“The last generation”
“Book”
“Stop”
Then, an eerie quiet. Dicken was five people from the edge. They would not let him move any farther. Faces dull and resentful, like sheep, eyes blank, hands shoving. Ignorant. Frightened.
He hated them, wanted to smash their noses. He was a fool; he did not want to be among the sheep. “Excuse me.” No response. The mob’s mind had been made up; he could feel it deliberately pulsing. The mob waited, intent, vacant.
Light flared in the east and Dicken saw the Washington Monument turn white, brighter than the floodlights. From the dark muggy sky came a loose rumble. Drops of rain touched the crowd. Faces looked up.
He could smell the mob’s eagerness. Something had to change. They were being pressed by a single concern: something had to change.
The rain came pouring. People raised their hands over their heads. Smiles broke out. Faces accepted the rain and people spun as best they could. Others shoved the spinners and they stopped, dismayed.
The crowd spasmed and suddenly expelled him and he made it to the barricades and confronted a policeman. “Jesus,” the policeman said, dancing back three steps, and the mob shoved over the barricades. The horsemen tried to push them back, weaving through. A woman screamed. The mob surged and swallowed the policemen mounted and on foot, before they could raise their batons or unholster their guns. A horse was pushed up onto the steps and stumbled, falling over into the mob, its rider rolling off, a boot flung high.
Dicken shouted “Staff!” and ran up the Capitol steps, between the guardsmen, who ignored him. He was shaking his head and laughing, glad to be free, waiting for the melee to really begin. But the mob was right behind him, and there was barely time to start running again, ahead of the people, the scattered gunshots, the wet and spreading and stinking mass.
56
New York
Mitch saw the morning headlines on a rack of Daily News at Penn Station:
RIOT IN FRONT OF CAPITOL
Senate Stormed
Four Senators Die; Dozens Dead,
Thousands Injured
He and Kaye had spent the night eating by candlelight and making love. Very romantic, very out of touch. They had parted just an hour ago; Kaye was getting dressed, choosing her colors carefully, expecting a difficult day.
He picked up a paper and boarded the train. As he took his seat and spread the paper open, the train began to pull out, picking up speed, and he wondered if Kaye was safe, whether the riot had been spontaneous or organized, whether it really mattered.
The people had spoken, or rather, snarled. They had had enough of failure and inaction in Washington. The president was meeting with security advisors, the joint chiefs of staff, the heads of select committees, the chief justice. To Mitch, that sounded like a soft approach preliminary to declaring martial law.
He did not want to be on the train. He could not see what Merton could do for him, or for Kaye; and he could not picture himself lecturing on bonehead bone-ology to college students and never setting foot on a dig again.
Mitch slipped the folded paper onto his seat and made his way down the aisle to the public phone box at the end of the car. He called Kaye’s number, but she had already left, and he did not think it would be politic to call her at Americol.
He took a deep breath, tried to calm himself, and returned to his seat.
57
Baltimore
Dicken met Kaye in the Americol cafeteria at ten. The conference was scheduled for six o’clock, and a number of visitors had been added: the vice president and the president’s science advisor among them.
Dicken looked terrible. He had not slept all night. “My turn to be a basket case,” he said. “I think the debate is over. We’re down, we’re out. We can do some more shouting, but I don’t know anyone who will listen.”
“What about the science?” Kaye asked plaintively. “You tried hard to bring us back in line after the herpes disaster.”
“SHEVA mutates,” Dickens said. He beat his hand rhythmically on the table.
“I’ve explained that to you.”
“You’ve only shown that SHEVA mutated a long time ago. It’s just a human retrovirus, an old one, with a slow but very clever way of reproducing.”
“Christopher . . .”
“You’re going to get your hearing,” Dicken said. He finished his cup of coffee and stood up from the table. “Don’t explain it to me. Explain it to them.”
Kaye looked up at him, angry and puzzled. “Why change your mind after so long?”
