hear　about　it。〃　
　Skip　picked　up　the　yellow　mescal　worm　and　rolled　it　between　finger　and　thumb。　〃Sorry　about　that。　If　you　want　to　talk　to　Watkins；　I　guess　you're　going　to　have　to　call　him　yourself。〃　
　
　
5
　
　NORA　SAT　AT　A　WORKTABLE　IN　THE　Institute's　Artifact　Analysis　Lab。　Lined　up　in　front　of　her；　beneath　the　harsh　fluorescent　light；　were　six　bags　of　heavy…mil　plastic　bulging　with　potsherds。　Each　was　labeled　RIO　PUERCO；　LEVEL　I　in　black　marker。　In　one　of　the　nearby　lockers；　carefully　padded　to　eliminate　〃bag　wear；〃　were　four　more　bags　marked　LEVEL　II　and　yet　another　marked　LEVEL　III：　a　total　of　one　hundred　and　ten　pounds　of　potsherds。　
　Nora　sighed。　She　knew　that；　in　order　to　publish　the　report　on　the　Rio　Puerco　site；　every　sherd　had　to　be　sorted　and　classified。　And　after　the　sherds　would　e　stone　tools　and　flakes；　bone　fragments；　charcoal；　pollen　samples；　even　hair　samples；　all　patiently　waiting　in　their　metal　cages　around　the　lab。　She　opened　the　first　bag　and；　using　metal　forceps；　began　placing　artifacts　on　the　white　table。　Glancing　up　at　a　buzzing　light；　she　could　see　a　corner　of　white　cloud　scud　past　the　tiny　barred　window　far　above　her　head。　Like　a　damn　prison；　she　thought　sourly。　She　glanced　at　the　nearby　terminal；　blinking　the　data　entry　screen　into　focus。　
　　
　TW…1041　
　Screen　25　
　　
　SANTA　FE　ARCHAEOLOGICAL　INSTITUTE
　Context　Recording　/　Artifact　Database
　　
　Site　No　
　Area/Section　
　Plan　No　
　Accession　No　
　Coord　
　Provenance　
　Recorded　by　
　Site　Book　Ref　
　Grid　Square　
　Context　Code　
　Lev/Stratum　
　Trinomial　Desig　
　Excav　Date　
　Lev　Bag　　　　　　　　　Of　
　Artifact　Description　（4096　chars　max）　
　　
　CONFIDENTIAL…DO　NOT　DUPLICATE
　　
　She　understood　precisely　why　this　kind　of　statistical　research　was　necessary。　And　yet　she　couldn't　help　but　feel　that　the　Institute；　under　Murray　Blakewood's　guidance；　had　bee　shackled　by　an　obsession　with　typology。　It　was　as　if；　for　all　its　vast　collections　and　reservoir　of　talent；　the　Institute　was　ignoring　the　new　developments…ethnoarchaeology；　contextual　archaeology；　molecular　archaeology；　cultural　resource　management…taking　place　outside　its　thick　adobe　walls。　
　She　pulled　out　her　handwritten　field　logs；　tabulating　the　artifacts　against　the　information　she　entered　into　the　database。　46　Mesa　Verde　B/W；　23　Chaco/McElmo；　2　St。　John's　Poly；　1　Soccoro　B/W　。　。　。　Or　was　that　another　Mesa　Verde　B/W？　She　hunted　in　the　drawer　for　a　loup；　rummaging　unsuccessfully。　Hell　with　it；　she　thought；　placing　it　to　one　side　and　moving　on。　
　Her　hand　closed　over　a　small；　polished　piece　of　pottery；　evidently　the　lip　of　a　bowl。　Now　this　is　more　like　it；　she　thought。　Despite　its　small　size；　the　fragment　was　beautiful；　and　she　still　remembered　its　discovery。　She'd　been　sitting　beside　a　thicket　of　tamarisk；　stabilizing　a　fragile　basket　with　polyvinyl　acetate；　when　her　assistant　Bruce　Jenkins　gave　a　sudden　yelp。　〃Chaco　Black…on…Yellow　Micaceous！〃　he'd　screeched。　〃God　damn！〃　She　remembered　the　excitement；　the　envy；　that　the　little　fragment　had　generated。　And　here　it　was；　sitting　forlorn　in　an　oversized　Baggie。　Why　couldn't　the　Institute　devote　more　energy　to；　say；　learning　why　this　fantastic　style　of　pottery　was　so　rare…why　no　plete　pots　had　ever　been　found；　why　nobody　knew　where　it　came　from　or　how　it　was　made…instead　of　ceaselessly　numbering　and　cross…tabulating；　like　accountants　of　prehistory？　
