“What do you want me to do?” Margo asked, temporarily forgetting the next chapter of her dissertation. His enthusiasm was infectious.

“That’s easy,” said Moriarty. “I’ve got the rough script for the case right here.”

He extracted a document from his briefcase. “See,” he said, running a finger down the covering sheet, “this sets out what, ideally, we want the case to say. We call it the story line. All you have to do is flesh this out, plugging in a few of the artifacts and some of the plants.”

Margo scanned the document. It was starting to sound a little more time-consuming than she’d anticipated. “How long do you think this will take, by the way?”

“Oh, ten to fifteen hours, max. I’ve got the accession listings and some descriptive notes right here. But we’ve got to hurry. The opening is just a few days away.”

Back came the memory of her next chapter. “Now wait a minute,” she said. “This is a big job, and I’ve got a dissertation to write.”

The dismay on Moriarty’s face was almost comical. It hadn’t even occurred to him that she might have other things to do. “You mean you can’t help?”

“Maybe I can squeeze it in,” she murmured.

His face brightened. “Great! Listen, while we’re on the sixth floor, let me show you some of the other stuff up here.”

He led her to another vault and inserted a key. The door rasped open to a dazzling display of painted buffalo [54] skulls, rattles, feather bundles, and even a row of what she recognized as raven skeletons tied up with rawhide.

“Jesus,” Margo breathed.

“There’s a whole religion in here,” Moriarty said. “Wait till you see what we’re putting on display. This is just the stuff left behind. We’ve got one of the best Sun Dance shirts anywhere. And look at this!” He pulled open a drawer. “Original wax cylinder recordings of the Sun Dance cycle songs, every one. Recorded in 1901. We’ve put them on tape, and we’re going to play them in the Sioux room. What do you think? Great exhibition, huh?”

“It’s certainly caused a fuss in the Museum,” Margo replied cautiously.

“Actually, there isn’t as much controversy as people seem to make out,” Moriarty said. “There’s no reason why science and entertainment can’t meet as friends.”

Margo couldn’t resist. “I’ll bet your boss Cuthbert put you up to that line.”

“He’s always felt that exhibitions should be more accessible to the general public. People may attend this because they expect ghosts and goblins and a spooky show—and they’ll get them. But they’ll go away with more than you might expect. Besides, the show’s going to generate a lot of cash for the Museum. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” Margo smiled. She’d leave the baiting to Smithback.

But Moriarty wasn’t finished. “I know the word superstition has a bad connotation in some people’s minds,” he said. “It smacks of exploitation. And it’s true that some of the effects we’re putting together for the show are ... well ... a bit sensational. But an exhibit called Aboriginal Religion just wouldn’t sell, would it?” He looked at her with mute appeal.

“I don’t think anyone objects to the title,” Margo said. “I guess there are a few people who don’t feel your ends are truly scientific.”

He shook his head. “Just the crusty old curators and the crackpots. Like Frock, for example. They chose the Superstition exhibition over his proposal for one on evolution. So of course he doesn’t have a good word to say about it.”

Margo’s smile faded. “Dr. Frock is a pretty brilliant anthropologist,” she said.

“Frock? Dr. Cuthbert says he’s gone off the deep end. ‘The man’s bloody daft,’ he says.” Moriarty imitated Cuthbert’s Scottish accent. The sound echoed unpleasantly down the dim corridors.

“I don’t think Cuthbert is half the genius you feel he is,” Margo said.

“Now please, Margo. He’s top rate.”

“Not compared to Dr. Frock, he isn’t. What about the Callisto Effect?” Margo asked. “That’s some of the most cutting-edge work being done today.”

“Does he have a single speck of proof to back up his speculations? Have you seen evidence of any unknown, monstrous species roaming the earth?” Moriarty shook his head again, sending his glasses plunging dangerously down his nose. “Theoretical hype. I mean, theory has its place, but it has to be backed up with fieldwork. And that sidekick of his, Greg Kawakita, just encourages Frock with that extrapolation program he’s developing. I suppose Kawakita’s got his own reasons. But it’s pretty sad, really, to see a great mind take such a bad detour. I mean, just look at Frock’s new book. Fractal Evolution? Even the title sounds more like a kid’s computer game than science.”

Margo listened with rising indignation. Perhaps Smithback had been right about Moriarty, after all. “Well,” she said, “considering my affiliations to Dr. Frock, I don’t suppose you’d want me messing with your exhibit. I might add too much hype to the script.” She turned and walked briskly out the door and down the corridor.

[56] Moriarty looked shocked. Too late, he remembered that Frock was her major advisor. He danced after her.

“Oh, no, no, I didn’t mean—“ he stammered. “Please, I was just ... You know that Frock and Cuthbert don’t get along. I guess I’ve picked up some of that.”

He looked so horrified that Margo felt her anger fade.

“I didn’t know they had that much of a problem with each other,” she said, allowing Moriarty to stop her.

“Oh, yes. From way back. You know that ever since Frock came forward with this Callisto Effect, his star has been falling in the Museum. Now he’s a department head in name only, and Cuthbert pulls the strings. Of course, I’ve just heard one side of the story. I’m very sorry, really. You will do the case for me, right?”

“On the condition,” Margo countered, “that you get me out of this maze. I’ve got to get back to work.”

“Oh, sure. Sorry,” Moriarty said. The gaffe had brought back all of his shyness, and as they began retracing their way to the fifth floor, he was silent.

“So tell me more about your exhibition.” Margo tried to put him at ease. “I’ve heard a little about some fabulously rare artifacts that will be on display.”

“I guess you must mean the Kothoga tribe material,” Moriarty said. “Only one expedition has ever found any traces of them. The figurine of their mythical beast Mbwun is—well, it’s one of the centerpieces of the show.” He hesitated. “Or I should say, it will be one of the centerpieces. It’s not on display yet.”

“Really?” Margo asked. “Isn’t that waiting till the last minute?”

“The situation is kind of unusual,” Moriarty replied. “But listen, Margo, this isn’t for public consumption.” They had returned to the catwalks, and Moriarty led her down the long corridors, speaking low. “There’s been a lot of high-level interest in the Kothoga artifacts recently. People like Rickman, Dr. Cuthbert ... even Wright, apparently. There’s been controversy over [57] whether the material should be included in the exhibition. Surely you’ve heard the stories of a curse on the figurine, that sort of nonsense?”

“Not much,” Margo said.

“The expedition that found the Kothoga material met with tragedy,” Moriarty continued, “and nobody’s been near the stuff since. It’s still in the original crates. Just last week, all the crates were taken from the basement area where they’d sat all these years and moved to the Secure Area. Nobody’s had access to them since, and I haven’t been able to prepare the final displays.”

“But why were they moved?” Margo pressed.

They entered the elevator. Moriarty waited until the door had closed before answering. “Apparently, the crates had been recently tampered with.”

“What? You mean somebody had broken in?”

Moriarty stared at Margo, his owlish face wearing its look of perpetual surprise. “I didn’t say that,” he replied.