“I started out looking for a virus. Your papers, your work, suggested it might be something else. We can all be misled. Our job is to look for evidence, and when it’s compelling, we have to give up our most cherished little notions.”
Kaye stood beside him and poked her finger. “Tell me this is entirely about science.”
“Of course not. I was on the Capitol steps, Kaye. I could have been one of those poor bastards who got shot or beaten to death.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. Tell me you returned Mitch’s call, after our meeting in San Diego.”
“I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
Dicken glared back at her. “After last night, anything personal is trivial, Kaye.”
“Is it?”
Dicken folded his arms. “I could never present someone like Mitch to someone like Augustine and hope to build our case. Mitch had some interesting information, but it only proves that SHEVA has been with us for a long time.”
“He believed in both of us.”
“He believes in you more, I think,” Dicken said, his eyes darting away.
“Has that affected your judgment?”
Dicken flared. “Has it affected yours? I can’t take a pee without someone telling someone else how long I spent in the john. But you, you bring Mitch up to your apartment.”
Kaye crowded in on Dicken. “Augustine told you I slept with Mitch?”
Dicken would not be crowded. He pushed Kaye gently back and sidestepped. “I hate this as much as anyone, but it’s the way we have to be!”
“According to whom? Augustine?”
“Augustine’s been burned, too. We’re in a crisis. Goddamn it, Kaye, that should be obvious to everyone by now.”
“I never said I was a saint, Christopher! I trusted you not to abandon me when you brought me into this.”
Dicken lowered his head and looked to one side, then the other, his misery and anger tearing him. “I thought you might be a partner.”
“What sort of partner, Christopher?”
“A . . . supporter. An intellectual equal.”
“A girlfriend?”
For a moment, Dicken’s face put on the expression of a small boy handed a crushing bit of news. He looked at Kaye with both longing and sadness. He could hardly stand up straight he was so tired.
Kaye pulled back and reconsidered. She had done nothing to lead him on; she had never regarded herself as a raving beauty whose attractions were irresistible to men. She could not fathom the depth of this man’s feeling.
“You never told me you felt anything more than curiosity,” Kaye said.
“I never move fast enough, and I never say what I mean,” Dicken said. “I don’t blame you for not suspecting.”
“But it hurt you that I chose Mitch.”
“I can’t deny it hurts. But it doesn’t affect my scientific judgment.”
Kaye walked around the table, shaking her head. “What can we salvage from this?”
“You can present your evidence. I just don’t believe it’s going to be compelling.” He swung around and walked out of the cafeteria.
Kaye bused her tray and dishes to the kitchen conveyer belt. She glanced at her watch. She needed a strong dose of the personal, the face-to-face; she wanted to speak with Luella Hamilton. She could make it out to NIH and be back before the meeting.
At the floor security desk, she
called for a company car.
58
Beresford, New York
Mitch stepped out under the soaring white tent pavilion that covered the antique train station of the small town of Beresford. He shaded his eyes against the morning sun and glanced at a planter loud with yellow daffodils, near a bright red garbage can. He was the only one getting off the train.
The air smelled of hot grease and pavement and fresh-cut grass. He looked for someone to meet him, expecting Merton. The town, visible across the tracks, accessible by a pedestrian bridge, was little more than a row of shops and the Amtrak parking lot.
A black Lexus pulled into the parking lot, and Mitch saw a redheaded man step out, look through the chicken-wire fencing at the station, and wave.
“His name is William Daney. He owns most of Beresford—his family does, that is. They have an estate about ten minutes from here that rivals Buckingham Palace. I was naÏve enough to forget what kind of royalty America cherishes—old money spent in strange ways.”
Mitch listened to Merton as the journalist drove him down a winding two-lane road between splendid hardwood trees, maple and oak, new leaves so intensely green he felt as if he were in a movie. The sun threw dazzles of gold across the road. They hadn’t seen another car in five minutes.
