THE MAYAN GLYPH

by Larry Baxter

  She opened the door to Robert's knock. He was wearing a nice smile, a Hawaiian shirt featuring angular green parrotfish over a bright red coral sea, khaki shorts, shaggy dark hair, and sandals. Sort of a nice face, all angles but good looking, with smile lines around his eyes. Pale white feet, but what would you expect in the middle of winter? He'd need number fifteen suntan oil for a few days. She checked her own feet; they looked as if she'd been on the beach for weeks. It was good to have a little ethnicity in your genetic makeup.

  Teresa glanced again at his shirt, squinted, dug into her bag, and slipped on a pair of sunglasses.

  They strolled down the strip. The sea breeze had turned onshore and carried the exotic smell of burning steer beef and rotting tropical vegetation with perhaps a trace of trash fire. Big hotels competed for the weirdest shape: gigantic wastebaskets with windows, fake Maya pyramids, fifteen-story airplane propellers. They lined up to present their attractions, lots of neon, more like Vegas than she had expected. Air-conditioned taxis and stretch limos eased the rich and famous from the hotels to Planet Hollywood, The Flamingo, and Carlos O'Brian's.

  They walked a mile or two in silence, footsteps scrunching the white sand drifting off the beach, passing vacationers in sandals and beach wear and pale or pink skin, watching the sunset redden and darken across the lagoon, and listening to the variety of sounds and music coming from the bars and restaurants.

  They chose a quiet Mexican restaurant called Chihuahua, set back from the road, apparently constructed entirely of wicker and partially hidden by the broad gray-green leaves of huge dusky green aloe plants. Teresa was captivated by the warmth of the breeze on her bare skin, the colors, the sounds, and the feeling of relaxation, of freedom.

  Inside the restaurant, a dozen wicker tables were almost filled. The wicker motif extended to the walls and ceiling. Teresa discovered the menu, cleverly painted on small wooden canoe paddles, and they ordered the Carta Blanca cerveza, Chiles Rellendos, the enchiladas, and the stuffed Jalapeno peppers to ward off respiratory illnesses.

  "This town is pretty cool," she said. "It looks just like the postcards. We didn't get to see the coast, when I was here before. The turquoise water, I thought that was fake, like the Chamber of Commerce painted it or something. And this restaurant. There's no back wall. They'll be in big trouble if it snows."

  "I think the temperature extremes are seventy-nine to eighty-one degrees," he said. "Big savings on snow shovels and heating."

  "I think I'll move down here permanently. Time to get back to work. Did you bring the books?" she asked.

  "I just unpacked 'em. Read 'em all."

  "Quick read, huh? How'd you like the pseudoscience? Forgive my departure from academic tradition by including Von Danikin, but I think pseudoscience is what this project needs."

  "Questionable scientific methodology."

  "I think his main contribution to science is loosening up people's heads," she said. "Big science is ruled by cautious old guys that don't jump onto new bandwagons. You're not a cautious old guy, are you?"

  "Not too cautious, anyway. But go back a few dozen centuries for me," he said. "If we're going to trace this glyph, we need to get into their heads, 1200 years ago. How did the Egyptians manage to build those big pyramids in Egypt? I saw a TV program a few weeks ago that explained how impossible it was. Maybe if we had some sense of how they could throw up a five hundred foot pyramid with two hundred ton stone blocks, we'd get some hints about how the ancient Maya could throw together a charge microscope."

  "If we only knew. There are dozens of ideas, but for every idea there's somebody who explains why it couldn't work. One mistake everybody makes is to think that modern civilization must be better because we obviously have more knowledge than the ancients. But that's only because civilization, after the invention of writing and then the invention of the printing press, finally got a way to build up and save knowledge, and the process—the information—fed on itself."

  "Those old guys weren't dumb," he said. "I'll get it, sooner or later."

