by Max McCoy
He poured some Scotch, swished the smoky liquid around in the glass, then raised it in a mock toast.
"Here's to you, Alecia," Indy said. "Or at least, your memory."
As he closed his eyes and brought the glass to his lips, there came a knock that was so soft that Indy was not sure that anyone was at the door. He paused, with the glass beneath his chin, and when the knock came again he shouted that the department was closed.
"I'm sorry," came a female voice. "But I'm looking for Dr. Jones."
Indy was relieved. Princeton was not coeducational, so it could not be a student seeking him out to demand what had become of this paper or that.
"Just a moment," he said, smoothing his hair and straightening his tie. He had almost made it to the door when he remembered the Scotch. He bounded back to his desk, recapped the bottle, and searched frantically for a place to hide it. Not a single desk drawer or file cabinet had enough space left. So he placed the bottle on the floor beside his chair, then snatched up the glass. He began to pour it into a potted plant beside the door, then stopped for fear it would kill the plant. In frustration, he tossed the contents down his throat and slammed the glass back onto the desktop.
"I'm Jones," Indy sputtered as he swung open the door. Then he coughed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Before him stood a woman in her middle to late twenties in a nun's habit. She stood stiffly, and her hands were folded over a paper sack in front of her. On the fourth finger of her left hand shone a golden band. At first Indy thought the habit was a Halloween costume, a prank that had been engineered to lift his spirits by one of his colleagues.
"Sorry, I don't have anything for your sack."
"I beg your pardon?"
When Indy saw the well-worn rosary that hung at her side, he knew he had made a serious mistake.
"I'm sorry," Indy said. "What can I do for you, Sister?"
"I apologize for disturbing you," she said. "I went to your home but found it dark, so I took the chance that you might be working late. I hope I am not imposing."
"Not at all," Indy said, feeling as if he were back in school. "That is, as long as you're not going to make me recite my Latin. Please, come in."
Indy removed a stack of books from a wooden chair and offered her a seat. When he returned to his own seat behind the desk, he inadvertently kicked the bottle of Scotch. It rolled beneath the desk and toward the center of the room.
"My name is Sister Joan," she said as the bottle came to rest at her feet. She picked it up and regarded the label. "Still celebrating the end of Prohibition? Personally, I could never stand the taste of this stuff—it was always like trying to swallow liquid smoke."
"It's not what you think," Indy said with a lopsided grin.
"Of course not," she replied, trying to find space on the desk to place the bottle. "Even the Lord enjoyed a bit of wine now and again."
Indy took the bottle from her and placed it on the windowsill behind him.
"Pardon me for intruding like this," Joan said. "I know of your reputation, and I have come here for help."
"Go on," Indy said.
Joan eyed him suspiciously.
"First, you should know that I'm being followed. Two cloaked figures dogged my trail to the very steps of this building, and I suspect they are still waiting outside. If you agree to help me, you may be placing yourself at a significant degree of personal risk."
"This is Halloween, Sister," Indy said. "There are people running about in all sorts of weird costumes."
"Yes, but these two men have been following me for more than a week. They ransacked my father's home in Connecticut, and I'm afraid they seriously injured our gardener when he got in the way. Broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder."
"Why would they do that?"
"I don't know," Joan said. "You see, Dr. Jones, my father and I believe in the basic goodness of humanity. Such acts are impossible for me to comprehend. But it may have something to do with what I have in this sack, and because my father is Angus Starbuck."
"The paleontologist."
Indy could feel his head beginning to clear.
"Do you know him?"
"Of course. I met him while waiting for a train in Shanghai, and we passed a delightful hour talking about the dinosaur statues in Central Park. How is he?"
"Lost," Joan said. "Somewhere in the Gobi Desert. That is where this fossil came from, and it is what lured him to such a remote and dangerous land."
She opened the sack and withdrew an oddly shaped horn.
Indy took his glasses from his jacket pocket as Joan handed him the horn. It was more than a foot long, and nearly as broad at the base.