“Daney used to be a yachtsman. Spent millions perfecting a graceful big boat, lost a few races. That was more than twenty years ago. Then he discovered anthropology. Problem is, he hates dirt. Loves water, hates dirt, hates to dig. I love driving in America. But this is almost like driving in England. I could even”—Merton swerved briefly over the center line into the left lane—“Follow my instincts.” He quickly corrected, smiled at Mitch. “Pity about the riots. England’s still relatively calm, but I’m expecting a change of government any minute. Dear old PM doesn’t get it yet. Still thinks switching to the Euro is his biggest worry. Hates the gynecological aspect of this whole mess. How’s Mr. Dicken? Ms. Lang?”
“They’re fine,” Mitch said, unwilling to talk much until he saw what he was being dragged into. He liked Merton well enough, found him interesting, but did not trust him one bit. He resented that the man seemed to know so much about his private life.
Daney’s mansion made a three-story, gray stone curve at the end of a redbrick drive flanked by beautifully manicured lawns, perfect as a putting green. A few gardeners were out trimming hedges, and an elderly woman in jodhpurs and a broad and ragged straw hat waved at them as Merton drove past. “Mrs. Daney, our host’s mum,” Merton said, waving out the window. “Lives in the housekeeper’s cottage. Nice old woman. Doesn’t go into her son’s rooms very often.”
Merton parked in front of the brownstone steps leading to the huge, double-door entrance.
“Everybody’s here,” he said. “You, me, Daney, and Herr Professor Friedrich Brock, formerly of the University of Innsbruck.”
“Brock?”
“Yes.” Merton smiled. “He says he met you once.”
“He did,” Mitch said. “Once.”
The interior of the Daney mansion was shadowy, a huge hall paneled with dark wood. Three parallel beams of sun dropped through a skylight onto the age-darkened limestone floor, cutting over a huge Chinese silk rug, in the middle of which rose a round table covered with a hemisphere of flowers. Just to one side of the table, in shadow, stood a man.
“William, this is Mitch Rafelson,” Merton said, taking Mitch’s elbow and leading him forward.
The man in shadow stuck out his hand into one of the shafts of sun, and three gold rings gleamed on thick, strong fingers. Mitch shook the hand firmly. Daney was in his early fifties, tanned, with yellow-white hair receding from a Wagnerian forehead. He had small, perfect lips quick to smile, dark brown eyes, baby-smooth cheeks. His shoulders were broadened by a padded gray blazer, but his arms looked well-muscled.
“It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” Daney said. “I’d have bought them from your friends if they had been offered, you know. And then I would have turned them over to Innsbruck. I’ve told this to Herr Professor Brock, and he has given me absolution.”
Mitch smiled to be polite. He was here to meet Brock.
“Actually, William doesn’t own any human remains,” Merton said.
“I’m happy with duplicates, casts, sculptures,” Daney said. “I’m not a scientist, merely a hobbyist, but I hope I honor the past by trying to understand it.”
“Into the Hall of Humanity,” Merton said with a flourish of his hand. Daney tossed his head proudly and led the way.
The hall filled a former ballroom in the eastern curve of the mansion. Mitch had seen nothing like it outside of a museum: dozens of glass cases arranged in rows, with carpeted aisles in between, each case containing casts and replicas of every major specimen of anthropology. Australopithecus afarensis and robustus; Homo habilis and erectus. Mitch counted sixteen different Neandertal skeletons, all professionally mounted, and six of them had waxwork reconstructions of how the individuals might have looked in life. There was no attempt to avoid offending modesty: All the models were nude and hairless, avoiding any speculation on clothing or hair patterns.
Row upon row of hairless apes, illuminated by elegant and respectfully softened spots, stared blankly at Mitch as he walked past.
“Incredible,” Mitch said, despite himself. “Why have I never heard of you before, Mr. Daney?”
“I only talk to a few people. The Leakey family, Björn Kurtén, a few others. My close friends. I’m eccentric, I know, but I don’t like to flaunt it.”
