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Nora shook her head。 〃I don't want to hear about it。〃
Skip picked up the yellow mescal worm and rolled it between finger and thumb。 〃Sorry about that。 If you want to talk to Watkins； I guess you're going to have to call him yourself。〃
5
NORA SAT AT A WORKTABLE IN THE Institute's Artifact Analysis Lab。 Lined up in front of her； beneath the harsh fluorescent light； were six bags of heavy…mil plastic bulging with potsherds。 Each was labeled RIO PUERCO； LEVEL I in black marker。 In one of the nearby lockers； carefully padded to eliminate 〃bag wear；〃 were four more bags marked LEVEL II and yet another marked LEVEL III： a total of one hundred and ten pounds of potsherds。
Nora sighed。 She knew that； in order to publish the report on the Rio Puerco site； every sherd had to be sorted and classified。 And after the sherds would e stone tools and flakes； bone fragments； charcoal； pollen samples； even hair samples； all patiently waiting in their metal cages around the lab。 She opened the first bag and； using metal forceps； began placing artifacts on the white table。 Glancing up at a buzzing light； she could see a corner of white cloud scud past the tiny barred window far above her head。 Like a damn prison； she thought sourly。 She glanced at the nearby terminal； blinking the data entry screen into focus。
TW…1041
Screen 25
SANTA FE ARCHAEOLOGICAL INSTITUTE
Context Recording / Artifact Database
Site No
Area/Section
Plan No
Accession No
Coord
Provenance
Recorded by
Site Book Ref
Grid Square
Context Code
Lev/Stratum
Trinomial Desig
Excav Date
Lev Bag Of
Artifact Description （4096 chars max）
CONFIDENTIAL…DO NOT DUPLICATE
She understood precisely why this kind of statistical research was necessary。 And yet she couldn't help but feel that the Institute； under Murray Blakewood's guidance； had bee shackled by an obsession with typology。 It was as if； for all its vast collections and reservoir of talent； the Institute was ignoring the new developments…ethnoarchaeology； contextual archaeology； molecular archaeology； cultural resource management…taking place outside its thick adobe walls。
She pulled out her handwritten field logs； tabulating the artifacts against the information she entered into the database。 46 Mesa Verde B/W； 23 Chaco/McElmo； 2 St。 John's Poly； 1 Soccoro B/W 。 。 。 Or was that another Mesa Verde B/W？ She hunted in the drawer for a loup； rummaging unsuccessfully。 Hell with it； she thought； placing it to one side and moving on。
Her hand closed over a small； polished piece of pottery； evidently the lip of a bowl。 Now this is more like it； she thought。 Despite its small size； the fragment was beautiful； and she still remembered its discovery。 She'd been sitting beside a thicket of tamarisk； stabilizing a fragile basket with polyvinyl acetate； when her assistant Bruce Jenkins gave a sudden yelp。 〃Chaco Black…on…Yellow Micaceous！〃 he'd screeched。 〃God damn！〃 She remembered the excitement； the envy； that the little fragment had generated。 And here it was； sitting forlorn in an oversized Baggie。 Why couldn't the Institute devote more energy to； say； learning why this fantastic style of pottery was so rare…why no plete pots had ever been found； why nobody knew where it came from or how it was made…instead of ceaselessly numbering and cross…tabulating； like accountants of prehistory？
She stared at the potsherds spread out in a dun…colored line。 With a sudden movement； she pushed away from the desk and turned toward the phone； dialing information。
〃Pasadena；〃 she said into the phone。 〃The Jet Propulsion Laboratory。〃 It took one external and two internal operators to learn that Leland Watkins's extension was 2330。
〃Yes？〃 came the voice at last； high…pitched and impatient。
〃Hello。 This is Nora Kelly； at the Santa Fe Archaeological Institute。〃
〃Yes？〃 the voice repeated。
〃Am I speaking to Leland Watkins？〃
〃This is Dr。 Watkins。〃
〃I'd like a moment of your time；〃 Nora said； talking quickly。 〃We're working on a project in southeastern Utah； looking at ancient Anasazi roads。 Would it be possible for you…〃