"Remarkable," he said as he studied it beneath the light of the desk lamp. He rummaged in a desk drawer for a magnifying glass.
"Tell me more about your father. When did he disappear?"
"Six months ago," Joan said. "The last letter I received from him was mailed from a place called Urga, in Mongolia."
"Outer Mongolia has been in a tug-of-war between the Russians and the Chinese for decades," Indy said. "Since the Communists took over in twenty-one, all foreigners have been suspected of being spies or saboteurs or worse. It is a difficult place to travel. Six months between letters could be considered normal for that part of the world."
"Or perhaps some warlord is torturing him for the location of more of these bones," Joan said. "The Chinese call dinosaur fossils 'dragon bones' and believe they have magical powers. Taken powdered, they are purported to cure everything from the common cold to lack of vitality in men. A cache of these fossils would be worth a fortune on the black market, Dr. Jones."
"Possibly," Indy said. "But it seems unlikely, Sister. You are mistaken about the nature of this piece. It's not a fossil."
"What do you mean?"
"It's not petrified. Bone gets preserved for many millions of years because of minerals that soak into the pores and gradually replicate the original in precise detail. But this specimen shows none of the characteristics of petrification; it is much too light and much too soft for that."
"So it's a fraud?"
"It's from a living animal," Indy said.
"What kind of animal?"
"I'm an archaeologist, not a zoologist. It would take an expert to say with any degree of certainty. But it would be my guess that it is from a rhinoceros."
"Then why would it excite my father so?"
"I don't know. But we can ask a friend of mine at the American Museum of Natural History. Tomorrow is Saturday, so I have no classes. Would you mind taking the train to New York with me in the morning?"
"Then you will help me?"
"With the bone, yes. In the meantime let's hope that a letter from your father is in the morning post. I think you'll find that we can solve this mystery in short order."
Joan nodded.
"Do you have a place to stay for the night?"
"I'm sure the Young Women's Christian Association will have adequate accommodations," she said cheerfully, although her eyes glanced away. "I believe it is just a few blocks down the street, and I'm sure a brisk walk will do me good."
"Sister, you look beat," Indy said. "Would you consider staying with a friend of mine tonight? Penelope Angstrom is our department secretary and I'm sure she would enjoy the company. Please allow me to telephone on your behalf, and if Miss Angstrom is agreeable, I'll take you over myself."
Joan blushed.
"Yes, of course," she said. "Pardon me, but for a moment I thought you were going to ask me to stay the night with you."
"It had crossed my mind."
"Dr. Jones! You're drunker than I thought."
"I meant because you thought you'd been followed, of course, and because of that business with your father's gardener," Indy said. "Believe me, Sister, I'd sooner cross a rattlesnake than make a pass at a nun."
"What a blunt way to put it," Joan said. "But I'm afraid you're just being honest. Most men, it seems, share you
r disdain."
"You sound disappointed."
"Frankly, it's one aspect of the calling that I have not quite reconciled myself to." She paused, horrified at what she had just said. "Don't misunderstand me, Dr. Jones. I meant that most men treat nuns as if we're made out of plaster and paint instead of flesh and blood. I have never... I mean, you mustn't think badly of me."
"If you won't call me a drunk, I won't call you a—"
"Understood," Joan said quickly.
Indy wanted to ask her exactly what kind of order she belonged to, but decided to wait for a better time. Instead, he picked up the receiver and jiggled the cradle, attempting to summon the operator.
"I think you must reattach the cord for it to work."
Indy grinned as he replaced the wires in the brass terminals and snugged down the nuts.
"May I ask you a question, Dr. Jones?"
"Shoot."
"You don't seem like the kind of man who would lock himself in his office with a bottle of hard liquor. What kind of demons have you been wrestling with?"
"Demons," Indy said, "That's a good choice of words."
But he did not explain.
"You know what, Sister?" Indy asked as he opened the window. "I've never really liked the taste of this stuff." He opened the bottle, held it outside, and let the contents gurgle onto the grass four stories below.