“You’re among the elect now,” Merton said to Mitch.
“Professor Brock is in the library.” Daney pointed the way. Mitch would have enjoyed spending more time in the hall. The wax sculptures were superb and the reproductions of the specimens first rate, almost indistinguishable from the specimens themselves.
“No, actually, I am here. I couldn’t wait.” Brock stepped around a case and advanced. “I feel as if I know you, Dr. Rafelson. And we do have mutual acquaintances, do we not?”
Mitch shook hands with Brock, under Daney’s beaming and approving inspection. They walked several dozen yards to an adjacent library, furnished in the epitome of Edwardian elegance, three levels with railed walkways connected by two wrought-iron bridges. Huge paintings of Yosemite and the Alps in dramatic moods flanked the single high north-facing window.
They took seats around a large, low round table in the middle of the room. “My first question,” Brock said, “is, do you dream of them, Dr. Rafelson? Because I do, and frequently.”
Daney served the coffee himself, after it was rolled into the library by a stout, somber young woman in a black suit. He poured each of them a cup in Flora Danica china, botanical patterns in this series displaying the microscopic plants native to Denmark, based on nineteenth-century scientific art. Mitch examined his saucer, adorned with three beautifully rendered dinoflagellates, and wondered what he would do if he had all the money he could ever hope to spend.
“I myself do not believe these dreams,” Brock picked up the conversation. “But these individuals do haunt me.”
Mitch looked around the group, completely unsure what was expected of him. It seemed distinctly possible that associating with Daney, Brock, and even Merton, could somehow be turned to his disadvantage. Perhaps he had been battered once too often in this arena.
Merton sensed his unease. “This meeting is completely private, and will be kept secret,” he said. “I don’t plan to report anything said here.”
“At my request,” Daney said, lifting his brows emphatically.
“I wanted to tell you that you must be correct in your judgments, the judgments you have shown by seeking out certain people, and learning certain things about our own researches,” Brock said. “But I have just been released from my responsibilities with regard to the Alpine mummies. The arguments have become personal, and more than a little dangerous to all our careers.”
“Dr. Brock believes the mummies represen
t the first clear evidence of a human speciation event,” Merton said, hoping to move things along.
“Subspeciation, actually,” Brock said. “But the idea of a species has become so fluid in past decades, has it not? The presence of SHEVA in their tissues is most evocative, don’t you think?”
Daney leaned forward in his chair, cheeks and forehead pink with the intensity of his interest.
Mitch decided he could not be reticent among such fellow travelers. “We’ve found other instances,” he said.
“Yes, so I hear, from Oliver and from Maria Konig at the University of Washington.”
“Not me, actually, but people I’ve talked to. I’ve been ineffectual, to say the least. Compromised by my own actions.”
Brock dismissed this. “When I called your apartment in Innsbruck, I had forgiven you your lapse. I could sympathize, and your story rang true.”
“Thank you,” Mitch said, and found himself genuinely affected.
“I apologize for not revealing myself at the time, but you understand, I hope.”
“I do,” Mitch said.
“Tell me what’s going to happen,” Daney said. “Are they going to release their findings about the mummies?”
“They are,” Brock said. “They are going to claim contamination, that the mummies are in fact not related. The Neandertals are going to be labeled Homo sapiens alpinensis, and the infant is going to be sent to Italy for study by other specialists.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Mitch said.
“Yes, and they will not get away with this pretense forever, but for the next few years, the conservatives, the hard-liners, will rule. They will mete out information at will, to those they trust not to rock the boat, to agree with them, like zealous scholars defending the Dead Sea Scrolls. They are hoping to see their careers through without having to deal with a revolution that would topple both them and their views.”
“Incredible,” Daney said.
“No, human, and we all study the human, no? Was not our female injured by someone who didn’t want her baby to be born?”
“We don’t know that,” Mitch said.