　She　stared　at　the　potsherds　spread　out　in　a　dun…colored　line。　With　a　sudden　movement；　she　pushed　away　from　the　desk　and　turned　toward　the　phone；　dialing　information。　
　〃Pasadena；〃　she　said　into　the　phone。　〃The　Jet　Propulsion　Laboratory。〃　It　took　one　external　and　two　internal　operators　to　learn　that　Leland　Watkins's　extension　was　2330。　
　〃Yes？〃　came　the　voice　at　last；　high…pitched　and　impatient。　
　〃Hello。　This　is　Nora　Kelly；　at　the　Santa　Fe　Archaeological　Institute。〃　
　〃Yes？〃　the　voice　repeated。　
　〃Am　I　speaking　to　Leland　Watkins？〃　
　〃This　is　Dr。　Watkins。〃　
　〃I'd　like　a　moment　of　your　time；〃　Nora　said；　talking　quickly。　〃We're　working　on　a　project　in　southeastern　Utah；　looking　at　ancient　Anasazi　roads。　Would　it　be　possible　for　you…〃　
　〃We　don't　have　any　radar　coverage　in　that　area；〃　interrupted　Watkins。　
　Nora　took　a　deep　breath。　〃Is　there　any　way　we　might　cooperate　in　getting　some　radar　coverage？　You　see…〃　
　〃No；　there　is　no　way；〃　said　Watkins；　his　voice　growing　nasal　in　irritation。　〃I've　got　a　list　a　mile　long　of　people　waiting　for　radar　coverage：　geologists；　rain　forest　biologists；　agricultural　scientists；　you　name　it。〃　
　〃I　see；〃　said　Nora；　trying　to　keep　her　voice　even。　〃And　what　about　the　application　process　for　such　coverage？〃　
　〃We're　backed　up　two　years　with　applications。　And　I'm　too　swamped　to　talk　to　you　about　it。　The　shuttle　Republic　is　in　orbit　right　now；　as　you　probably　know。〃　
　〃It's　rather　important；　Dr。　Watkins。　We　believe…〃　
　〃Everything's　important。　Now；　will　you　excuse　me？　Write　if　you　want　that　application。〃　
　〃And　the　address…？〃　Nora　stopped　as　she　realized　she　was　talking　to　a　dial　tone。　
　〃Arrogant　prick！〃　she　shouted。　〃I'm　glad　my　brother　boned　your　girlfriend！〃　She　slammed　the　phone　into　its　cradle。　
　Then　she　paused；　staring　speculatively　at　the　phone。　Dr。　Watkins's　extension　had　been　2330。　
　Reaching　again；　she　slowly　and　deliberately　dialed　a　long…distance　number。　〃Yes；〃　she　said　after　a　moment。　〃Give　me　extension　2331；　please。〃　
　
　
6
　
　WITH　A　HEAVY　SIGH；　PETER　HOLROYD　SETTLED　himself　on　the　old　tractor…style　seat；　turned　the　right　handgrip　to　retard　the　spark　advance；　and　kicked　the　engine　into　ferocious　life。　He　sat　for　a　minute；　letting　the　motorcycle　warm　up。　Then　he　dropped　into　first；　turned　out　of　the　plex　into　the　California　Boulevard　traffic；　and　headed　west　toward　Ambassador　Auditorium。　A　thin　haze　hung　over　the　San　Gabriel　Mountains。　As　usual；　his　eyes…raw　from　a　long　day　of　poring　over　massive　puter　screens　and　false…color　images…smarted　in　the　ozone。　Free　of　the　purified　atmosphere　of　the　plex；　his　nose　began　to　run　freely；　and　he　hawked　a　generous　blob　of　phlegm　onto　the　blacktop。　A　small　plastic　image　of　the　Michelin　tire　mascot　had　been　glued　to　the　gas　tank；　and　he　reached　down　to　rub　its　fat　belly。　〃O　God　of　California　traffic；〃　he　intoned；　〃grant　me　safe　passage；　free　of　rain；　loose　gravel；　and　tight　drivers。〃　
　Ten　blocks　and　twenty　minutes　later；　he　nosed　the　old　motorcycle　south；　heading　for　Atlantic　Boulevard　and　his　Monterey　Park　neighborhood。　Traffic　was　easier　here；　and　he　shifted　into　third　for　the　first　time　since　starting　the　engine；　letting　the　wind　blow　away　the　heat　of　the　cylinders　beneath　him。　His　thoughts　returned　once　again　to　the　persistent　archaeologist　who　had　kept　him　on　the　line　for　such　a　long　time　that　morning。　In　his　mind；　he　saw　a　dumpy；　mousy…looking　academic　with　chopped…off　hair　and　no　social　graces。　He　had　promised　nothing　except　a　meeting。　A　meeting　far　from　JPL；　of　course…if　Watkins　got　even　a　whiff　of　extracurricular　dealings；　he'd　be　in　deep　shit。　But　these　hints　of　a　lost　city　had　intrigued　him　more　than　he　wanted　to　admit。　Holroyd　hadn't　had　much　luck　with　women；　and　the　thought　that　one…mousy　or　not…was　willing　to　drop　everything　and　drive　all　the　way　from　Santa　Fe　to　meet　with　him　was　flattering。　Besides；　she'd　promised　to　pay　for　dinner。　
