Little Tiny Teeth

by Aaron Elkins

  Were there any questions?

  “Yeah, I’d like to organize my notes on my laptop in the evenings,” said a man with a Neanderthal jaw and a tree trunk of a neck, but a friendly, open face, “but there aren’t any outlets in my room. How do I recharge?”

  “Unfortunately,” Vargas said sadly, “the cabins don’t have electrical outlets yet. This will be repaired in the future. But there is an outlet in the dining room that is available to you at any time. Other questions?”

  “I notice the rooms don’t have locks either,” Scofield said. “Also to be repaired in the future, I assume?”

  “Yes, of course, everything in due time. I can’t do everything at once, ha-ha. There used to be great, big locks, enormous locks, from the prison days, but I had them taken off. They made such a bad impression. But I still have them, so if you don’t trust each other,” he said archly, “I can have them put on again.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Scofield said drily.

  Were there other questions?

  Yes, Duayne V. Osterhout had one too. He had noticed that the water coming out of both taps was the same lukewarm temperature. And a definite greenish cast could be seen in the water in the toilet. Was that river water in their bathrooms?

  “Ye-es,” said Vargas, as if to say, “What else would it be?”

  “Do you mean untreated water? Straight out of the Amazon? And when we flush the toilets it goes—”

  “Straight back. Out of the Amazon, back into the Amazon.” Vargas chuckled. “That’s recycling, my friend.”

  A mild tremor passed through the ship, and then a more pronounced juddering, along with a scraping noise. “Don’t worry, this is not a problem,” Vargas said, glancing nervously over his shoulder toward the bow of the boat, “but it is best perhaps that I attend to it.”

  “I knew it,” John muttered. “Didn’t I say the damn thing wouldn’t float?”

  With Vargas gone, having promised to return shortly, Arden Scofield took over. He stood, placed a foot on the seat of his chair, leaned one elbow on his knee, and inhaled a long breath. In his hand was his unlit pipe. Behind him the jungle slid smoothly by on the far bank.

  “To those who know nothing of botany,” he began dreamily, “a great rain forest can only be a jumble of colors, forms, and sounds, unintelligible and mysterious.” He had a nice voice, chuckly and avuncular, well suited to his lively eyes. “Beautiful, yes; treacherous, certainly; awe-inspiring, perhaps; but in the end without meaning or coherence. Only for the botanist does the jumble resolve itself into a precise and harmonious whole of many parts, a mosaic, if you will, of discrete components, each playing its prescribed part in the natural order. And only for the ethnobotanist do these components present themselves as a cornucopia of almost untapped gifts that can heal and nourish and protect, gifts the uses of which it is our great good fortune to study and make known to the world at large.”

  He paused to gaze out over their heads and to contemplatively put the pipe in his mouth and chew at it, as if thinking hard about what to say next, but Gideon, who had plenty of experience delivering “spontaneous” lectures of his own, knew a fellow fake when he saw one. He had to hand it to him, though; it was well prepared and mellifluously delivered — well, maybe a little bombastic (Gideon could have done without the “if you will” and the “cornucopia”), but effective all the same.

  Scofield judged that his pause had been long enough. The pipe was taken from his mouth. “The isolated, little-known rain forest into which we now sail is not only the greatest, the least discovered, and the most prolific forest on earth, it is one of the very most ancient. When we enter it, we go back in time to a primeval jungle hardly changed, hardly disturbed, in a hundred million years. The temperate European and North American forests that are more familiar to us are only as old as the end of the last ice age, eleven thousand years ago — one ten-thousandth” — the words were drawn-out and caressed by his tongue — “of the age of the Amazon Basin. In this rich, nurturing…”

  Gideon had been marginally aware that something was bothering him about the people at Scofield’s table. Something wasn’t right, something about their postures, or the way they toyed with their drinks, or what they chose to rest their eyes on. Something.

  He suddenly realized what it was. Why, they don’t like him. Not one of the people at his table likes him, or at any rate they sure don’t like listening to him. There was a long, gangly, beak-nosed guy in his late twenties — a graduate student, probably, or maybe post-grad — who was following every word with avid fascination plastered all over his face, but any experienced professor (including Scofield, you would think) could recognize the grim, deeply resented necessity to suck up that was in those glazed, rigid eyes. Scofield’s probably his major prof, Gideon thought. Poor guy. Gideon himself had no doubt worn that sorry look on his own face many a time during his graduate years at Wisconsin under Dr. Campbell.

