by Greig Beck
Pieter thought about refusing the drops, but guessed that would probably just lengthen the delay, so he shook his head, mouthed “nope”, and snatched at the tiny bottle. He squeezed a drop into each eye. Both immediately felt better — still itchy, but less grainy.
“Once again, sir.” The man motioned to the scanner.
Pieter sighed theatrically and did as requested. He stood back and waited as both officers peered at the screen, then looked at each other and shrugged. His original interviewer looked up at him and smiled. “Welcome home, Professor.”
Pieter snatched his passport with a grunt and headed toward the luggage carousel, mentally checking off his next steps: collect the suitcases, duffel bags, and crates, then navigate customs. That wasn’t going to be pleasant — Round 2, he thought morosely.
* * *
Nearly an hour later, Pieter was waiting in the taxi rank. The people either side of him gave him a few extra feet, possibly due to the aura of prickliness and anger coming off him in waves, or more likely due to his unsettling odor, a mix of ammonia and cloying sweetness.
In the taxi, Pieter calmed himself by planning his evening’s presentation. Though physically fatigued, he was emotionally and intellectually charged. An early night could wait. It was only late morning, and not too late to invite a small but influential group of anthropologists, biologists, and — what the hell — paleontologists, just to make things interesting. He knew exactly which buttons to press to entice them, and an appeal for secrecy would guarantee that word would get out. Academics leaked like the Bismarck.
Once he had knocked their socks off, he’d graduate to a larger audience. Pieter knew he was on the border of Nobel Prize territory — how could he not be? He had his research, an exotic location, the secretive tribe and their fantastic language, and he had his specimen. That alone would crown his work, and lift him above all other academics, adventurers and poseurs in the country — no, the world! He snorted softly at his own hubris.
The specimen would be quarantined in a secret location for the next eight weeks, but that wouldn’t stop him from taking to the road long beforehand, or from securing a form of scientific copyright over the discovery. The respect of his peers was one thing, but that didn’t put food on the table … or rather, champagne in the bucket. He could sell it, and make a fortune. Hmm, he did have a contact, he mused, and sunk back in the vinyl seat, feeling the prickling on his skin again.
“Please turn the air conditioning up.”
The driver’s gaze flicked back at him, and he leaned forward, toward the dashboard. Jorghanson wasn’t sure the man had made any change, as he was still stewing in his own secretions. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow, excitement outweighing his discomfort.
He could almost see the look on his peers’ faces when he presented the images of the primitive-looking tribe. He’d discuss samples of their ancient and unique language. The audience would start to become restive, having expected more, given the expectations he had set. There’d be muttering, glances at wristwatches.
He’d play it cool, take some questions, then show the Ndege Watu’s glyph writing style — itself a wonder. Then he’d stop at what he knew to be a crude representation of the specimen and begin to discuss what it could mean. Perhaps he’d even allow some of his more esteemed peers to suggest an answer. They’d all be completely wrong, of course.
Almost as an afterthought, he’d answer the original question he proposed. Colombo-like, he’d reveal pictures of the live specimen — they’d be dumbfounded. His body juddered as he contained his laughter, delight making his eyes water.
If only he wasn’t still suffering from some type of jungle itch that was driving him crazy. He scratched at his chest and stomach, and wiped at his brow and his neck with the rumpled handkerchief, still in his hand.
He’d shower and grab an hour or two of naptime, then he’d jump straight into his delivery at the Santa Barbara University’s Lecture Hall. He couldn’t get the smile off his face as he gave the taxi driver directions. Stuffing the damp square of cloth back into his pocket, he didn’t notice the brownish stain on its soiled surface.
Pieter Jorghanson hummed to himself and leaned his head out of the car window, allowing the warm mid-morning air to dry the red sweat on his forehead.
Yep, things were going to turn out just fine.