　After　a　brief；　easy　run；　the　streets　grew　more　congested　and　aggressively　urban。　Another　three　blocks；　another　three　lights；　and　he　nosed　up　onto　the　sidewalk　beside　a　row　of　four…story　buildings。　Pulling　a　brown　bag　from　beneath　the　bungee　cord　on　the　rear　fender；　he　craned　his　neck　up　toward　his　apartment。　Ancient　yellow　curtains　twitched　limply　in　the　hot；　fitful　breeze。　They　were　a　bequest　of　a　previous　tenant　and　had　never　felt　air　conditioning。　Snorting　again；　Holroyd　angled　across　the　street　and　headed　toward　the　intersection；　where　the　sign　for　Al's　Pizza　glowed　against　the　gathering　dusk。　
　He　glanced　around　and　slid　into　his　usual　booth；　enjoying　the　chill　air　of　the　restaurant。　The　traffic　had　made　him　late；　but　the　place　was　still　empty。　Holroyd　tried　to　decide　whether　he　felt　disappointed　or　relieved。　
　Al　himself　came　over；　a　small；　impossibly　hirsute　man。　〃Good　evening；　professor！〃　he　cried。　〃Nice　night；　eh？〃　
　〃Sure；〃　said　Holroyd。　Over　Al's　hair…matted　shoulder；　he　could　see　a　small　television；　its　grainy　image　struggling　through　a　film　of　grease。　It　was　always　tuned　to　CNN；　and　the　sound　was　always　off。　There　was　an　image　of　the　shuttle　Republic；　showing　an　astronaut　floating　upside　down；　tethered　by　a　white　cord；　the　magnificent　blue　orb　of　Earth　as　a　backdrop。　He　felt　a　quick　familiar　feeling　of　longing　and　turned　back　to　Al's　cheerful　face。　
　Al　slapped　the　table　with　a　floury　hand。　〃What　tonight？　We've　got　good　anchovy　pizza；　ing　out　in　five　minutes。　You　like　anchovy？〃　
　Holroyd　hesitated　a　moment。　Probably　she'd　thought　better　of　making　such　a　long　trip；　after　all；　he　hadn't　exactly　been　encouraging　on　the　telephone。　〃I　love　anchovies；〃　he　said。　〃Bring　me　two　slices。〃　
　〃Angelo！　Two　slices　anchovy　for　the　professor！〃　Al　cried　as　he　swept　back　behind　the　counter。　Holroyd　watched　him　walk　away；　then　reached　for　the　paper　bag　and　dumped　the　contents　onto　the　tabletop。　A　notebook；　two　blue　high…lighters；　and　paperback　copies　of　The　White　Nile；　Aku　Aku；　and　Lansing's　Endurance　fell　out。　With　a　sigh；　he　fanned　the　pages　of　Endurance；　located　the　paper　clip；　and　settled　back。　
　He　heard　the　familiar　squeal　of　the　pizza　parlor　door　and　caught　a　glimpse　of　a　young　woman　struggling　through；　lugging　a　large　portfolio　case。　She　had　unusual　bronze…colored　hair　that　broke　in　waves　over　her　shoulders；　and　penetrating　hazel　eyes。　Her　body　was　slim；　and　as　she　dragged　the　case　through　the　door　he　couldn't　help　but　notice　a　shapely　rear。　She　turned　and　he　looked　up　quickly；　guiltily；　only　to　be　arrested　by　her　face：　smart；　restless；　impatient。　
　This　couldn't　be　her。　
　The　woman　glanced　up　and　the　hazel　eyes　met　his。　He　quickly　shut　the　book　and　smoothed　a　hand　over　his　hair；　made　unruly　by　the　motorcycle　ride。　The　woman　walked　straight　toward　him；　dumped　her　portfolio　on　the　table；　and　slid　into　the　far　side　of　the　booth　with　a　cool　rustle　of　her　long　legs。　She　brushed　back　the