“I thought this was a public building,” said Bucky, when they were out of earshot. “Why do you need permission to enter it?”

“There’s a ton of stuff that collectors would love to get their hands on,” answered Jerry, “either to keep or sell on the black market.”

“Makes sense,” said Bucky, looking around.

“Okay,” said Jerry, “I got us this far. Whatever we want is in the building—or at least is probably here.” He grimaced. “But it’s a big building. Where do we start?”

They looked around at cubicles filled with boxes and crates. “They must have a section devoted to the Apollo program,” said Bucky.

They walked over to a backlit floor plan and located it.

“That was easy enough,” said Jerry. “Look, they have a section designated Myshko mission.”

He began walking, but Bucky stood still, lost in thought.

“What is it?” asked Jerry, returning to him.

“That’s too easy,” answered Bucky. “I’ve been telling the public about Myshko for more than a month now. We can look later if we don’t find something, but all that’s going to be is records of our Moon mission. And probably the controversy preceding it.”

“Where the hell else would it be?”

“Not with Apollo XI,” replied Bucky. “Everyone and his brother would have headed straight to that display.”

“I don’t know,” said Jerry dubiously. “We’re not here on a hunch. Someone called and told me to come here.”

Bucky smiled. “He told you to go somewhere to find something. The rest was pure Holmesian deduction.”

“Okay, Sherlock,” said Jerry in frustration. “Where should we be looking?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Let’s at least walk over to the Apollo section while you’re thinking. The farther we get from the entrance, the less likely they are to pull you out of here if Mary calls back and says she doesn’t know anything about you.”

“Lead the way, Watson,” said Bucky.

—

They soon reached the lineup of Apollo cubicles, with crates filled with material, logs, helmets, photos, occasionally a captain’s chair or a Yankees baseball cap or a Bible. Exhibits ranged from the first suborbital flight to the very last Moon landing. Jerry walked over to the Myshko area, scrutinized the content tags thoroughly, opened more boxes, but couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary. The tags were accurate. “It’s just what you said, Bucky. Could we have been wrong?”

Bucky shook his head. “You got the call last night. The government’s had a month to go over every inch of the Myshko display, all the messages, transcripts, video coverage, everything. It was never going to be here.”

“You suddenly look very smug,” said Jerry. “What do you think you know?”

“The same thing you know,” said Bucky.

“What?” Jerry almost shouted.

“There were two Moon flights involved in this. Walker’s was probably given the job of destroying the dome.”

“Walker!” exclaimed Jerry, snapping his fingers. “Of course!”

They quickly moved to the Walker exhibit.

They scanned the content descriptions and again found nothing of immediate interest, and no indication of inaccuracy. “Damn!” said Jerry. “I thought we had it! But I just don’t see anything.”

“Don’t be so sure,” said Bucky. “What are we looking for?”

Jerry looked blank. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Neither do I. So let’s look for what doesn’t belong.”

They stayed in the Walker cubicle and began a methodical search. After another ten minutes, Jerry uncovered a rectangular cardboard box at the bottom of a black trunk that was supposed to contain exclusively navigation equipment. A paper label marked CASSEGRAIN was attached to the lid. It was about the size of a coffee-table book. “Bingo!” he whispered.

Bucky immediately joined him.

“I wonder what it is,” mused Jerry. It was taped shut.

“We might as well take a look at it right here,” said Bucky. “They’re never going to let us walk out with it.”

“Keep an eye out for the guards,” said Jerry. He opened one end of the box carefully while Bucky turned his back to him and tried to conceal what he was doing from any hidden security cameras.

“What have you got?” asked Bucky after a moment.

“I don’t know,” said Jerry. “It looks for all the world like an antique plate.”

Bucky frowned. “Like a dinner plate?”

“No, it’s rectangular, and a lot longer. And there’s writing on it.”

Bucky reached into his pocket and pulled out his state-of-the-art cell phone. “Use this,” he said, holding it behind him until Jerry grabbed it. “It’s got to be better than whatever you’ve got. At least, for what it cost, it damned well better be.”

“Nothing on the back,” muttered Jerry. “I’ll take one shot of that, and six or seven of the face with the writing.”

“Face? There’s a face?”

“I meant the front of the plate,” said Jerry. And, after a moment: “Okay, done. Let me slip it back in its box . . . Putting the box back. All right, let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Give me back my phone,” said Bucky, holding out a hand.

Jerry handed it to him.

“Okay, let’s hit the men’s room.”

“Can’t it wait?” said Jerry.

“No.”

They found a men’s room and entered, and Bucky immediately took off his left shoe.

Jerry stared and frowned. “You’re a big man. Why the devil are you wearing lifts?”

“Everyone has a use for falsies,” replied Bucky with a grin. He manipulated the sole, and suddenly a compartment opened in the sole and heel, and he inserted the thin cell phone. Then he closed the secret compartment. “You wouldn’t believe how handy that’s been on my trips around the world.” He walked to the door. “Okay, let’s go.”

Jerry kept expecting to be stopped with almost every step he took, but they made it out of the building, and a moment later a government chauffeur brought their car around. They were at the Huntsville airfield in a matter of minutes, and three hours later they were in Jerry’s office at Blackstone Enterprises with Gloria Marcos, Jason Brent, and Sabina Marinova, awaiting the results from the linguistics experts Bucky had hired to decipher the inscription on the plate.

Finally, the wizened little man who was in charge of the analysis effort entered the room, with blown-up copies of the photographs in his hand.

“Well, Peter?” said Bucky. “Couldn’t do a damned thing with it, could you?”

“We translated it,” he said.

Bucky frowned. “You translated a totally alien language in just a few hours? Why do I have some difficulty believing that?”

“It’s not an alien language,” replied Peter. “I wish I could have gotten my hands on that plate.”

“For what it’s worth, there were no marks on it,” offered Jerry. “To tell you the truth, it looked, well, almost new.”

“It would. No air up there. Nothing ages.” He handed a sheet of paper to Bucky. “Here you go, with a copy.”

“What language is it?” asked Bucky, staring at the paper. “It’s all Greek to me.”

The man smiled. “To me, too.”

Bucky frowned. “What are you saying?”

“It’s Greek. A form that was used about two millennia ago, maybe two and a half.”

“Greek,” repeated Bucky.

The man nodded. “Yes.”

“You’re absolutely sure?”

“There’s no mistake, sir.”

“Thanks, Peter. There’ll be a bonus added to your fee.”

“Thank you, Mr. Blackstone.”

“The bonus is 50 percent for your work, and 50 percent for your silence. You never saw this inscription, never heard of it, until I say otherwise.”

The man nodded. “Is that all?”

“Yeah. Good job.”

The man turned and left the office.

“Jerry, buy me some airtime,” said Bucky.

“When and how much?” asked Jerry.

“As soon as you can, and all that you can.”

“I’ll get working on it,” said Jerry, without moving.

“I assume you want to know what it says?”