Suspended from the ceiling of the third-floor gallery of the American Museum of Natural History was a life-size model of a blue whale, made of angle iron and basswood and papier-mache. The seventy-six-foot model was frozen in the act of diving from the third-floor gallery (Mammals of the World), down through a huge well that opened onto the second floor (Mammals of North America).
Joan paused and stared up, as tens of thousands of visitors had before her, at the massive bulk of the blue whale looming overhead.
"The biggest animal that has ever lived," she remarked in amazement. "Larger even than the dinosaurs. And they feed almost entirely on plankton, which is microscopic. What a triumph for us mammals."
"I like mammals as well as the next guy," Indy said, pulling her by her elbow. "But if we spend any more time on this floor, they're going to catalog us."
"At least we're in the right section," Joan said. She was clutching the paper sack that held the horn.
"Come on," Indy said. "Brody is waiting. There will be plenty of time to visit your cousins later."
A few minutes later they were sitting in Marcus Brody's office on the fifth floor of the museum. While Joan related her story Brody turned the horn over and over in his hands, and ran his fingers repeatedly over the tip. The richly decorated office was as quiet as a tomb, and Indy found himself dozing off in the comfortable leather chair.
"Indy, wake up," Brody admonished when the story was finished. "You're being rude."
"Sorry."
"Don't make him apologize," Joan said. "I'm afraid he has an exaggerated notion of chivalry. He spent the night outside, in his car, protecting me from armies of goblins."
"What a chivalrous fellow," Brody said, placing the horn on the desk. "Reason enough to excuse him just this once. Indy, would you care for some coffee? That should perk you up."
Indy nodded.
"Sister? Would you care for anything? Tea, perhaps?"
Joan shook her head.
Brody touched the intercom on his desk and asked his new assistant to bring coffee for two.
"Well," Joan said. "What do you think?"
"The horn? I'm not sure," Brody said. "I am inclined to agree with Indy's assessment, but let's get an expert opinion, shall we?"
A few minutes later Brody's assistant delivered the coffee tray. The assistant was a brooding young man of twenty-something with closely cropped hair and a complexion turned pale from too much studying and too little sunlight.
"Indy," Brody said. "You should become acquainted with this young man. He's a doctoral candidate at Columbia, and he's working here part-time to pay for his room and board. He's also my nephew. His name is James Brody, although the family calls him Sunny Jim."
"Uncle," the young man pleaded.
"Sorry, James. Ahem. I would like you to meet Indiana Jones and his friend Sister Joan. Indiana is a professor of archaeology at Princeton, and Sister... I'm sorry, what order did you say you were with?"
"I didn't."
"Of course," Brody said.
The young man nodded absently and mumbled some pleasantries.
"Jim!" Brody said. "Can't you be a little more civil?"
"Uncle, I was thinking about something that Joe told me yesterday. He said—"
"Who's Joe?" Indy asked.
"Young Joe Campbell, a Columbia graduate and schoolmaster at the Canterbury School in Connecticut," Brody said. "He has Jim quite under his spell. This Campbell spends his weekends lurking around the museum, hands behind his back, staring for hours at the exhibits, particularly those dealing with American Indians. Frankly, he gives me the creeps. I think he would crawl right up and become a part of the exhibits if—"
"What did this Joe have to say yesterday?" Indy inquired, attempting to deflect Brody's rant.
"I'm not sure that I can relate it correctly," James said, suddenly coming to life. "But Joe has been doing a lot of thinking lately about how preliterate societies communicate values through mythology, and how strikingly similar the myths are to one another. It's as if there's only one hero, and one cycle of adventure, and that it keeps getting told over and over again, but with different names and details. Like the Christ story. It doesn't matter if it happened or not—"
"Oh, what rubbish!" Brody exclaimed.
"But Uncle, there you have it," James said. "What matters is the pattern of myth, not the verifiability. Religion turns myth into theology, and that's where we get into trouble. Look how strongly you reacted to the suggestion that the resurrection was not an actual, verifiable event. We have the influence of Western civilization to thank for that."