  "Well, yes, I was thinking about information rather than intelligence, but that, too. Human beings are getting taller, over millennia, but there's no data that says we're getting any smarter. And, historically, because of the lack of record-keeping tools, things kept getting invented and forgotten. The Sumerians of eight thousand BC knew that the earth was round and knew that the planets orbited the sun. Then, almost ten thousand years later, Galileo reinvented that particular wheel and got clobbered for it because everybody knew we were the center of the universe, not some hick backwater in the galactic boonies."

  "That TV show said the Great Pyramid was built around twenty-six-hundred BC, using more than six million tons of stone," said Robert. "Its design needed really advanced geometry, surveying, geology, and physics. They said that the architects knew the Fibonacci series and pi. There are all sorts of astronomical connections in the pyramid: the Diagonal Gallery is at the exact angle of the North Star. The craftsmanship was superb, Herodotus in four-forty BC said that the limestone facing was polished to a mirror surface and the stone was so accurately cut that the joints couldn't be seen from an arm's length away."

  "Herodotus was notoriously nearsighted," guessed Teresa.

  "They were impressed that the typical modern large building sinks an inch or two a year, but in nearly five thousand years the pyramid has sunk less than half an inch. There are long passages accurate to the thickness of a playing card. A modern contractor would laugh at you if you asked for these specifications for a building, and if you were willing to pay through the nose for that kind of accuracy, he'd use laser surveying tools. Do you suppose they had laser surveying tools?"

  "I doubt it," said Teresa. "But I bet they had some ingenious tools that we haven't guessed. That's the key for the Maya to have invented your microscope, right? We have to guess at the ingenious tools they could have invented that got lost when their civilization disintegrated. Not that I believe for a moment that they did, you understand, I'm just trying my willful suspension of disbelief."

  She started to wonder if he could actually be correct. No, the Maya could no more have invented a charge microscope, the way Robert described the device, than the Egyptians could have invented the laser rangefinder. Astronomy, agriculture, medicine: she could see the Maya making some unexpected advance in these sciences, but not microscopes. Probably. She sipped her margarita and asked herself again what she was doing down here.

  "Robert? Can I ask a personal question?"

  "Try me."

  "What's your motivation, as they say in actor's class? I don't exactly get it. You build this neat new microscope and then abandon it, let other people finish the development. What are you doing in Mexico instead of back in the lab in the US?"

  "The virus, it's moving too fast. We could finish the design, learn how to use the microscope to analyze the virus structure, and lose the war. And there's people working on it that will be better than me. Our best chance to save lives is the research that must have been done twelve hundred years ago."

  She nodded slowly in agreement, almost starting to believe him. But how could the ancient Maya have that sort of technology? But if they did, they might well learn something. And a slim chance was worth pursuing. She had been following the unstoppable progress of the virus on television.

  As they finished dinner a band started to set up shop around the upright piano in the corner, positioned safely away from any sprinkles of wind-driven rain slanting in from the ocean. Rain was not a hazard tonight, as the clouds had disappeared, leaving a dusting of stars and the low moon reflecting off the ocean like a motel-room painting on black velvet.

  Teresa checked out the musicians: piano, Fender bass, drums, and tenor sax. The drummer didn't bring a full trap set, just snare, tom, and hi-hat cymbal. The tenor player set up a vocal microphone feeding Bose 902 compact speakers. Two of the musicians looked like natives, but they weren't playing native instruments. They slid smoothly into
a quiet version of a De Nina A Mujer with the sax player taking a turn at the vocal. He looked like a displaced New Yorker who didn't want to go back to Wall Street. But he should stick to the sax, she thought, as she hummed along with the familiar lyrics.

  "Hey, you can sing, too!" said Robert. "Grab the microphone from that amateur. Where did you learn music? Do you play any instruments?"

  "My father plays jazz piano, weekends, with a group like this," she answered. "They play all the old stuff. I used to sing with his band, when I was real young, like high school. But I wasn't really all that good, and I gave it up for science. Ah, the things I do for science."

  "Sing for me now?" he asked.

  "Maybe after three or four drinks, and if everybody else leaves, and if the wind picks up so nobody can hear me."

  The band played a tango, Milonga, with a little more spirit. I hope the sax player doesn't sing this one, she thought. I hope they play Julio Iglesias covers all night. I hope the night never ends and I never have to go back to work, maybe it will snow like crazy, no school tomorrow morning.