* * *
“Shut the fuck up!” Mitch kicked the cage, then knelt down to read the tag. “I can’t even pronounce this — some sort of rare fucking parrot or sumthin … from … Brazil.” He lifted the cloth and peered into the shrouded enclosure. “Je-zuz.” He recoiled as the creature hissed at him, and the cage rattled and clanged as the animal backed its ungainly body against the bars.
“It stinks. No wonder it’s in quarantine — looks sick already to me.”
His colleague, Barbara Hernandez, snorted. “Yup, sure ain’t a looker. Just make sure it’s kept warm. It just came in from the jungle.”
“Well. It’ll love LA in the summer then — freaking jungle out there, baby.”
Mitch Merkhal got down lower and pulled out his flashlight, flicking it on and shining into the cage depths. The creature turned its head and fixed him with a small, ruby red eye. “Yecch.” Mitch reached between the bars, picked up a small piece of meat and flicked it at the bird. The food bounced off its wing, the bird casting only a momentary glance toward it before glaring once again at Mitch. It hissed and clanged once again, small taloned fingers on the apex of its wings clutching at the bars.
Mitch snorted in disgust. “Yeah, I wouldn’t eat that shit either, fugly.” He got to his feet, dropping the shroud back over the cage and wiping his fingers on his pants. Inside, the bird looked down at the morsel of food. A scattering of iridescent feathers fell to the cage floor, where they stuck, their quills coated in brownish blood.
* * *
Pieter Jorghanson woke at four, and sat up slowly. He’d taken painkillers for his headache, and after a shower and a nap he felt marginally more refreshed, but his body still tingled all over, and when he rubbed his forehead, his hand came away greasy and brown. He snorted — still exuding Amazon mud. He remembered falling face-first into the mud. They had to run for it — the Ndege Watu had been a lovable bunch until he went to leave with the specimen. Then they’d turned from friendly little doves to angry hawks in a flash.
Gho-ka had trapped one of the creatures in a plastic bag he’d given her, as she refused to touch it. Apparently the men always brought them back dead, drowned. He remembered when she had returned to him, sopping wet after an apparent swim. His breath caught in his throat and his eyes widened when he first saw it, its serrated beak bound closed with a small length of vine. Gho-ka had flatly refused to take him to the wall of flowers, where the creature had been living — at least, he thought so. That was as close to a translation as he could get. It didn’t matter, his prize was enough, and he could always come back with enough gifts to buy another dozen … or maybe not. Gho-ka had tripped as they ran. She’d cried out for him, but he had sped on. He could still hear the wails that had continued for many minutes before being abruptly cut off. He was sure she’d be fine. It was better for her to be with her own people anyway.
They had chased him for miles. Even now, he still didn’t get it; what did they care? It was just another plate of food to them, but it was his ticket to greatness. Greatness. He smiled and swung his legs off the bed.
Dressing quickly, he contemplated a quick bite but decided against it, hoping that the university room would provide a tray of sandwiches, or at least a plate of cookies. He chuckled when he thought of the facial expressions of his small audience as he talked through his presentation, seeing their polite boredom gradually turn to interest, then on to incredulity and wonder.
They’d be falling over each other to learn more about his work, to get access to it, to study it, then to try and hitch their own academic wagons to his speeding train of discovery. My turn, he thoug
ht, and chuckled again as he walked into the small bathroom and picked up his comb.
He smiled into the mirror. Learn more about it? Sure. Get access to it? Maybe. Study it? Not a chance. He’d already negotiated rights with an interested corporation — they got exclusive information and the location, and he got the academic recognition, and personal remuneration in the seven-figure range. Who said academia didn’t pay?
He looked harder at his reflection. Jesus, he looked terrible. His skin was gray and sagging — corpse-like best described it. Must be more tired than I thought. Maybe a week off before any more presentations.
He snorted; who was he kidding? A week off now? It was his time in the sun. Right here, right now.
