Jack McDevitt - Ancient Shores

Lasker pulled over and stopped. The sun was sinking toward the top of the western promontory, which was lower by fifty to a hundred feet than the summits on either side. “Where was the water level?” he asked.

“Depends on which period you’re talking about. It was never high enough that the southern side could have served conveniently as a harbor. But for a long time you could have taken a boat up there”—he indicated the rear wall—“tied up at your dock or whatever, and stepped out onto dry land.”

Lasker squinted through the sunlight. A squadron of birds, too far away for him to see clearly, cruised over the summit. “Could be,” he said. “I think it belongs to the Indians,” he added.

Arky Redfern’s law offices were located in a professional building on the outskirts of Cavalier, the county seat. He was flanked by an orthodontist and a financial advisor. The building was flat gray slate with maybe twenty parking places, about half of which were filled when Lasker pulled in and found an open slot next to the handicapped space.

Inside, a brisk young woman looked up from a computer terminal. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said. “Can I help you?”

She took their names and picked up a phone. Fifteen minutes later they were ushered into an interior office dominated by a mahogany desk, leather furniture, and an array of glass-door bookcases. The walls to either side were crowded with plaques and certificates; the one behind the desk was conspicuously reserved for a hunting bow and a spread of five arrows.

Arky Redfern was a lean young man in a gray tweed jacket. He was of about average height, with dark, distant eyes, copper skin, and thick brown hair. Just out of law school, Max thought. Redfern came through an inner door, greeted Lasker with easy familiarity, asking about his family, and shook Max’s hand.

“Now,” he said as they settled down to business, “what exactly is it you gentlemen want to do on Johnson’s Ridge?”

As they’d agreed, Lasker took the lead. “We’d like to have permission to conduct a ground-radar search. To look for artifacts.”

The lawyer cocked his head as if he hadn’t heard correctly. “Really? Why? What would you expect to find?”

Lasker said, “It’s a general survey. We want to see if there’s anything up there. And we’d agree not to remove anything.”

Redfern took a pair of spectacles from his jacket pocket and fitted them carefully over his eyes. “Why don’t you tell me straight out what you’re looking for? Is there another yacht up there, Tom?”

Lasker looked at Max. “We’re looking at places all over the area, Mr. Redfern,” Max said. “You can never tell where you might find something.”

Lasker mouthed, “Trust him,” and Max sighed. Trust a lawyer ? It flew in the face of his most cherished principles.

Redfern was apparently not satisfied with Max’s answer. He seemed to be still waiting for a response.

“We think,” said Max, “there might be some objects left over from the Paleolithic.”

The lawyer’s eyes narrowed, and he turned toward Lasker. “This is connected with the boat, Tom? Right?”

“Yes,” said Lasker. “There’s an outside possibility, and that’s all it is, that something might be buried on top of Johnson’s Ridge. It’s a long shot.”

Redfern nodded. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what you know about the yacht?” he said.

“It’s been in the newspapers,” said Max.

“Nothing’s been in the newspapers. Old boat dug up on a farm. It’s in very good condition, suggesting that it hadn’t been in the ground more than a week. And it lights up at night.” He stared across at the two men. “You want access to Johnson’s Ridge? Tell me what’s going on.”

“Can we get a guarantee of confidentiality?” asked Lasker.

“I would like to be free to confer with the chairman if need be. But I can assure you that otherwise what you tell me will go no farther.”

“Who’s the chairman?” asked Max.

“The head of the local Sioux,” said Lasker. “Name’s James Walker.”

“The head of the Sioux is a chairman ?”

“ Movie Indians have chiefs,” said Redfern. “Now tell me about the boat.”

Max nodded. “It might be a lot older than it looks.” A tractor-trailer went by and shook the building. Max described April’s findings, watching Redfern while he talked, expecting at every moment to be dismissed as a crank.

Instead he was heard without comment or visible reaction. When he’d finished, Redfern sat silently for a few moments. “You’re suggesting,” he said, “someone sailed a yacht on Lake Agassiz?”

When people put it like that, it always sounded dumb. “We’re not sure,” Max said. “It’s possible.”

“Okay.” Redfern opened a drawer, and took out a piece of memo paper. “How much are you willing to pay for the privilege?”

Lasker pushed back in his chair. “Since we won’t be doing any damage to the land, Arky, we’d hoped you’d just let us look around.”

Redfern nodded. “Of course. And I hope you understand, Tom, that if it were up to me, I’d say yes without hesitation. But the tribal council has its rules, and I have no alternative except to abide by them.” He looked at his visitors.

“I guess we’d be prepared to invest a hundred,” said Max.

Redfern nodded yes, not yes to the offer, but yes to some hidden impression of his own. “How exactly do you intend to conduct the search?”

“We’ll be using a ground-radar unit,” said Max.

Redfern wrote on his sheet of paper. His brow wrinkled, he made additional notes. Then he looked up. “It’s hard for me to see how I can accept less than a thousand.”

Max got to his feet. “That’s ridiculous,” he said.

“It’s customary,” said Redfern. He let the statement hang, as if its validity were obvious. Max thought it over. There were other places to look, but Johnson’s Ridge was an ideal harbor. If the boat had been housed anywhere in the area, it would have been there.

“We can’t manage a thousand,” he said. “But you might want to consider that if we do find something, everyone will benefit.”

“I’m sure of that,” said Redfern. He sighed. “Okay. I tell you what I’ll do. Let me speak with the chairman. He might be willing to make an exception and come down for a worthy cause. What kind of figure can I offer him?” He smiled politely at Max.

“How about five hundred?”

Redfern’s eyes slid momentarily shut. “I suspect he’ll consider that a bit tightfisted. But I’ll try.” He wrote on the paper again. “I’ll draw up a contract.” He smiled. “Of course you understand that any Native-American artifacts you might find will remain the property of the tribe. Anything else of value, we will share according to usual conditions.”

“What are those?” asked Max.

Redfern produced another piece of paper. “In this case,” he said, “section four would seem to apply.” He handed the document to Lasker. “These are our standard guidelines for anyone applying to do archeological work on tribal land.”

“I think,” said Max, “we need a lawyer.”

Redfern looked amused. “I always recommend that anyone entering into a legal transaction seek counsel. I’ll draw up the agreement, and you can come by later this afternoon and sign, if you like.” He rose, business apparently concluded. “Now, is there anything else I can do for you?”

Max had been admiring the bow. “Have you ever used it?”

“It was my father’s,” he said, as if that answered the question.

Peggy Moore had grown up in Plymouth, New Hampshire, in the shadow of the White Mountains. She’d gone to school in New York, left three marriages in her wake, and had little patience with people who got in her way. She handled a wide range of duties at GeoTech, and running a ground-search radar team was what she most preferred to do. Not because it was challenging, but because it could yield the most satisfying results. There was nothing quite like sitting in front of a monitor and spotting the rock formations that promise oil. Except maybe the Nebraska find that had been the highlight of her career: a mastodon’s bones.