〃We don't have any radar coverage in that area；〃 interrupted Watkins。
Nora took a deep breath。 〃Is there any way we might cooperate in getting some radar coverage？ You see…〃
〃No； there is no way；〃 said Watkins； his voice growing nasal in irritation。 〃I've got a list a mile long of people waiting for radar coverage： geologists； rain forest biologists； agricultural scientists； you name it。〃
〃I see；〃 said Nora； trying to keep her voice even。 〃And what about the application process for such coverage？〃
〃We're backed up two years with applications。 And I'm too swamped to talk to you about it。 The shuttle Republic is in orbit right now； as you probably know。〃
〃It's rather important； Dr。 Watkins。 We believe…〃
〃Everything's important。 Now； will you excuse me？ Write if you want that application。〃
〃And the address…？〃 Nora stopped as she realized she was talking to a dial tone。
〃Arrogant prick！〃 she shouted。 〃I'm glad my brother boned your girlfriend！〃 She slammed the phone into its cradle。
Then she paused； staring speculatively at the phone。 Dr。 Watkins's extension had been 2330。
Reaching again； she slowly and deliberately dialed a long…distance number。 〃Yes；〃 she said after a moment。 〃Give me extension 2331； please。〃
6
WITH A HEAVY SIGH； PETER HOLROYD SETTLED himself on the old tractor…style seat； turned the right handgrip to retard the spark advance； and kicked the engine into ferocious life。 He sat for a minute； letting the motorcycle warm up。 Then he dropped into first； turned out of the plex into the California Boulevard traffic； and headed west toward Ambassador Auditorium。 A thin haze hung over the San Gabriel Mountains。 As usual； his eyes…raw from a long day of poring over massive puter screens and false…color images…smarted in the ozone。 Free of the purified atmosphere of the plex； his nose began to run freely； and he hawked a generous blob of phlegm onto the blacktop。 A small plastic image of the Michelin tire mascot had been glued to the gas tank； and he reached down to rub its fat belly。 〃O God of California traffic；〃 he intoned； 〃grant me safe passage； free of rain； loose gravel； and tight drivers。〃
Ten blocks and twenty minutes later； he nosed the old motorcycle south； heading for Atlantic Boulevard and his Monterey Park neighborhood。 Traffic was easier here； and he shifted into third for the first time since starting the engine； letting the wind blow away the heat of the cylinders beneath him。 His thoughts returned once again to the persistent archaeologist who had kept him on the line for such a long time that morning。 In his mind； he saw a dumpy； mousy…looking academic with chopped…off hair and no social graces。 He had promised nothing except a meeting。 A meeting far from JPL； of course…if Watkins got even a whiff of extracurricular dealings； he'd be in deep shit。 But these hints of a lost city had intrigued him more than he wanted to admit。 Holroyd hadn't had much luck with women； and the thought that one…mousy or not…was willing to drop everything and drive all the way from Santa Fe to meet with him was flattering。 Besides； she'd promised to pay for dinner。
After a brief； easy run； the streets grew more congested and aggressively urban。 Another three blocks； another three lights； and he nosed up onto the sidewalk beside a row of four…story buildings。 Pulling a brown bag from beneath the bungee cord on the rear fender； he craned his neck up toward his apartment。 Ancient yellow curtains twitched limply in the hot； fitful breeze。 They were a bequest of a previous tenant and had never felt air conditioning。 Snorting again； Holroyd angled across the street and headed toward the intersection； where the sign for Al's Pizza glowed against the gathering dusk。
He glanced around and slid into his usual booth； enjoying the chill air of the restaurant。 The traffic had made him late； but the place was still empty。 Holroyd tried to decide whether he felt disappointed or relieved。
Al himself came over； a small； impo