Her voice started to trail off and Artie looked at her sharply. Connie was preoccupied with the idea. Normal enough.
“They’re dying out there, Artie. Four thousand plants, five thousand animals at fifty to a hundred times the expected rate. Shit, we’re not fishing these days, we’re sifting the sea with filament nets. We don’t catch many dolphins anymore but that’s because so few are out there—”
“Throw your pad over, Connie. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
He was halfway through her notes when Jerry Gottlieb knocked on the door and opened it. “The assignment desk says to get your ass over there, Connie—we’ve got a breaker.” He stood to one side to let her out, then handed Artie a sheaf of paper with a heavy binder clip at the top. “You were off by thirty pages, Artie—came to seventy-three, single-spaced.”
Artie casually riffled through the pages. Text and diagrams and formulas, very little straightforward exposition—so far as he could see. It wasn’t easy to read—gaps in a lot of the lines, pages with no paragraphing, type characters he’d never seen before.
“What the hell’s wrong with it, Jerry?”
“Some sort of oddball format. When I get a chance tomorrow, I’ll go back in and try and clean up the disk, print out a decent copy.”
“You read it?”
Jerry shrugged. “I didn’t get very far. The first few pages were grisly and after that, the writer lost me. What’s your interest in it?”
“Favor for a friend of mine.”
Jerry looked offended. “Always willing to help a friend of a friend, Artie. But don’t ever make it a friend of a friend of a friend.”
“So I owe you one.”
Just before closing the door, Jerry turned, frowning. “That was bullshit about your friend, right? If you want it deciphered, I’d try one of the anthropologists at the science museum in the park—they’re more user-friendly than the ones at UC Berkeley.”
Artie raised an eyebrow.
“Then you read it through?”
“Are you kidding? It was hard to read and I only understood every fifth word anyway—your secret’s safe with me.”
After he’d left, Artie spread the pages out in front of him and glanced through them. The details of the accident, sketches and photographs that Shea must have scanned in, were just as grisly as the Grub had said. Then there were lists of measurements and descriptions of how the skull set on the spinal column, complete dental charts—and comparison charts of just how the knee bone connected to the thigh bone, he thought irreverently, not only in Talbot but in a list of controls. Measurements of bone thickness, the size and shape of the teeth, the thickness of the orbital ridges …
And all of it harder than usual to read.
The Grub had made a good suggestion: take the printout to the Academy of Sciences in Golden Gate Park and let a professional guess at what Shea had been up to. Artie juggled the pages back into a neat stack and slipped them into a heavy envelope. He’d call the museum and make an appointment for later that morning, see what he could come up with for a bribe. It would have to be a hefty one to get anybody to try to puzzle out this mess.
A slight movement in the newsroom outside caught his eye and he turned. He had a vague memory of a brightly colored silk scarf and searched for it. Adrienne Jantzen—she’d been watching him. Now her head was down and she was busy at her computer, probably writing notes for the noon news. Attractive woman, he thought, then felt a sudden flush of guilt. Jesus, real macho.
He dialed the museum and a Dr. Richard Hall said he’d be glad to see him. Especially if Artie could help out with publicity for their new exhibit.
Golden Gate Park was
an upper, even in the cold and the drizzle. The Academy of Sciences had been a favorite hangout when Artie was a kid. A planetarium, an aquarium, and halls full of stuffed animals all rolled into one. Plus a bookstore where you could buy books about dinosaurs and kits you could put together to make your own pterodactyl and a restaurant in the basement that served hamburgers that weren’t as tasty as McDonald’s but were probably better for you.
The director’s office was hidden behind a gallery they were renovating for a new exhibit—according to the sign, it would be the world’s first virtual reality diorama. The walls were blank. In the middle were a dozen cubicles with a chair in each, a computer workstation and a VR helmet and gloves hanging on hooks. Not very inviting, Artie thought, but then they weren’t finished. Paint some dinosaurs on the walls, add some sound effects, and it would pull in the kids.
