"We have an estimate on this lot of twelve million dollars, and an opening price of five million." The chairman tapped his gavel.
There was a faint smattering of calls, nods, and genteelly raised paddles.
"I have five million. Six million. Thank you, I have seven million." The spotters craned their necks, catching the bids, relaying them to the chairman. The sotto voce hubbub in the hall gradually increased.
"I have eight million."
A scattering of applause erupted as the record price for a dinosaur fossil was broken.
"Ten million. Eleven million. Twelve. Thank you, I have thirteen. I have fourteen. Fifteen."
The show of paddles had dwindled considerably, but several telephone bidders were still active, along with half a dozen in the audience. The dollar display to the chairman's right rose rapidly, with the English and Euro equivalents beneath following in lockstep.
"Eighteen million. I have eighteen million. Nineteen."
The murmuring became a groundswell and the chairman gave a cautionary rap with his gavel. The bidding continued, quietly but furiously. "Twenty-five million. I have twenty-six. Twenty-seven to the gentleman on the right."
The murmuring rose once again, and this time the chairman did not quell it.
"I have thirty-two million. Thirty-two and a half on the phone. Thirty-three. Thank you, I have thirty-three and a half. Thirty-four to the lady in the front."
An electricity was building in the sale room: the price was mounting far higher than even the wildest predictions.
"Thirty-five on the phone. Thirty-five and a half to the lady. Thirty-six."
Then there was a small stir in the crowd; a rustle, a shifting of attention. A number of eyes turned toward the door leading out into the main gallery. Standing on the crescent-moon steps was a remarkable-looking man of about sixty, a massive, even overwhelming presence. He had a shaved head and a dark Vandyke beard. A Valentino suit of dark blue silk was draped over his imposing frame, shimmering slightly in the light when he moved. A Turnbull & Asser shirt, uncompromisingly white, lay open at the neck. Over it was a string tie, held in place by a fist-size piece of amber, containing the only Archaeopteryx feather ever found.
"Thirty-six million," the chairman repeated. But his eyes, like everyone else's, had strayed toward the new arrival. The man stood on the steps, his blue eyes sparkling with vitality and some private amusement. He slowly raised his paddle. A hush fell. On the remote chance anybody in the crowd had not recognized the man, the paddle was a give-away: it was numbered 001, the only number Christie's had ever allowed to be given permanently to a client.
The chairman looked at him, expectantly.
"One hundred," the man said at last, softly but precisely.
The hush deepened "I beg your pardon?" The chairman's voice was dry.
"One hundred million dollars," the man said. His teeth were very large, very straight, and very white.
Again the silence was absolute.
"I have a bid of one hundred million," said the chairman, a little shakily.
Time seemed to have been suspended. A telephone rang somewhere in the building, at the edge of audibility, and the sound of a car horn filtered up from the avenue.
Then the spell was broken with a smart rap of the gavel. "Lot number one, for one hundred million dollars, sold to Palmer Lloyd!"
The room erupted. In a flash everyone was on their feet. There was exuberant clapping, cheers, a call of "bravo" as if a great tenor had just concluded the performance of his career. Others were not as pleased, and the cheering and clapping was interlaced with hisses of disapproval, catcalls, low boos. Christie's had never witnessed a crowd so close to hysteria: all the participants, pro and con, were well aware that history had just been made. But the man who had caused it all was gone, out through the main gallery, down the green carpet past the cashier—and the multitude found themselves addressing an empty doorway.
4: Kalahari Desert
June 1, 6:45 P.M.
SAM MCFARLANE sat cross-legged in the dust. The evening fire, built of twigs on bare ground, cast a trembling net of shadows over the thorn scrub surrounding the camp. The nearest settlement lay one hundred miles behind his back.
He looked around at the wizened figures squatting on their heels around the fire, naked except for dusty breech-clouts, their alert eyes gleaming. San Bushmen. It took a long time to gain their trust, but once gained, it was unshakable. Very different, McFarlane thought, from back home.
