Bones of the Earth (7 page)

In this way microscopic creatures excreted perfect replicas of the bones of a creature millions of times their size.

“Walk me through this one,” Griffin said. “Exactly what were they planning to do with this thing?”

“Well, first they'd bury it, sir. Likely they've identified a fossil bed in the late twenty-first century that was laid down right about now. Couldn't say where that would be.”

“Holy Redeemer Ranch,” Amy Cho said. “They train their own paleontologists there. Last year they graduated six Ph.D.s in Deluge Biology. They excavated quite a nice
Chasmosaurus
skeleton, and then ground it to powder in the hope that they would get variant radiometric readings from different portions of the same bones, thus disproving traditional dating methods.” She hobbled over to a chair, and slowly began to sit. Jimmy hurried to offer her a hand. “They didn't. Which is why they never published their findings.”

Seated at last, she added, “I went to a prayer breakfast there once. Had a lovely time.”

“What I want to know,” Molly Gerhard said, “is what possible good this would do them.” Molly was the younger of the security officers, a redhead, all but quivering for action. Tom Navarro was a bland and burly man, and clearly the mentor of the team. He was the falconer, and she the hawk he flew from his hand. “They plant some bones. So what?”

“It is the Grail,” Amy Cho said, “of creation science. Actual human bones fossilized
in situ
within rock strata previously documented by geologists as being tens of millions of years old. In their frame of reference, of course, these sediments were laid down about 4,500 years ago, and the dinos are merely animals that drowned during the Flood. So if a human skeleton is found among the dinosaurs, that's incontrovertible proof that they're right and we're wrong.”

“It could be a scientist,” Molly said dubiously. “Wandered away from his camp and met a mishap.”

“Billions and billions of dinosaurs to produce just a few thousand fossils, while a solitary lost scientist is fossilized and recovered ages later? Nobody's going to buy that,” Tom said gently. “I wouldn't.”

Griffin felt an overwhelming urge to check the time, and clamped a hand over his watch so that when he looked, as he inevitably must, he wouldn't see the dial. It didn't pay to give in to these impulses. He knew that from long experience.

He looked up. “How long was it in storage before it was found?”

“Six months.”

“Then whoever was supposed to retrieve it, didn't.”

“Likely he got scared off. Something happened to make him think we were watching for him,” Jimmy said. “Or her,” he amended when Amy Cho scowled. “I would, however, like to draw your attention to a particularly clever little bit of business. Notice the label.”

Those on the right side of the crate moved closer to look. Molly walked around to join them.

“‘Martin Marietta,'” Griffin read aloud. “‘Ptolemy Surveyor Launch System Tripod. Caution: To Be Operated By Trained Personnel Only.'”

“The Ptolemy is an orbital surveying system. It can be launched in the field by just three people: two to carry the rocket, and a third to set up the tripod. One of the first things we do when we establish a baseline station is send up a satellite to make maps. Thing is, it was a very good system in its time, but that time is past.”

“Refresh my memory. What's our sister date back home?”

“2048, sir.”

“Well, that's something, anyway.” For Griffin, the great operational divide was not between the human era and the Mesozoic, but between those times with a home date prior to 2034, when time travel was a secret, and those after, when it was common knowledge. He never liked working pre-2034 dates. He hated secrecy.

“We advanced to Mercator-class mapping satellites in late 2047. So the labeling on this crate was particularly good. It was something just obsolete enough that nobody would use it, but not so far out of date they'd be surprised it was shipped through. Cunning stuff, methinks.”

“Thank you, Jimmy. Does anybody have anything more?” Griffin waited. “All right, then, let's put it together. We've got a box of sacred bones, somebody who knows which nondescript patch of land here-and-now is going to be fossil-rich sandstone at Holy Redeemer Ranch sixty-seven million years in the future, and the very specific knowledge that a Martin Marietta Ptolemy launch system was newly obsolete. All of which adds up to—what?”