“Mr. Banks?”
The man was younger than Artie had been expecting. Short and muscular, kinky black hair in a modified Afro, horn-rimmed glasses, light brown skin, and teeth so white they made his smile seem bigger than it was.
He held out his hand. “Richard Hall, assistant curator.” Artie shook it and was led into a cramped office. Hall motioned to the chair on the other side of an ancient wooden desk. “You said over the phone you were willing to do an article on Visions of the Past—that’s what we’re going to call the room outside—and you also wanted a favor. Quid pro quo?”
Artie started to apologize and Hall waved it away. “We could use the publicity—though the room won’t be open for another month—and I’ve got some free time on my hands. So. What can I do for you?”
Artie opened the envelope and shoved the papers across the table: The work of a doctor friend, he said, who’d recently died. Apparently research on a body he’d autopsied, but Artie hadn’t the slightest idea what it was about except it had something do with anthropology … . He let his voice trail away and looked at Hall expectantly.
Hall picked up the pages and thumbed them quickly with a slight frown. “It’s readable, but just barely. What’s wrong with your computer?”
Artie looked apologetic. “The technician said the copy was in an oddball format. He’s going to clean up the disk tomorrow, but time’s important.”
“You’re a relative, I take it?”
“Close friend.” Artie hesitated, then added that the information was connected with the estate and if he could have some idea today—
Hall sighed. “If they’re paying for it, they’re seldom in a hurry. If they get it for free, they want it the day before yesterday.” He grinned. “Okay. A feature story when we open the room. Deal?”
Artie thought about it a moment, then nodded as if the decision were a hard one to make. Hall pointed to the room outside. “The first booth is set up to go—you might as well try it out while I go through this stuff. The software’s already in the machine—just put on the helmet and gloves, turn the computer on, and you’re all set. The full program runs about an hour. When we’re up and operating we’ll slice it into five-minute segments—just about the attention span of kids these days.”
In the Visions of the Past room, the cubicle setup looked as simple as Hall had said. Artie fumbled with the gloves a moment, slipped on the helmet with the virtual reality goggles and headphones, and flicked the computer’s On switch.
The scene was blurry
at first, taking a few seconds to swim into focus. Artie gasped. He was back in his dream, lying on the hillside, naked except for a piece of hide tied around his waist. White clouds floated slowly overhead and he could even smell the faint fragrance of the wildflowers. How the hell could they program odors? Or was he imagining the smells that would naturally go with the scenery?
There was a buzz of conversation in the air and he rolled to his knees, then stood up and turned to the caves behind him. Gathered in front were maybe twenty members of the Tribe, mostly young adults with half a dozen kids plus a middle-aged giant of a man with a dirty white beard. Just coming out of one of the caves was an old woman of forty winters, half supported by her young daughter. The kids were naked, the adults not wearing anything more than he was. A piece of hide around their waist, nothing binding the breasts. A husky-looking group, all of them with tangled hair and several with livid scars and limps, including the white-bearded giant.
He knew them all, Artie thought with wonder. Purple Flower, Deep Wood, Soft Skin, Clear Stream—the old woman, White Beard. He knew the kids even better; he was only a little older than they. Few of them had been named yet because so many, like Little Fox, died early.
White Beard grunted at him and he had a sudden mental image of a small pile of chipped rocks. The image faded and he scurried back into the cave and picked up a rush bag filled with a dozen flints. He was the most proficient in the Tribe at making scrapers and cutters, and he was responsible for them. They were moving to another set of caves and they couldn’t afford to leave anything behind, least of all the flints.
He came out in the bright sunshine blinking. Deep Wood laughed at him and he laughed back and pegged a stone at his feet. White Beard scolded him again, and the Tribe got in a ragged line and started off down the path that wound along the side of the stream. It was time to move on; game was getting scarce and the berry bushes had been pretty well picked over. The new caves were closer to bigger game, which both excited and frightened him. A lot of meat for the effort, but you had to get in close to kill the larger animals and it could cost you your life.