"And what are we to trust instead?" Brody asked.
"What's in here," James said, and he placed a hand over Brody's heart. "Joe says that recorded history is a nightmare from which we are struggling to awaken."
"That is a quote from Ulysses," Indy said.
"And I suppose we all should throw away our books and turn our backs on the technological wonders of modern science so we can go back to living in grass huts and calling in witch doctors when we're ill," Brody said.
"There you go again, Uncle," James said. "You turn everything into an all-or-nothing proposition. It's clear that you have lost your natural ability to integrate knowledge and spirit."
"Pshaw!" Brody said.
"Actually," Joan said, "I find the idea of recorded history as nightmare compelling, especially considering the most recent chapters—mustard gas, aerial bombing, breadlines, and gangsters. Going back to a more primitive way of life may not be such a bad idea. There would be a certain, well, innocence to it."
"And quite a lot of dirt," Brody quipped.
"Don't pay your uncle any mind," Indy said. "These are all things which you'll have to work out for yourself. Besides, I'm sure that when Marcus was your age, he was excited about new ideas, too."
"I'm not ready for the rest home yet," Brody protested. "Look here, Jim, why don't you make yourself useful and run this bone down to the laboratory on the second floor. Ask Dr. Larson to take a look and render us a quick opinion. We will wait. And stay away from that Campbell character, at least for a few days."
"Yes, sir," the young man said, carefully taking the bone.
When James had left, Indy placed his hand on Marcus Brody's shoulder. "You're being too hard on the young man," Indy said. "Give him some slack. The world is still new to him, so let him enjoy it while he can. Besides, there may be something to his friend's ideas, even if the world of Marcus Brody isn't yet ready for them."
"God help me if the world ever is," Brody said. "We can't allow ourselves to give in to these impulses and run w
illy-nilly over thousands of years of learning and tradition. What would happen to us then?"
"We might just be happy," Joan offered.
"Or unhappy in a way we could not imagine," Brody said. "Pardon me, I am still arguing with my nephew. Indy, you're right. I am too hard on him. You know, Jim's quick mind and strength of will remind me of another young chap I befriended when he was a graduate student many years ago, and he didn't turn out so badly."
Indy grinned.
"It wasn't for lack of trying," he said.
"Well, I like to think my mentoring is what did the trick," Brody said. "By the way, I'm probably acting too much like a meddling uncle with this question, but how are things going with you and your British-librarian friend?"
"You mean Alecia," Indy said. "It's over, Marcus. At least until I can find the Crystal Skull and return it to where it belongs."
"I'm sorry," Brody said.
"She ended the relationship for health reasons," Indy said sadly. "You know I don't believe in curses, but this one—that I will kill what I love unless I return the skull—seems to be working. I can't say that I blame her, Marcus, but it doesn't make it any easier—"
The phone on Brody's desk jangled.
"Ah, it looks as if we have an opinion from the good doctor," Brody said, and picked up the receiver. As he listened his expression grew serious. He searched his pockets for a pen and a scrap of paper, and he jotted down some notes. Brody asked, "Are you absolutely sure?" then replaced the receiver and sat down behind his desk.
"That was Larson," he said.
"And?"
"The bone is from a recently living animal." He looked at his notes. "Larson estimates it has been dead for only a matter of months."
"That's what we thought, isn't it?" Indy asked.
"Well, no," Brody said. "I mean—and this is Larson's expert opinion—that the horn is from a triceratops. That is an animal of the Cretaceous Period, which ended sixty-three million years ago. A dinosaur."
Indy spilled his coffee.
"Is he sure?" Joan asked.
"There is still much to be done, experiments to perform," Brody said. "It is possible that it is some kind of freak of nature, a kind of cosmic practical joke. But Larson is beside himself. He wants us to come right down, and he wants to talk to Sister Joan about the origin of the horn."