  The other two people at the table weren’t being quite as obvious. There was a tall, bemused-looking woman of forty with a decades-out-of-date Laura Petrie hairstyle — a flip, was it called? — whose expression was opaque enough, but Gideon could see an impatient, sneaker-clad foot jiggling away under the table at supersonic speed. Next to her was the big guy who had asked about outlets. Thick-chested but showing the usual middle-age signs of losing the battle against weight and gravity, he looked plain bored out of his mind, as if he’d heard Scofield speak two or three hundred times too often, and it took every ounce of his willpower simply to sit still and listen. His eyes had been tightly closed for a while, as if he had a headache.

  This is going to be one interesting trip, Gideon thought.

  “This confluence of land and water is also the most biologically diverse reservoir of life on earth,” Scofield was saying. Lost in his own presentation, he appeared to be oblivious to the cloud of aversion that enveloped him. Either that, or he just didn’t give a damn. “There are at least a hundred thousand plant species here, only a fraction of them known in the scientific literature,” he said, “and only a fraction of those whose potential attributes are understood. There are two million species of insects — five thousand species of butterflies alone and—”

  There was a gentle throat-clearing sound to Gideon’s right. Duayne Osterhout’s left forefinger rose tentatively.

  Scofield pretended not to notice. “ — and almost two thousand species of birds. The river itself is home to two thousand species of fish — compare that to the hundred and fifty that are found in all the rivers of Europe combined.”

  Osterhout’s finger remained in place, gently waggling. Scofield’s lips compressed. He nodded — at the finger, not the man. “Did you want to say something?”

  “Only a minor correction, professor,” Osterhout said. “I believe that four thousand butterfly species would probably be a safer estimate if it’s generally accepted classified species that we’re referring to.” He was being very deferential, very unassuming. Uneasy under Scofield’s cool glare, he cleared his throat a couple of times more. “Of course, there’s little doubt that five thousand species, perhaps even more, do exist here but are not as yet all identified. Perhaps that’s what you meant?”

  “Thank you,” Scofield said sourly. “Four thousand, then. We certainly wouldn’t want to exaggerate the butterfly population. In any case, that’s enough blather from me. Let’s go on to something else.” This was not a man who appreciated being interrupted, Gideon saw. Throw off his timing and the show was over. Glowering, he looked down at his pipe and plucked an offending shred of tobacco from the bowl. When he raised his face a moment later he was back in his twinkly, avuncular mode — an instantaneous, apparently effortless switch.

  “Not everyone here knows everyone else,” he said pleasantly. “In fact, there isn’t anyone here who knows everyone else — so I guess we’d better introduce ourselves before we go any further. My name is Arden Scofield, I’m an ethnobotanist, and I’m lucky enough to teach at t
he University of Iowa and at a wonderful little college called the Universidad Nacional Agraria de la Selva down here in Peru, in a little town called Tingo Maria. Which is enough about me.”

  He sat down and reinserted the pipe between his teeth. “Tim, you take it from there,” he said to the tall young man sitting with him, the one with the beaky nose.

  Tim started, as if he’d just come out of a trance, which was probably not that far from the truth. “I’m, uh, Tim Loeffler,” he said, almost knocking over his drink when he unfolded what seemed like more arms and legs than he strictly needed. “I’m a student of Professor Scofield’s at UI, and I’m here hoping to learn more about, uh, the ethnobotanical practices and, um, resources of the Amazonian Basin, and, uh—” At a subtly impatient jiggle of the lighter that Scofield was using to relight his pipe, Tim skidded to an abrupt halt. “And, um, I guess that’s about it.”

  “Thank you, Tim,” Scofield said around the bit of his pipe. He clicked the lighter closed, turned to his left, and tipped his head benignly at the woman with the Laura Petrie hairdo. “Maggie?”