In front of each San lay a battered secondhand metal detector. The San remained immobile as McFarlane rose to his feet. He spoke slowly, awkwardly, in their strange click language. At first there were some snickers as he struggled with the words, but McFarlane had a natural affinity for languages, and as he continued the men fell back into respectful silence.
At the conclusion of his speech, McFarlane smoothed out a patch of sand. Using a stick, he began to draw a map. The San squatted on their heels, craning their necks to look at the drawing. Slowly the map took shape, and the San nodded their understanding as McFarlane pointed out the various landmarks. It was the Makgadikgadi Pans that lay north of the camp: a thousand square miles of dry lakebeds, sand hills, and alkali flats, desolate and uninhabited. In the deep interior of the Pans, he drew a small circle with his stick. Then he stabbed the stick in the center of the circle and looked up with a broad smile.
There was a moment of silence, punctuated by the lonely sound of a ruoru bird calling across the distant flats. The San began talking among themselves in low voices, the clicks and clucks of their language like the rattling of pebbles in a stream. A gnarled old figure, the headman of the band, pointed at the map. McFarlane leaned forward, straining to understand the rapid speech. Yes, they knew the area, the old man said. He began to describe trails, known only to the San, that crossed the remote area. With a twig and some pebbles, the headman began marking where the seeps were, where the game was, where edible roots and plants could be found. McFarlane waited patiently.
At last, quiet again settled on the group. The headman spoke to McFarlane, more slowly this time. Yes, they were willing to do what the white man wanted. But they were afraid of the white man's machines, and they also did not understand this thing the white man was looking for.
McFarlane rose again, pulled the stick out of the map. Then he took a small, dark lump of iron from his pocket, no bigger than a marble, and placed it in the hole left by the stick. He pushed it down and concealed it with sand. Then he stood; picked up his metal detector, and snapped it on. There was a brief, high-pitched whine. Everyone watched in nervous silence. He took two steps away from the map, turned, and began walking forward, making low sweeps over the ground with the detector. As it swept over the buried lump of iron, there was a squawk. The San jumped backward in alarm and there was a burst of rapid talk. McFarlane smiled, spoke a few words; and the San crept back into their seating places. He turned off the metal detector and held it toward the headman, who took it reluctantly. McFarlane showed him how to turn it on, and then guided him, in sweeping motions, over the circle. A second squawk sounded. The headman flinched but then smiled. He tried it again, and again, his smile growing broader, his face breaking into a mass of wrinkles. "Sun'a ai, Ma!gad'i!gadi !iaad'mi," he said, gesturing to his band.
With McFarlane's patient help, each San Bushman in turn picked up a machine and tested it on the hidden iron nugget. Slowly, the apprehension was replaced by laughter and speculative discussion. Eventually McFarlane raised his hands, and all sat down again, each with his machine in his lap. They were ready to begin the search.
McFarlane took a leather bag from his pocket, opened it, inverted it. A dozen gold Krugerrands fell into his outstretched palm. The ruoru bird began its mournful call again as the last light died from the sky. Slowly and with ceremony, he gave a gold coin to each man in turn. They took them reverently, with paired hands, bowing their heads.
The headman spoke again to McFarlane. Tomorr
ow, they would move camp and begin the journey into the heart of the Makgadikgadi Pans with the white man's machines. They would look for this big thing the white man wanted. When they found it, they would return. They would tell the white man where it was...
The old man suddenly darted his eyes to the sky in alarm. The others did the same as McFarlane watched, his brow creasing in puzzlement. Then he heard it himself: a faint, rhythmic throbbing. He followed their gaze to the dark horizon. Already the Bushmen were on their feet, birdlike, apprehensive. There was rapid, urgent talk. A cluster of lights, faint but growing brighter, rose in the distant sky. The throbbing sound grew stronger. The pencil-like beam of a spotlight stabbed downward into the scrub.
With a soft cry of alarm, the old man dropped his Krugerrand and disappeared into the darkness. The rest followed suit. Instantly, it seemed, McFarlane was left alone, staring into the still darkness of the brush. He turned wildly as the light grew in intensity. It was coming straight for the camp. And now he could see it was a big Blackhawk helicopter, its rotors tearing up the night air, running lights winking, the oversize spotlight racing across the ground until at last it fixed him in its glare.