  The waiter asked about the possibility of dessert, and they ordered, instead, the Cuervo Gold tequila on the rocks. It went down smoothly. They probably kept the good stuff for home. What the heck, she thought. I don't get to Cancún that often, who'll know? She sipped on her drink and began to calculate the possibility that anybody from Harvard would walk in if she sang a song or two. C'mon, bigmouth, nobody cares. Her stomach tightened as she realized that she was going to ask the band if she could sing with them. Can I do this? They were finishing up No vengo no voy, maybe they were going to play Iglesias all night. She knew every song he wrote. Oh, might as well, how bad could it be?

  "Excuse me a moment," she said, rising, holding the table to assist her balance, "I have to consult with my new backup band." He grinned up at her, nodding in agreement. She walked up to the sax player, conscious of many eyes tracking her.

  "Hi," he said. "Play something for you?"

  "Possibly. Do you happen to know Besame mucho?"

  "Sure. No problem. We wrote it."

  "Umm, does the key of F appeal to you?" she asked.

  "That's the usual key."

  "Ummmmm, can I borrow the microphone for a minute?"

  "Aha, Karaoke night at the Chihuahua." He handed her a microphone.

  "Sí," she said, "About like this." She took the microphone and tapped a measure, choosing a slow beat.

  The piano played a few chords and she felt the knot in her stomach change into butterflies. Her mouth was dry. Could you still sing with a dry mouth? Sure couldn't spit, if she had to. What the hell is a girl like me doing in a place like this, all tippy from tequila? Straying a long way from her plan, for one thing. Marry a Harvard professor, settle down in Cambridge, author razor-sharp enunciations of previously unsuspected correlations, have two point seven kids and a dog. No, just have the kids, buy the dog. She really hadn't done any singing in a long time, except in the shower. Would it still work? Would all the words come back? She stayed facing the band, not wanting to look at the room, feeling awkward and vulnerable.

  The band finished an eight bar intro and she started singing, tentatively, holding the microphone well away from her mouth, "Besame, besame mucho, como Sì fuera esta noche la ultima vez…"

  It still worked. She nailed the pitch, something her father's band had always thought remarkable. The sax player smiled with encouragement or maybe relief. After a few phrases she felt comfortable enough sing into the microphone to bend the tempo a little. She heard her own voice for the first time in ten years through the good speaker system, richened with a little electronic reverb, the voice a little huskier, more breathy than before. Jeez, it still worked, actually the voice sounded more mature, it seemed to fit the song better. The words all came back. The butterflies disappeared. She felt the band's response to her singing, felt the bass player fit the bass line in a little tighter, felt the piano player give her the nice comfortable cushion of the old chords, not waiting for her but keeping the tempo himself, the way she liked.

  She closed her eyes and turned to the room and thought about the meaning of the words instead of the pitch and the rhythm, "Que tengo miedo a perderte, perderte despues?"

  Then she listened with her body quiet and her pulse slowing, eyes still closed and her head bent down, the microphone held loosely in both hands with arms relaxed, extended down, while the sax soloed, playing with the chords himself, repeating her time shifts, mimicking her breathy delivery, and then leading her back to the chorus.

  She finished the chorus and sang a four bar tag slowly, and then another tag a tempo. The band followed her lead like a good dancer, and as she let the last note linger for an extra few beats the sax played the sixth above, holding it with her.

  She hadn't noticed when the room had gotten quiet, but as the note faded she opened her eyes again to see if everyone had left. The first thing she saw was Robert, with his mouth hanging open, a shocked look on his face. Then the applause burst upon her like a bomb. People had stopped eating and were turned towards her. The response frightened her; I can't let this happen, I can't be good at this. I'm a scientist, this isn't what I want. Then she became calmer as she realized that it was under her control, really. She could enjoy singing if she wanted. Other people could enjoy it with her. It would be all right.

  "Holy cow, lady," said the sax player.

  She turned and smiled, murmuring "Thanks," as she handed him the microphone. He held up both hands, palms forward; he wouldn't take it.