  She stopped jiggling her foot, uncrossed her jeans-clad legs, and turned to face Gideon’s table, the table of strangers. “My name’s Maggie Gray—”

  “Oh, I forgot,” Tim blurted. “I should have said — I’m also a student of Maggie’s — of Professor Gray’s.”

  “—and, as Tim indicates, I also teach in the ethnobotany program at the University of Iowa.” She paused. “At the moment, anyway. My primary interests are in the area of ethnopharmacology with a concentration on anaesthetics, hypnotics, and opiates.” She had an unusual, not unattractive manner of speaking, biting and humorously ironic, as if everything she said was half taunting — self-taunting as much as anything else. The set of her face, with its wide, sardonic mouth, and with one eyebrow slightly raised — much practiced, Gideon suspected — added to the general impression of barbed, above-it-all skepticism.

  “Mel?” said Scofield.

  Beside Maggie, the fourth person at the table, the big guy with the bull neck, now smiled affably. “Hi all, I’m Mel Pulaski and I’m not a botanist, I’m a writer, so in a way I’m kind of just along for the ride—”

  “Wait a minute,” Phil said. “I know you. Didn’t you used to play for the Dallas Cowboys?”

  “Minnesota,” Mel said, pleased. “You got a good memory.”

  “Running back, right?”

  “Linebacker. But that was a few years and a few pounds back. I’m a freelance writer now. I’m writing up an article on the cruise for EcoAdventure Travel. I also worked with Dr. Scofield on his latest book—”

  “Indeed you did, and we’ll come to that in just a few minutes, Mel,” Scofield said, talking over him. “But there at that table are four gentlemen whom I haven’t met.” He leaned forward, smiling at Osterhout and radiating cordiality. “I think I can guess, however, who that particular gentleman, our butterfly expert, is.”

  “Well, I’m Duayne Osterhout. Yes, I’m an entomologist, an ethnoentomologist, I suppose I should say in this august company, and I’m with the Department of Agriculture.” He was still on his first pisco sour, but obviously he wasn’t much used to drinking, because it had gone to his head. He was speaking a little too carefully, almost visibly preforming the words before trying them out. “In other words, I’m a bug man.”

  “Dr. Osterhout is being unduly modest,” Scofield said. “He is not just any bug man, he is one of the world’s leading bug men, and an internationally recognized authority on the order Blattaria.”

  Visibly pleased, Osterhout simpered and waved a dismissive hand. “Oh now, really, I don’t know that I’d say…”

  “What’s Blattaria?” John whispered to Gideon.

  “Cockroaches.”

  John inconspicuously shifted his chair a few inches further away from Osterhout.

  “Surely this isn’t your first trip to the Amazon, Dr. Osterhout?” Scofield asked. “I imagine your studies must have taken you here many times.”

  “Not really. I can assure you that if it’s cockroaches one is interested in, one has no trouble studying them in the Washington, DC, area, so as a matter of fact, yes, it is my first visit. You see, my work at Agriculture has been so time-consuming, and then my wife was never in favor of my going, but since she left…” He clamped his mouth shut. Apparently it had struck him that the potent drink had made him a little too forthcoming. “Well, anyway, here I am.”

  “And we’re delighted to have you as part of our merry band,” Scofield said smoothly. “I’m sure we’ll have a lot to learn from you. I should add, by the way, that I had the great pleasure of having Dr. Osterhout’s charming daughter Beth as a member of last year’s expedition in the Huallaga Valley. That lovely young woman is someone you can really be proud of, Dr. Osterhout; she’ll be a real credit to the field. If I can ever be of help to her, I hope she’ll feel free to call on me.”

  These generous if overdone remarks of Scofield’s obviously called for an appreciative response from Osterhout, but they were met instead with a searing, squint-eyed look of what Gideon took to be pure malignity. Somebody else who has some kind of a grudge against Scofield? he thought. Osterhout’s ferocious glower lasted but a second, however, before lapsing back into mildly intoxicated passivity. “Thank you, sir,” he said tightly, through a barely opened mouth.

  If Scofield was disturbed, he didn’t show it. He moved his glance to Phil. “Sir?”