“It means we've got a creationist mole among our people,” Molly said.

“A
deep
creationist!” Cho thumped her cane for emphasis. “Not a garden-or-common-or-everyday creationist, but a deep creationist.”

“What's the difference, then?”

“They're the ones who believe in violence. They're the ones who kill people.”

There was a moment's silence as they all absorbed this information.

“What options are open to us?” Griffin asked at last. “Can we go back and intercept this thing when it's delivered? Most importantly, can we capture the mole before he does something else?”

“There haven't been any disappearances or unexplained absences in the last six months among the scientists, sir. Which is where our mole would be nestled. So no, we can't.”

Molly glanced quickly at Tom and said, “I've gone over the records. There's nothing on who delivered this crate, when it arrived, who signed for it. It simply shows up on the inventory one day. And we know that
some
thing frightened off our mole.”

“Have you gone through everything?”

“Yes, sir, I have. There's a great deal of silence surrounding the arrival of the crate. Somebody—and I have every reason to believe it's us—has gone to a lot of trouble to create that silence.”

“Is it a big enough silence to inject an operation into? Realistically speaking, is there enough space there for us to operate a sting?”

Everybody leaned ever so slightly forward to hear Molly's answer. Eyes gleamed. Even Amy Cho showed a feral flash of teeth.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I'm sure of it.”

When they had finished making plans and all had been given their orders, Griffin dismissed them and went to his office. No matter where or when Griffin found himself, his office always looked the same. He insisted upon it. Desk
here
and liquor cabinet
there.
Active memos in the top left hand drawer in order of issuance. Backup documentation one drawer down. Forms, letterhead, and a ream of cream-colored heavy bond at the bottom. From the Triassic to the Holocene, from Pangaea through the breakup of the supercontinent into what eventually became the modern configuration of continents, he liked to find his pencils sharp and where he expected them to be.

It had been a good day's work. Briefly, he felt content. Then he read halfway down the first of the active memos, and his stomach soured.

It was a schedule for a series of lectures in which generation-one celebrities visited generation-two and generation-three research stations to lecture young scientists on the history of their field. He always scanned these carefully because the temptation for a researcher to pass information back to a formative idol was so great.

The third lecturer listed was Richard Leyster.

Among those slated to attend was Gertrude Salley.

He slammed open a drawer, drew out a sheet of letterhead, and began drafting a memo.
To all concerned: The third lecture on the attached sheet has been permanently canceled. All care will be taken henceforth that Salley and Leyster are not to be given the opportunity to
…

The door opened and closed behind him. The room filled with a familiar presence.

“Don't stand up,” the Old Man said.

“I wasn't going to.”

The Old Man walked over to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a shot of bourbon. He raised it to his nose and sniffed, but did not drink.

Then he picked up the memo Griffin had been working on, and tore it in half.

Griffin closed his eyes. “Why?”

“You've been listening to rumors again.” The Old Man dropped the torn halves on the desk. “Otherwise you wouldn't be trying to keep those two apart.”

“So I pay attention to rumors. I'm just playing the edges. If I want to get anything accomplished, I've got to play the edges. What other chance have I got?”

“There are no edges here.” The Old Man put down his glass to remove a folder from his attaché. “Here's the report on the probe you've set into motion today. It doesn't catch your mole. He has to expose himself. You'll have to let him act out his intentions.”

“Don't tell me any more. Leave me room to maneuver.”

The Old Man shook his head. “Read the report. Then play it the way it's written.”

Reluctantly, Griffin opened the folder. He turned the cover page, folded it flat, and began to read.

Halfway down the first page, he stopped.

“You've made a mistake here. I wasn't supposed to see the list of casualties.”

“That was deliberate. I felt you were ready.”

“
Damn
you,” Griffin said vehemently. He could see no operational or administrative reason why he should know this information. Only malice could account for its disclosure. “Why implicate me in this? There's a big difference between sending people into a dangerous situation, and sending them out to die.”