McFarlane threw himself into the dust behind a thornbush and lay there, feeling exposed in the brilliant light. Digging a hand into his boot, he pulled out a small pistol. Dust whipped up around him, stinging his eyes as the desert bushes gyrated maniacally. The helicopter slowed, hovered, and descended to an open area at one side of the camp, the backwash blowing a cascade of sparks from the fire. As the chopper settled, a lightbar on its roof lit up, bathing the area in an even harsher glare. The rotors powered down. McFarlane waited, wiping dirt from his face, keeping his eyes on the helicopter's hatch, gun at the ready. Soon it swung open, and a large, solid man stepped out, alone.
McFarlane peered through the thorny scrub. The man was dressed in khaki shorts and a cotton bush shirt, and a Tilley hat sat on his massive shaven head. There was something heavy swinging in one of the shorts' oversize pockets. The man began walking toward McFarlane.
McFarlane slowly rose, keeping the bush between himself and the chopper, training his gun on the man's chest. But the stranger seemed unconcerned. Although he was in shadow, silhouetted by the chopper's takedown lights, McFarlane thought he saw teeth gleaming in a smile. He stopped five paces away. He had to be six foot eight, at least—McFarlane was not sure he had ever seen anybody quite as tall before.
"You're a difficult man to find," the man said.
In the deep, resonant voice McFarlane heard nasal traces of an East Coast accent. "Who the hell are you?" he replied, keeping the gun leveled.
"Introductions are so much more pleasant after the firearms have been put away."
"Take the gun out of your pocket and toss it in the dirt," said McFarlane.
The man chuckled and withdrew the lump: it was not a gun, but a small thermos. "Something to keep out the chill," he said, holding it up. "Care to share it with me?"
McFarlane glanced back at the helicopter, but the only other occupant was the pilot. "It took me a month to gain their trust," he said in a low voice, "and you've just scattered them all to hell and gone. I want to know who you are, and why you're here. And it had better be good."
"It's not good, I'm afraid. Your partner, Nestor Masangkay, is dead."
McFarlane felt a sudden numbness. His gun hand slowly dropped. "Dead?"
The man nodded.
"How?"
"Doing just what you're doing. We don't really know how." He gestured. "Shall we move by the fire? I didn't expect these Kalahari nights to be so nippy."
McFarlane edged toward the remains of the fire, keeping the gun loosely by his side, his mind full of conflicting emotions. He noticed, distantly, that the backwash of the chopper had erased his sand map, exposing the little nugget of iron.
"So what's your connection to Nestor?" he asked.
The man did not answer right away. Instead, he surveyed the scene—the dozen metal detectors scattered willy-nilly by the fleeing San, the gold coins lying in the sand. He bent down and picked up the brown fingernail of iron, hefted it, and then held it up to his eye. Then he glanced up at McFarlane. "Looking for the Okavango meteorite again?"
McFarlane said nothing, but his hand tightened on the gun.
"You knew Masangkay better than anybody. I need you to help me finish his project."
"And just what project was that?" McFarlane asked.
"I'm afraid I've said all I can say about it."
"And I'm afraid I've heard all I want to hear. The only person I help anymore is myself."
"So I've heard."
McFarlane stepped forward quickly, the anger returning. The man raised a pacifying hand. "The least you can do is hear me out."
"I haven't even heard your name, and, frankly, I don't want to. Thanks for bringing me the bad news. Now why don't you get back in your chopper and get the hell out of here."
"Forgive me for not introducing myself. I'm Palmer Lloyd."
McFarlane began to laugh. "Yeah, and I'm Bill Gates."
But the big man wasn't laughing—just smiling. McFarlane looked closer at his face, really studying it for the first time. "Jesus," he breathed.
"You may have heard that I'm building a new museum."
McFarlane shook his head. "Was Nestor working for you?"
"No. But his activities recently came to my attention, and I want to finish what he started."
"Look," said McFarlane, shoving the gun into his waistband. "I'm not interested. Nestor Masangkay and I parted ways a long time ago. But I'm sure you know all about that."
