Overhead, a vulture wheeled, settling on a pinnacle of rock near the dig. It waited.
Clift levered at the ancient lid. Suddenly, it split along the middle and broke. The palaeontologist lifted the shard away. A smell, too ancient to be called the scent of death, drifted out into the hot dry air.
A girl student with the Dixie College insignia on her T-shirt yelped and ran from the group as she saw what lay in the coffin.
Using his brush, Clift swept away a layer of red ochre. His assistant collected fragile remains of dead blossom, placing them reverently in a plastic bag. A skeleton in human form was revealed, lying on its side. Tenderly, Clift uncovered the upper plates of the skull. It was twisted round so that it appeared to stare upwards at the world of light with round ochred eyes.
The head offices and laboratories of the thriving Bodenland Corporation were encompassed in bronzed-glass curtain walls, shaped in neo-cubist form and disposed so that they dominated one road approach into Dallas, Texas.
At this hour of the morning the facade reflected the sun into the eyes of anyone approaching the corporation from the airport – as was the case with the imposing lady now disembarking from a government craft in which she had flown from Washington. She was sheathed in a fabric which reflected back something of the lustre from the corporation.
Her name was Elsa Schatzman, three times divorced daughter of Eliah Schatzman. She was First Secretary at the Washington Department of the Environment. She looked as if she wielded power, and did.
Joe Bodenland knew that Elsa Schatzman was in the offing. At present, however, he had little thought for her, being involved in an argument with his life’s companion, Mina Legrand. While they talked, Bodenland’s secretary continued discreetly to work at her desk.
‘First things first, Birdie,’ said Bodenland, with a patience that was calculated to vex Mina.
Mina Legrand was another powerful lady, although the genial lines of her face did not proclaim that fact. She was tall and still graceful, and currently having weight problems, despite an active life. Friends said of her, affectionately, that she put up with a lot of hassle from Joe; still closer friends observed that of late he was putting up with plenty from Mina.
‘Joe, your priorities are all screwed up. You must make time for your family,’ she said.
‘I’ll make time, but first things first,’ he repeated.
‘The first thing is it’s your son’s wedding day,’ Mina said. ‘I warn you, Joe, I’m going to fly down to Gondwana without you. One of these days, I’ll leave you for good, I swear I will.’
Joe played a tune on his desk top with the fingers of his left hand. They were long blunt fingers with wide spade-like nails, ridged and hard. Bodenland himself resembled his fingers. He too was long and blunt, with an element of hardness in him that had enabled him to lead an adventurous life as well as succeeding in the competitive international world of selling scientific research. He set his head towards his right shoulder with a characteristic gesture, as he asked: ‘How long has Larry been engaged to Kylie? Under a year. How long have we been pursuing the idea of inertial disposal? Over five years. Millions of dollars hang on today’s favourable reception of our demonstration by Washington. I just have to be here, Birdie, and that’s that.’
‘Larry will never forgive you. Nor will I.’
‘You will, Mina. So will Larry. Because you two are human. Washington ain’t.’
‘All right, Joe – you have the last word as usual. But you’re in deep trouble as of now.’ With that, Mina turned and marched from the office. The door closed silently behind her; its suction arm prevented it from slamming.
‘I’ll be down there just as soon as I can,’ Bodenland called, having a last-minute twinge of anxiety.
He turned to his secretary, Rose Gladwin, who had sat silently at her desk, eyes down, while this heated conversation was going on.
‘Birth, death, the great spirit of scientific enquiry – which of those is most important to a human being, Rose?’
She looked up with a slight smile.
‘The great spirit of scientific enquiry, Joe,’ she said.
‘You always have the right answer.’
‘I’m just informed that Miss Schatzman is en route from the airport right now.’
‘Let me know as soon as she arrives. I’ll be with Waldgrave.’
He glanced at his watch as he went out, and walked briskly down the corridor, cursing Washington and himself. It annoyed him to think that Larry was getting married at all. Marriage was so old-fashioned, yet now, on the turn of the century, it was coming back into fashion.
Bodenland and his senior research scientist, Waldgrave, were in reception to welcome Miss Schatzman when she arrived with her entourage. She was paraded through the technical floor, where everyone had been instructed to continue working as usual, to the laboratory with the notice in gilt on its glass door, INERTIAL RESEARCH.
Bodenland’s judicious answers in response to her questions indicated that Schatzman had been properly briefed. He liked that, and her slightly plump forties-ish figure in a tailored suit which signalled to him that human nature survived under the official exterior.
Various important figures were gathered in the lab for the demonstration, including a backer from the Bull-Brunswick Bank. Bodenland introduced Schatzman to some of them while technicians made everything finally ready. As she was shaking hands with the Bank, one of Bodenland’s aides came up and spoke softly in Bodenland’s ear.
‘There’s an urgent call for you from Utah, Joe. Bernard Clift, the archaeologist. Says he has an important discovery.’
‘Okay, Mike. Tell Bernard I’ll call him back when possible.’
In the centre of the lab stood a glass cabinet much resembling a shower enclosure. Cables ran into it from computers and other machines, where two assistants stood by a switchboard. The hum of power filled the air, lending extra tension to the meeting.
‘You have all the technical specifications of the inertial disposal principle in our press and video pack, Miss Schatzman,’ Bodenland said. ‘If you have no questions there, we’ll move straight into the demonstration.’
As he spoke, he gave a sign and an assistant in a lab coat dragged forward a black plastic bag large enough to contain a man.
Waldgrave explained, ‘The bag is full of sand, nothing more. It represents a consignment of nuclear or toxic waste.’
The bag was shut in the cabinet, remaining in full view through the glass as computers briefly chattered their calculations.
‘Energy-consumption rates are high at present. This is just a prototype, you appreciate. We hope to lower tolerances in the next part of the programme, when we have the okay from your department,’ Bodenland said. ‘Obviously energy-input is related to mass of substance being disposed of.’
‘And I see you’re using solar energy in part,’ Schatzman said.
‘The corporation has its own satellite, which beams down the energy to our dishes here in Dallas.’
Waldgrave got the nod from his boss. He signalled to the controls technician, who pressed the Transmit pad.
The interior of the cabinet began to glow with a blue-mauve light.
Two large analogue-type clocks with sweep-hands were visible, one inside the cabinet, one on a jury-rig outside, facing the first one. The sweep hand of the clock in the cabinet stopped at 10.16. At the same time, the clock itself began to disappear. So did the black plastic bag. In a moment it was gone. The cabinet appeared to be empty.
A brief burst of applause filled the room. Bodenland appeared noticeably less grim.
The party went to have drinks