Douglas Preston - Relic

“Wait a minute, Lieutenant, you’re—”

D’Agosta snapped him off.

There was a loud grinding sound behind him, and a [287] thick steel door began to descend from the ceiling at the north end of the Great Rotunda. They were starting to seal the perimeter. Two FBI men stood in the dimness just beyond the doorway, short-barrel shotguns not quite concealed beneath their loose suit jackets. D’Agosta snorted.

There was a great hollow boom as the steel plate came to rest on the floor. The sound echoed and reechoed through the Hall. Before the echo faded, the boom was duplicated by the descending door at the south end. Only the east door would be left up—where the red carpet ended. Christ , thought D’Agosta, I’d hate to see this place in a fire .

He heard a loud voice barking at the far end of the Hall and turned to see Coffey, pointing his scurrying men in all directions.

Coffey spotted him. “Hey, D’Agosta!” he shouted, gesturing him over.

D’Agosta ignored him. Now Coffey came swaggering up, his face perspiring. Gizmos and weapons D’Agosta had heard about but had never seen were dangling off Coffey’s thick service belt.

“You deaf, D’Agosta? I want you to send two of your men over here for a while and watch this door. Nobody goes in or out.”

Jesus , thought D’Agosta. There are five FBI guys just hanging around in the Great Rotunda, picking their noses . “My men are tied up, Coffey. Use one of your Rambos over there. I mean, you’re deploying most of your men just outside the perimeter. I have to station my forces inside to protect the guests, not to mention the traffic duty outside. The rest of the Museum’s going to be almost empty, and the party will be under-patrolled. I don’t like that.”

Coffey hitched up his belt and glared at D’Agosta. “You know what? I don’t give a shit what you don’t [288] like. Just do your job. And keep a channel open for me.” He strode off.

D’Agosta swore. He looked at his watch. Sixty minutes and counting.

= 41 =

The CRT on the computer went blank, and another message came up:

COMPLETED: DO YOU WANT TO PRINT DATA, VIEW DATA, OR BOTH (PNB)?

Margo hit the B key. As the data marched across the screen, Frock wheeled his chair to a stop and brought his face close to the screen, his ragged breath misting the terminal glass.

SPECIES: Unidentified

GENUS: Unidentified

FAMILY: 12% match to Pongidae; 16% match to Hominidae

ORDER: Possibly primata; 66% common genetic markers lacking; large standard deviation.

[290] CLASS: 25% match to Mammalia; 5% match to Reptilia

PHYLUM: Chordata

KINGDOM: Animalia

Morphological characteristics: Highly robust

Brain capacity: 900-1250cc

Quadrupedal, extreme posterior-anterior dimorphism

Potentially high sexual dimorphism

Weight, male, full grown: 240-260 kg

Weight, female, full grown: 160 kg

Gestation period: Seven to nine months

Aggressiveness: extreme

Estrus cycle in female: enhanced

Locomotor speed: 60-70 kph

Epidermal covering: Anterior pelt with posterior bony plates

Nocturnal

Frock scanned the list, running his finger- down. “Reptilia!” he said. “There are those gecko genes appearing again! It appears that the creature combines reptile and primate genes. And it has posterior scales. They must also be from the gecko genes.”

Margo read down the list of characteristics as they became more and more obscure.

Gross enlargement and fusion of metacarpal bones in rear limb

Probable atavistic fusion of forelimb No. 3 & 4 digits

Fusion of proximal and middle phalanx on forelimb

Extreme thickening of calvaria

Probable 90% (?) negative rotation of ischium

[291] Extreme thickening and prismatic cross-sectioning in femur

Nasal cavity enlarged

Three (?) highly involute conchae

Enlarged olfactory nerves and olfactory region of cerebellum

Probable external mucoid nasal glands

Reduced optic chiasm, reduced optic nerve

Frock slowly backed himself away from the monitor. “Margo,” he said, “this describes a killing machine of the highest order. But look how many ‘probables’ and ‘possibles’ there are. This is a hypothetical description, at best.”

“Even so,” said Margo, “it sounds an awful lot like the Mbwun figurine in the exhibition.”

“No doubt. Margo, I particularly want to direct your attention to the brain size.”

“Nine to twelve hundred and fifty cubic centimeters,” Margo said, retrieving the printout. “That’s high, isn’t it?”

“High? It’s unbelievable. The upper limit is within human range. This beast, whatever it is, appears to have the strength of a grizzly bear, the speed of a greyhound, and the intelligence of a human being. I say appears ; so much of this is conjecture on the part of the program. But look at this cluster of traits.”

He stabbed his finger at the list.

“Nocturnal—active at night. External mucoid nasal glands—that means it has a ‘wet’ nose, possessed by animals with a keen scent. Highly involute conchaealso a trait of animals with enhanced olfactory organs. Reduced optic chiasm—that is the part of the brain that processes eyesight. What we have is a creature with a preternatural sense of smell and very poor eyesight that hunts nocturnally.”

Frock thought for a moment, his brows contracted.

“Margo, this frightens me.”

“If we’re right, the whole idea of this creature frightens me,” Margo replied. She shuddered at the thought that she’d been working with the fibers herself.

“No, I mean this cluster of olfactory traits. If the program’s extrapolation is to be believed, the creature lives by smell, hunts by smell, thinks by smell. I’ve often heard it said that a dog sees an entire landscape of smell, as complex and beautiful as any landscape we see with our eyes. But the olfactory sense is more primitive than sight, and as a result, such animals also have a highly instinctual, primitive reaction to smell. That is what frightens me.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“In a few minutes, thousands of people will be arriving in the Museum. They will be congregating together in an enclosed space. The creature will be smelling the concentrated hormonal scent of all these people. That may very well irritate or even anger it.”

A silence settled in the lab.

“Dr. Frock,” Margo said, “you said that a couple of days elapsed from the locking up of the crates and the first killing. Then, another day to the second killing. It’s been three days since then.”

“Go on,” said Frock.

“It just seems to me the creature may be desperate by now. Whatever effect the thalamoid hormones have on the beast must have worn off—after all, those brain hormones are a poor substitute for the plant. If you’re right, the creature must be almost like a drug addict unable to get a fix. All the police activity has kept it lying low. But the question is—how long can it wait?”

“My God,” said Frock. “It’s seven o’clock. We must warn them. Margo, we must stop this opening. Otherwise, we might as well be ringing the dinner bell.” He moved toward the door, motioning her to follow.