  The piano player stood up and said, "Gringo, if you don't do another song, we'll play nothing but the Mexican Hat Dance until you leave. How long are you down here for? Want a job?"

  "Well, does everybody know Un Poco de Amor? Key of C?" she asked. "No, wait, take it down to B flat, my voice seems to have gotten lower in my old age." A little love. That might not be a bad idea, she thought, looking at Robert, wondering how it would be to feel his hands on her naked flesh, how it would be to wake up in his arms. But there was so much stuff in the way—why couldn't she just clear away the baggage of the last ten years and start fresh? She should maybe be more like Robert, he didn't seem to need security or any kind of plan for his life. He just needed a challenge, the more impossible the better.

  The sax player intruded, "You want to do the verse?"

  "Please."

  She again set a slow tempo, breathing the lyrics into the microphone, "Hoy es un dia de aquellos, en que miro hacia el cielo…"

  After one slow chorus the drummer put down the brushes he had been using all evening and picked up a set of sticks, and as the sax soloed he changed the beat to an insistent bolero rhythm which carried them through the final vocal chorus. Teresa, eyes closed again, felt moved by the music, by the tropics, by a feeling of change and growth. She felt unexpected tears on her cheeks as she finished the song.

  She sat down as Robert's cell phone beeped. He keyed it to receive and listened for a moment, then said, "Hold on a second, Gary. Dr. Welles is here also, and she'll want to hear this too." He turned on the speaker and told her, "Dr. Gary Spender, from Austin."

  "Sorry to call so late, but we've been out straight. I don't know if you heard, but there's definitely a racial bias in the morbidity statistics. If you have Maya ancestry, your chances of dying in the first two weeks go from over ninety-nine percent to eighty-five percent."

  After a second's pause, Robert said, "And you said the virus looks like a precursor of Ebola. As if the Maya may have been exposed, maybe at the time they cut that glyph into the stone, and they still carry the antibodies."

  "That's right."

  "That tells me two things. The chance that we can help just went from zip point nothing to maybe fifty-fifty. And we better get the hell out of this restaurant and get back to work."

  "Thanks, Robert. Good luck."

  Chapter 12

  * * *

  Cartegena, October 27, present day

  Ernesto R
aoul Porfirio Diaz caressed the sleek dorsal curve of the torpedo as he had caressed, only an hour earlier, the sleek ventral flanks of Rosa Garcia, his current favorite. Ernesto chuckled in his throat as he made the connection, but he knew that if he needed to choose between Rosa and the torpedo, he would surely choose the torpedo. As a lover it was useless, but as a mechanical business partner it was more than spectacular, saving him from losing twenty-five million US to the D.E.A. in the last three months alone.

  Ernesto was the proud holder of a diploma in the best engineering school in Medellin, el Universidad Flotin, and shared that fact freely with anyone who spent more than five consecutive minutes in conversation with him. And he had, in fact, a certain talent for the field.

  His torpedo, El Remora, was named after the remora eel that hitchhikes on sharks to feed on the crumbs of the host's meal. It had a capacity of seven-fifty kilos of heroin, six-eighty kilos of cocaine, or three hundred kilos of marijuana. When fully loaded with heroin, a single Remora's contents was worth between sixty and eighty-five million US to the brokers in the States, nearly two hundred million to the mid-level distributors.

  El Remora was two feet in diameter and twenty feet in length, and it was curved and tapered to contours chosen after many hours in the university towing tank so that it would cut cleanly and noiselessly through the water and place minimum stress on its magnetic attachment sucker. It was designed to mate with a steel-hulled boat, ideally a big tanker or freighter over four hundred feet in length for proper match to the hull curvature.

  Ernesto had designed the attachment mechanism himself. It used a powerful neodymium magnet to clamp to the steel, with its pull modulated by an electromagnet. The electromagnet was carefully controlled with a capacitive sensor to provide a soft landing, since a metallic clang would alert the ship's crew. El Remora was later released from the hull by momentarily nulling the magnet's field with a current pulse.