Jorghanson ran the comb through his hair; his scalp tingled, and he was alarmed to see the teeth of the comb come away tangled with strands of hair and sticky with a brownish substance. He stared at it in confusion for a few seconds, then brought it to his nose. Phew — sickly sweet and ammonia-like. It reminded him of something that he couldn’t quite place.
Shit. Why now, goddammit? He dropped the comb into the sink and instead splashed water on his face and ran his wet hands up over his sparse hair, slicking it into place. The cool water felt somehow distant, like he had stretched cellophane over his skin. Straightening, he saw that the pallor of his skin hadn’t changed. He hoped it was just the lighting. Blue-white energy saving coils — always bad for complexions.
Jorghanson gathered his laptop, his presentation loaded, as well as some loose notes. He sucked in a deep breath. Tonight was the night — he’d never forget it. He hoped no one else would either.
* * *
Mitch Merkhal’s fingers itched constantly now, but not to a degree that worried him. Nearly time to knock off. He was looking forward to his first brewski. He whistled as he sauntered along the cool and dry aisles of the private quarantine station — long rows of mostly wooden and mineral items that only needed a short stay — and then sniffed back some snot. The dry atmosphere always made his nose run. He wiped it with his hand then ran his fingers up through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead and leaving a small red streak of brown.
The itch wasn’t enough to worry him … yet.
* * *
The lights were killing him.
Jorghanson had managed to struggle through his presentation and, as he had hoped, his small group was on the edge of their seats. Suspicion and skepticism had changed to enthusiasm.
Now to take it up to the next level — awe, he thought with satisfaction.
There were no more questions as he came to the final image. He stood back for a moment and drew in a breath. He tried to smile, but his lips felt funny — rubbery and numb. His skin was still itching, and also felt weird to the touch. Looking down at his hands, he had the weird impression that the skin was sagging, like a pair of ill-fitting gloves.
Jorghanson blinked a couple of times and wished he had worn a hat. Wearing one indoors was a bit pretentious, but given his recent trip and the images on his presentation, a little Indiana Jones flair would probably have been forgiven. He gathered himself, ignoring his torments, and smiled down from the small stage, which was little more than a single step a few inches high. He cleared his throat.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, the Ndege Watu is an ancient race, perhaps one of the first races to have existed in their secluded part of the Gran Chaco Boreal. Based on my fieldwork, it seems likely that they have resided there for untold generations … perhaps even millennia. They know their land — a dark and hidden land. But they also know the secrets it contains.” He paused for effect, and placed one hand on his chest. “They shared those secrets with me, and now, tonight, I wish to share them … with you.” He smiled benignly, then reached toward his computer and pressed a single key, moving the slide show to the last image.
The detail was exquisite, the lighting perfect, the specimen revealed in all its glory and phenomenal strangeness.
Pieter Jorghanson raised his head and closed his eyes. His voice was strong and sonorous, and sounding more like a Sunday preacher than a university professor. It had to be; already their voices were welling up in an academic fervor. He went on, even louder.
“Friends and colleagues, I give you an anachronism, a living fossil, and a biological time machine. I give you the mother of feathered flight, the first bird … the archaeopteryx!”
Chairs were knocked backward and pushed aside as the crowd got to its feet. They surged forward like some many-mouthed creature, yelling questions and jostling with each other, trying to get to the screen, to Pieter.
Then came the most beautiful sound Pieter had ever heard in his entire, unremarkable academic life — applause. He had done it, he was famous. His name would live forever with this find. A Nobel Prize for science and worldwide recognition would be his. It would happen.
He was dizzy. Perhaps the lighting and the euphoria were getting to him; making the blood pump from to his head too quickly. He leaned over his computer to steady himself, just as a small dark clump of something plopped onto the keyboard.
He frowned as he tried to work out what it was, and reached out to flip it over, thinking that perhaps someone had thrown something at him. But his fingers refused to grasp it; their tips felt squashy and somehow disconnected.
“What’s going on here?” He looked up at the crowd, and immediately there came a yell from the front row.
“He’s having a stroke!”