“Not so big as you might think.”

“It's murder, plain and simple.”

The Old Man said nothing to this, nor did Griffin expect him to. He slowly read through to the very end of the report, sighed, and said, “So that's why Leyster hates me. God help me. If I'd known, I would've been easier on the poor bastard.”

“These things happen.”

“Because we allow them to!”

“They happen because they happen. We dare not interfere. Don't pretend you don't know why.”

To this, Griffin had no reply.

The Old Man went to the window and adjusted the blinds. Griffin winced as the late afternoon sun hit his eyes. Outside, a land rover had arrived and was surrounded by enthusiastic grad students. He gestured with his still-untouched glass. “Look at them. So young and full of energy. Not a one of them has the faintest notion how contingent their universe is.”

He twisted the blinds shut again, leaving Griffin dazzled and blinded. “They're all going to die. Sooner or later. Everyone dies.”

“But not because of me. Damn it, I won't do it! I'll tear the whole rotten system apart with my bare hands first. I swear I will!”

But it was empty bluster, and they both knew it.

“Everybody dies. So much of growing up consists of coming to grips with this fact.” The Old Man again put down his glass and opened his attaché. This time he emerged with a brown paper bag, which he upended over the desk. The object it contained rolled noisily out. “This is for you.”

It was a human skull.

The skull had not been long in the ground—a few decades at most. A patch of fine green moss discolored one cheek. There were fillings in the teeth.

Griffin's mouth went dry. “Whose is it?”

“Whose do you think?” The Old Man crumpled up the bag and stuffed it in a pocket. Then he drank down the bourbon he'd been holding all this while, abandoned the glass, and turned to leave. At the door, he paused and said, “
Memento mori.
Remember you must die.”

He closed the door quietly behind him, leaving Griffin staring, horrified, at the skull the Old Man had given him.

His own.

Crossing the compound toward the building housing the time funnel, Griffin saw the young paleontologist who had been his guide that morning, helping move a newly-captured velociraptor from the land rover to one of the outdoor pens in the rear of the animal colony. He stopped to watch. She was one of three who had choke-sticks looped around its throat. It struggled ferociously, but could not reach any of them with its wickedly sharp claws. A wrangler stood by with an electric rifle in case it broke loose.

She was glowing with sweat and exertion, and grinning like a madwoman. It was obvious to Griffin that this was the single finest moment of her life to date.

“Are you coming, sir?”

“In a minute, Jimmy. You go ahead. I'll be right with you.”

He waited until the animal had been successfully caged, and then approached the young woman. “That was a fine job you did this morning, leading the tour group.”

“Uh … thank you, sir.”

“I am not without influence. I want you to know that I'm going to recommend you for a promotion to full-time public relations. There are no guarantees, of course. But if you persevere, I can see you heading up the entire department in not that many years.” The woman stared at him in bafflement. He placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Keep up the good work. We're proud of you.”

Then he strode off, careful not to look back. In his mind, he could see her turning to the nearest bystander, and asking
Who was that?
He could see her eyes widen with horror at the answer.

Sometimes in order to achieve any good whatsoever, you simply had to lie to people.

Griffin hated that too.

4

Cuckoo's Nest

Bohemia Station: Mesozoic era. Jurassic period. Malm epoch. Tithonian age. 150 My B.C.E.

Salley awoke to the sound of camptosaurs singing.

She sighed and stretched out on her cot, one arm brushing against the mosquito netting, but did not get up. Salley never awoke easily. Not even on a day like today.

A day when she intended to change the world.

Nobody knew why camptosaurs sang. Salley thought it was out of joy, pure and simple. But that was going to be hard to prove. So she had other theories as well, some published and others she had simply made known. She had learned at an early age that it was not how often you were wrong that counted in science, but how often you were right. One startling hit covered a multitude of bad guesses.