Lloyd smiled and held up the thermos. "Shall we talk about it over a toddy?" Without waiting for an answer, he settled himself by the fire—white man style, with his butt in the dust—unscrewed the cap, and poured out a steaming cup. He offered it to McFarlane, who shook his head impatiently.
"You like hunting meteorites?" Lloyd asked.
"It has its days."
"And you really think you'll find the Okavango?"
"Yes. Until you dropped out of the sky." McFarlane crouched beside him. "I'd love to chitchat with you. But every minute you sit here with that idling chopper, the Bushmen are getting farther away. So I'll say it again. I'm not interested in a job. Not at your museum, not at any museum." He hesitated. "Besides, you can't pay me what I'm going to make on the Okavango."
"And just what might that be?" Lloyd asked, sipping the cup himself.
"A quarter million. At least."
Lloyd nodded "Assuming you find it. Subtract what you owe everyone over the Tornarssuk fiasco, and I imagine you'll probably break even."
McFarlane laughed harshly. "Everyone's entitled to one mistake. I'll have enough left over to get me started on the next rock. There's a lot of meteorites out there. It sure beats a curator's salary."
"I'm not talking about a curatorship."
"Then what are you talking about?"
"I'm sure you could make a pretty good guess. I can't talk about particulars until I know you're on board." He sipped at the toddy. "Do this one for your old partner."
"Old ex-partner."
Lloyd sighed. "You're right. I know all about you and Masangkay. It wasn't entirely your fault, losing the Tornarssuk rock like that. If anyone's to blame, it's the bureaucrats at the New York Museum of Natural History."
"Why don't you give up? I'm not interested."
"Let me tell you about the compensation. As a signing bonus, I'll pay off the quarter million you owe, get the creditors off your back. If the project is successful, you'll get another quarter million. If it isn't, you'll have to settle for being debt free. Either way, you can continue at my museum as director of the Planetary Sciences Department if you wish. I'll build you a state-of-the-art laboratory. You'll have a secretary, lab assistants, a six-figure salary—the works."
McFarlane began to laugh again. "Beautiful. So how long is this project?"
"Six months. On the outside."
McFarlane stopped laughing. "Half a million for six months' work?"
"If we're successful."
"What's the catch?"
"No catch."
"Why me?"
"You knew Masangkay: his quirks, his work patterns, his thoughts. There's a big mystery lingering over what he was doing, and you're the man who can solve it. And besides, you're one of the top meteorite hunters in the world. You've got an intuitive sense about them. People say you can smell them."
"I'm not the only one out there." The praise irritated McFarlane: it smacked of manipulation.
In response, Lloyd extended one hand, the knuckle of the ring finger raised. There was a wink of precious metal as he turned it in McFarlane's direction.
"Sorry," McFarlane answered. "I only kiss the ring of the pope."
Lloyd chuckled. "Look at the stone," he said.
Peering more closely, McFarlane saw that the ring on Lloyd's finger consisted of a milky gemstone, deep violet, in a heavy platinum setting. He recognized it immediately. "Nice stone. But you could have bought it from me wholesale."
"No doubt. After all, you and Masangkay are the ones that got the Atacama tektites out of Chile."
"Right. And I'm still a wanted man in those parts as a result."
"We will offer you suitable protections."
"So it's Chile, huh? Well, I know what the insides of their jails look like. Sorry."
Lloyd didn't respond immediately. Picking up a stick, he banked the scattered embers, then tossed the stick onto them. The fire crackled up, beating back the darkness. On anybody else, the Tilley hat would look a little silly; somehow, Lloyd managed to pull it off. "If you knew what we were planning, Dr. McFarlane, you'd do it for free. I'm offering you the scientific prize of the century."
McFarlane chuckled, shaking his head. "I'm done with science," he said. "I've had enough dusty labs and museum bureaucracies to last me a lifetime."
Lloyd sighed and stood up. "Well, it looks like I've wasted my time. I guess we'll have to go with our number two choice."
McFarlane paused. "And who would that be?"
The Ice Limit Page 2