“Who, me? I’m having a stroke?” His vision grew more indistinct as something slipped down over his eyes. He moved a hand up to the side of his face — it sagged. No wonder they’d assumed he was having a stroke. His features were hanging limply, more like a hound’s dewlap than a human cheek.
Someone else screamed, a woman’s voice this time, he thought. The high-pitched cry went on and on, and was like a dagger into the center of his brain. Those damned lights. He looked up toward them, cursing their tormenting brightness for intervening at the moment of his triumph, but the thick veil had now slipped completely over his eyes.
The room spun and he fell to the floor.
CHAPTER 3
Two weeks later
Matt Kearns stretched out on the float in the center of the small swimming pool. A hat concealed his face, and he could feel the sun’s warmth like a blanket on his belly and thighs. He might just roll into the water again soon, or maybe he’d have another drink. Decisions, decisions, he thought, and sighed.
He was in Orange County for a week to attend a conference on sub-Sumerian languages and their dialects. It might have been a dry subject for anyone but a handful of archeologists, anthropologists, and paleolinguists, but for Matt, one of the youngest and brightest in the business, it was a little slice of academic heaven. And that was before you factored in the extra benefits.
“Honey?” He used the tips of his fingers to paddle his float backward to the edge of the pool. “Meg, honey, can you get me another drink?”
He breathed in the smells of coconut suntan lotion, chlorine, and a thousand more scents of summer that emanated from plants overhanging the tropical-style swimming pool. On days like this, nothing could go wrong … and only one thing could make it better. “Megan, can you …”
The pool erupted around him in an explosion of water as a human cannonball hit its surface, blowing him off his float. Matt came to the surface spluttering, his hat floating like a lilypad beside him. His girlfriend surfaced face-first, her long hair cascading down over her slim, tanned back and shoulders.
That’s what you get for dating younger women, he thought, spitting water. The fun never stopped.
At twenty-five, Megan Hannaford was one of his best students, and that wasn’t just because she happened to be sleeping with him. She was a tomboy at heart, and as athletic as they came. Smart as a whip, she would make a terrific scientist in whatever field she chose. He’d probably end up working for her one day.
He looked into her beaming Nordic features and smil
ed. Matt was nearly ten years older than Meg. He’d been the youngest professor of archeological studies at Harvard University until he decided to jump the rat race. He was now at Asheville UNC, where he met Meg. His longish hair, youthful features, and sharp mind made him a favorite with the faculty and students.
She said he had wise eyes, ancient eyes, the eyes of a man who had seen things. She didn’t know how right she was.
Megan threw her head back and laughed, hugging him. She pressed one sharp fingertip into his shoulder. “Look at you — you’re going to end up lobstering, and then you won’t want me to touch you.”
Matt ducked underwater and came up to spit a stream of pool water onto her chest. “The important areas were covered. You can still touch those.” He raised his eyebrows comically.
She reached under the water and squeezed his groin. Her eyes widened in shock. “Where’s it gone?”
He laughed. “The water’s cold.” He waded to the side of the pool and lifted himself out. Megan followed and sat next to him, and then leaned over and kissed him, softly at first, and then a little harder and deeper. She reached down again. “Oh, there he is. Welcome back, big fella.” She continued kneading his groin.
Matt pulled her closer and Megan drew back from the kiss. “What about a drink first, handsome?”
“Mmm, yes please. I think I must be in heaven.” Matt went to lie down on the warm pool deck.
“Good idea … make it two.” Megan smiled and fluttered her eyes.
“But, I thought … oh, I get it — cute and pushy.” He jumped to his feet and walked across the warm flagstones to grab his towel from the back of a banana lounge. He saw that his footprints had already started to evaporate in the hot afternoon sun.
They’d head back to Asheville tomorrow. He was actually looking forward to getting back to work — cushy trips for lectures were fine, but he loved his job, and he could never complain about being paid to do something he would have done for free if given the chance.