He looked back only once, to glance at the spot where Little Fox had been given to the Spirit of the Flames the previous evening, after coughing for the last time. When they reached the riverbank, Clear Stream scattered the ashes from a leather pouch and Little Fox was returned to the Mother of Waters.
Artie shivered, then concentrated on Soft Skin walking in front of him, admiring the sway of her ample hips and imagining them both in a dark corner of the cave. She picked up on his thoughts and emphasized the swing of her hips even more. He grinned, delighted. Then Tall Tree noticed his arousal poking out from under his strip of hide and hooted and the rest of the Tribe turned and laughed. He reddened and resolved to get Tall Tree alone when they reached the new caves and teach him some manners.
It was a warm day and they’d broken once for a rest when Clear Stream noticed some new berry bushes still full with fruit. Shadows were just beginning to appear when they picked up their few belongings and continued on, their lips and fingers now dyed a deep purple. Cliffs were starting to rise along both banks of the stream and Artie noticed animal tracks breaking off from the path to lead down to the water. Game would be plentiful; White Beard had made a wise choice.
The path had narrowed, the cliffs rising to Artie’s right. They were maybe twenty feet high, their shadows almost reaching to the water. But it was still warm, even in the shadows, with no wind—a beautiful day.
The attack came without warning. There were shouts from the cliffs above, and some Flat Faces appeared at the top to heave rocks down at them. The Tribe scattered along the pathway, some of them already clutching broken arms and showing leg wounds. Artie noted with amazement that Tall Tree had fallen to the ground, moaning, a stick jutting from his back.
White Beard whirled his club above his head and let it go. There was a scream from above and one of their attackers tumbled down to the path. Then a dozen of the Flat Faces were swarming down on them, either climbing across the rock face or sliding down on vines they’d thrown over the edge.
The Tribe managed to get together in a group with the cliff at their backs and clubbed down two more of the attackers. Suddenly one of them, who had been shouting commands in a language that seemed far more complex than White Beard’s grunts, stepped forward, holding up his hands and smiling. The Flat Faces withdrew down the path and the leader came up to White Beard, still smiling and this time speaking in their own tongue, though he wasn’t very good at it. They could go in peace if they left their flints behind.
White Beard nodded at Artie, who stepped forward with his rush bag. Then he stopped, alarmed. Around a curve in the path ahead he could see more of the enemy sliding down their vines. They were trapped now, Flat Faces in front and behind. Their leader in his speaking had been … had been what? Artie couldn’t think of a word for it.
The leader noticed his expression and sprang back while the others leaped toward them, thrusting with their sticks and clubbing those in front. Two of them clung to White Beard, stabbing at him. He went down, his throat cut. Artie was horrified. There might be nobody left to make a pile of twigs and branches and place White Beard and his favorite club on it as an offering to the Spirit of the Flames.
Deep Wood had floundered into the stream, which was now rapidly turning red, splashing frantically toward the other side. He almost made it before a stick cut into his side and he fell, holding his wound with both hands and screaming. Ahead of Artie, Soft Skin had been knocked to the ground, scratching at the Flat Face on top of her who’d torn away her strip of hide. He hit her in the head with a rock and she suddenly lay still, but he didn’t get off. Clear Stream was already dead, lying alongside the path, blood oozing from her mouth, her eyes blank.
Artie was the only one left standing now, bleeding from a dozen different wounds and screaming because of the pictures that kept flashing through his head and then fading and going black. In his mind he saw the death of every member of the Tribe while all around him he could hear the screams of the children and the cries of the injured. Then two of the Flat Faces grabbed him and threw him on his belly in the dirt, kneeling on his arms while they spread his legs apart and stripped away his bit of hide. He was filled with sudden fear because he knew they were going to use him the same way they had used Soft Skin. He tried to twist away but the one on top grabbed his hair and yanked his head up while the other held a cutter to his throat.