Jack McDevitt - Ancient Shores

“Of course,” said Redfern.

“Nevertheless, we would be willing to offer a substantial sum of money for the property and assume all the risk and expense of developing it.”

“I see.” Redfern picked up the document.

“We can offer a million dollars,” Wells said. He underscored the amount and left himself slightly breathless.

The lawyer flipped methodically through the pages, stopping occasionally to examine an item that had caught his attention. “I see,” he said, “you would get all rights for development and use.”

“Mr. Redfern.” Wells leaned forward and assumed an attitude that he obviously thought was one of friendly no-nonsense sincerity. “Let’s be honest here. This is a crapshoot. NEI is willing to gamble a lot of money on the off chance that there’s something usable on the ridge. We don’t know that to be the case. Nevertheless, in everyone’s interest, we’ll assume the risk. And the tribe can just sit back and collect. One million dollars. To do nothing.”

Redfern folded the contract and handed it back. “I don’t think so,” he said.

“May I ask why? What can you lose?”

The lawyer got out of his chair. “Dr. Wells, I’m quite busy today. If NEI wants to make a serious offer, you know where to find me.”

“Aren’t you overstepping your authority, Mr. Redfern? I would think your responsibility is to consult your employer.”

Redfern let Wells see that he was not impressed. “I believe I understand my responsibility, Dr. Wells. Now, I hate to rush you—”

“All right.” Wells leaned back in his chair. “You drive a hard bargain, Redfern. To save us both time, I’ll go right to the bottom line. I’m authorized to offer two million.”

Redfern glanced up at his father’s bow. There were times, he thought, when he regretted that they’d given up the old ways.

During the two years he’d served on the city council, Marv Wickham had never seen more than a dozen people attend the monthly meeting. But tonight was different. Fort Moxie’s total population of nine hundred twenty-seven must have been at city hall, where they overflowed the spacious second-floor meeting room and spilled out into the corridors. (The presence of the New Agers to whom the mayor had rented the lower-level auditorium did nothing to alleviate matters.) They were still coming in when the council president, Charlie Lindquist, launched the evening’s proceedings.

There were several routine items on the agenda: a zoning ordinance request, a proposal to issue highway improvement bonds, and a suggestion that Fort Moxie participate in a consolidated school scheme. But the issue that had drawn the crowd, and which Lindquist consequently scheduled last, would be a request that the city approve a demand that the Johnson’s Ridge excavation site be shut down.

Lindquist, who considered himself the town’s Solomon, guided the deliberations methodically through the preliminaries. At twelve minutes past nine he gave the floor to Joe Torres, a retired farmer now living in town.

Torres, reading nervously from a sheet of paper, described the chaotic conditions existing in Fort Moxie. Traffic had become impossible. There were drunks and fights and crowds of hoodlums. Visitors were parking their cars everywhere. They were overflowing the restaurants and stripping the supermarket so that ordinary citizens had to drive eighty miles to Grand Forks. They were even drawing lunatics with bombs, like the one who had taken out the Tastee-Freez the day before. “I know it’s good business for Mike and some of you other boys, but it’s pretty tough on the rest of us.”

Agnes Hanford stood up. “We need to take advantage of this while we can. In the end, the whole town’ll be better off.” Agnes’s husband owned the Prairie Schooner.

Joe shook his head. “That’s easy for you to say, Agnes. But it’s getting worse. And I think we need to do something.” As if to underline his argument, they heard an automobile roar past, horn blaring, radio shaking the building. “If we allow this to go on, we’re going to have to hire some police officers.” Historically, Fort Moxie had received what little law enforcement support it needed from Cavalier. “I therefore propose,” he continued, reading again, “that the council demand that the persons digging on Johnson’s Ridge cease and desist. And that the structure known as the Roundhouse be demolished.” He looked around. “Torn up and hauled away,” he added.

Lindquist recognized Laurie Cavaracca, who owned the Northstar Motel. Laurie had lived in Fort Moxie all her life. The motel had been built by her father in 1945, after he came back from the Pacific. Laurie was now sole owner and manager. “We have eight units at the Northstar,” she said. “Until two weeks ago, we never had consecutive days in which I could turn on the NO VACANCY sign. Now there is never an empty room. We are booming. Do I like the problems that we are currently having in Fort Moxie? No, of course not. None of us does. But the solution isn’t to close down and crawl back in our holes.” Her voice sounded a little fluttery at first, but she gained confidence quickly. “Listen, people,” she said. “Most of us have stayed in Fort Moxie because we were born here. We love this town. But the economy has always been touch and go. Now, for the first time in anyone’s memory, we have a chance to make some real money. And not just the store owners. Everyone will profit. Healthy businesses are good for everybody. For God’s sake, don’t kill the golden calf.”

“Goose,” someone said. “It’s a golden goose .”

“Whatever,” said Laurie. “This won’t last forever. We should milk it while we can.”

“Meantime,” said Josh Averill, rising with his usual dignity, “they’re going to kill somebody, the way they race around the streets. What happens then?”

“This town has never had two dimes to rub together,” said Jake Thoraldson, whose airport had suddenly become a hub. “What’s the matter with you people? Can’t you stand a little prosperity?”

“Prosperity?” howled Mamie Burke, a transplanted Canadian who worked for the railroad. “What kind of prosperity is it to have all these people running wild? Joe’s right. Close it down.”

Arnold Whitaker, the self-effacing owner of the Lock ‘n’ Bolt Hardware, argued against the proposal. “I can’t see,” he said, “where anyone is being hurt by current conditions.”

That remark infuriated Morris Jones, a ninety-year-old postal retiree known around town primarily for his interest in electric trains. Two inebriated Canadians had driven a pickup into Jones’s den, demolishing a forty-year-old HO layout. Jones sputtered and shook his finger accusingly at Whitaker. “Attaboy, Arnie,” he said, “take care of yourself. Don’t worry about anybody else.”

The vote to demand a shutdown passed by a majority of eighty—seven. Floyd Rickett volunteered to head up the committee that would write the draft.

Lindquist took him aside when opportunity offered. “Keep it reasonable, Floyd,” he said. “Okay? We don’t want to offend anybody.”

The rain beat incessantly against the windows of the Oval Office. It was a sound that tended to heighten whatever emotion the president was feeling. Today he didn’t feel good.

A copy of the Washington Post lay on his desk. The headlines reported civil war in India and famine in the Transvaal. They also revealed the results of a new poll: “60% Think Roundhouse Is Related to UFOs.” An additional twenty percent thought it was a government project. Eight percent believed it was of divine origin. The rest didn’t know or hadn’t heard of Johnson’s Ridge.