Orphan of Creation by Roger MacBride Allen Read Free Book Online Page B

mouse cage, woke slightly to see what was going on, then closed his eyes again to dream of catching the mice once more. Rupert shoved the computer keyboard out of the way and pulled the phone forward, front and center. It was a crowded desk.
    “Hello, Rupert Maxwell.”
    “Rupe? Barbara.” The voice came through the miles, clear but slightly faint.
    “Hey, Barb!” Rupert grinned. “Happy Turkey Day or so. But I thought you were home visiting family.”
    “I am, Rupe. But something’s come up. I need your advice.” To Rupert’s ear, she sounded a bit hesitant about asking for it. “Nothing personal, this time,” she added with a note of hurry in her voice. “Professional advice. Digger to digger. Hey, I didn’t wake you, did I?”
    “Nope,” he said cheerfully. “Been up for a while, just puttering around. So talk to me. What’s up?” Rupert opened a desk drawer and fished out a pen and paper. He liked to keep notes on conversations related to work. FRIDAY 8:03 A.M. Barbara M. Re: pro question. B. sounds embarrassed.
    “Well, I found something, Rupe.” She quickly told him how she had come across the journal, and what she had read in it. Rupert started listening more and more attentively, taking more and more notes, speaking only to ask an occasional question on one detail or another. He immediately noticed that she was only telling him what she had discovered, not what she was doing about it.
    “Anyway,” Barbara concluded, “what with schedules and money and whatever mood Aunt Jo gets in to change her mind, what it really comes down to is that this weekend might be my only chance to do the dig and see what’s down there.”
    “And you’ve got permission to dig if you want to?” Rupert asked, doodling with his pen.
    “That’s right.”
    Rupert made a sort of harrumphing noise into the phone, tossed down the pen, and thought for a minute. “Well, it’s a real interesting story,” he said, in a studiously neutral tone.
    “But what should I do about it?” Barbara’s voice asked, sounding almost querulous over Gowrie’s tinny, small-town phone lines.
    Rupert knew what to say, what she needed to hear, what he would need to hear if the roles were reversed. But he paused once again, not sure of how to say it. “Look, Barb. You and I are diggers—grubbers in the dirt in search of all the old truths, walkers on the past, whatever you want to call it. Call it something grand, call it grave robbing, it’s what we do. And we do it because we’re curious , no other reason, in spite of what we tell each other about history or knowing ourselves or whatever. You know and I know you want to dig those old ape bones up. What else could possibly occur to you when you stumble on a story like that? What you really want to know from me is if it’s worth the cost, the risk to go for it. Right?”
    There was a silence on the phone line for a long moment. “Well, yes, I suppose,” Barbara answered.
    Rupert sighed and stretched out a long arm to scratch Chairman Meow behind the ears. “Well, you know as well as I do, you’re the only one who can answer that question. But, look, you and I— we’re associates, just met, not bowling buddies or best friends yet. I don’t know you so well. Something’s bugging you here, I can tell that, but I don’t know what. So let me ask, try and save some time: You afraid of being wrong or being right?”
    “Huh? Why should I be afraid of being right?” The voice on the phone sounded surprised, a little defensive.
    Aha . Rupert raised his eyebrows, picked up his pencil, and began a small, tight patch of doodling on his note pad. “‘Cause what it sounds like to me, to make a quick prelim dig might cost you a few hundred bucks in equipment and labor. That’s cheap for knowing, one way or the other, every morning when you wake up for the rest of your life, that you did the right thing. And if I’m not getting too personal, if you take a chance and it costs more than