  Phil offered a casual salute to all. “Hiya. I’m Phil Boyajian. I guess I’m just along for the ride too. I’m with On the Cheap, and I’m reviewing the Adelita for possible inclusion in our Amazon guidebook.”

  “Happy to have you with us, Phil,” Scofield said. “I hope you’ll feel free to join our little excursions whenever you like.” He pointed the bit of his pipe at Gideon. “Sir.”

  “My name is Gideon Oliver. I’m a prof too, at the University of Washington, but I’m afraid the last time I studied botany was in high school. I’m here to help Phil out, basically, but I’m looking forward to learning a little about what all of you do too, if you’ll let me.”

  Scofield was looking keenly at him, his clear blue eyes narrowed. He placed the bit of the pipe against his temple. “Am I wrong, or do we have yet another celebrity among us? Would you be a physical anthropologist, Dr. Oliver?”

  “Well, yes—”

  “Hey, right, the Bone Detective!” Mel Pulaski exclaimed, jabbing a thick finger at him.

  “Skeleton Detective,” John corrected helpfully.

  “Yeah, right, Skeleton Detective. I knew you looked familiar. You were on the Discovery Channel or the Learning Channel or something, just a few weeks ago. All about — what was it — identifying people from their skulls, I think, or figuring out how old they were, or something like that. That was you, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it probably was,” Gideon said, repressing a sigh. He didn’t mind being identified as a forensic anthropologist, but he’d been looking forward to going a whole week without being the Skeleton Detective.

  “Son of a gun,” said Mel, visibly impressed.

  “Well, we’re certainly happy to have you aboard, professor,” Scofield said. “I think we’d all love to learn a little about what you do, so shall we assume we have a quid pro quo to that effect? That leaves you, sir,” he said to John.

  “John Lau here. I’m also with Phil.”

  “You’re a writer? You work for On the Cheap?”

  “No, I’m just helping out too, so I guess you could say I’m along for the ride also. Actually I’m a special agent for the FBI.”

  “FBI?” Scofield cried, twinkling away. “Good heavens, are we under investigation?”

  “Nope,” said John. “Well, not yet, anyway.”

  Scofield chuckled, the others smiled civilly, and Scofield got to his feet again. “Well, now that we’re all friends, I hope you’ll let me present you with a little welcoming gift and do a little bragging at the same time. As most
of you know, I have a few publications to my credit—”

  “A lot more than a few, sir!” Tim enthused a little too ardently, then blushed bright pink.

  “Well, thank you, Tim, but be that as it may, until now I’ve never written anything for the general public. So when Javelin Press asked me to put together something of an autobiographical nature, something that wasn’t full of technical jargon, I didn’t know where to turn for help. Fortunately, they were able to recommend a first-rate writer to assist me.” He smiled at Mel Pulaski, who grinned back. “I want to thank you for all your help, Mel. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “Hell, you did all the work, Arden,” Mel said. “I just tweaked a word or two here and there. I was ashamed to take any money for it.”

  “Not true at all. Don’t you listen to him. I would have been helpless without his guidance.”

  John made a rumbling noise low in his throat. He was getting tired of the bowing and scraping, the kowtowing, and the self-inflating modesty. As was Gideon.

  “And here are the fruits of our joint venture,” Scofield said. Reaching into a backpack, he took out a stack of four brand-new-looking books in their wrappers. “Hot off the press, ladies and gentlemen, and soon to be available at fine bookstores everywhere, I give you Potions, Poisons, and Piranhas: A Plant-hunter’s Odyssey.” He handed out the handsomely embossed, silver-and-green books to Maggie, Mel, and Tim, and walked the few steps necessary to give one to Duayne.

  “I fear I brought only enough with me for our formal expedition members,” he said apologetically, “so John, and Gideon, and, ah—”

  “Phil,” Phil said.

  “—and Phil, I’m afraid I don’t have copies for you, but if you’ll give me your addresses at some point, I’d be pleased to send them to you.”

  There was a chorus of thanks all around and Scofield took his seat again. Gideon peeked at Osterhout’s copy, opened to the title page, and saw that there was an inscription: “To Duayne V. Osterhout, with admiration, Arden Scofield. November 26, 2006, somewhere on the Amazon.” Osterhout looked pleased.