“It could be a scientist,” Molly said dubiously. “Wandered away from his camp and met a mishap.”

“Billions and billions of dinosaurs to produce just a few thousand fossils, while a solitary lost scientist is fossilized and recovered ages later? Nobody’s going to buy that,” Tom said gently. “I wouldn’t.”

Griffin felt an overwhelming urge to check the time, and clamped a hand over his watch so that when he looked, as he inevitably must, he wouldn’t see the dial. It didn’t pay to give in to these impulses. He knew that from long experience.

He looked up. “How long was it in storage before it was found?”

“Six months.”

“Then whoever was supposed to retrieve it, didn’t.”

“Likely he got scared off. Something happened to make him think we were watching for him,” Jimmy said. “Or her,” he amended when Amy Cho scowled. “I would, however, like to draw your attention to a particularly clever little bit of business. Notice the label.”

Those on the right side of the crate moved closer to look. Molly walked around to join them.

“ ‘Martin Marietta,’ ” Griffin read aloud. “ ‘Ptolemy Surveyor Launch System Tripod. Caution: To Be Operated By Trained Personnel Only.’ ”

“The Ptolemy is an orbital surveying system. It can be launched in the field by just three people: two to carry the rocket, and a third to set up the tripod. One of the first things we do when we establish a baseline station is send up a satellite to make maps. Thing is, it was a very good system in its time, but that time is past.”

“Refresh my memory. What’s our sister date back home?”

“2048, sir.”

“Well, that’s something, anyway.” For Griffin, the great operational divide was not between the human era and the Mesozoic, but between those times with a home date prior to 2034, when time travel was a secret, and those after, when it was common knowledge. He never liked working pre-2034 dates. He hated secrecy.

“We advanced to Mercator-class mapping satellites in late 2047. So the labeling on this crate was particularly good. It was something just obsolete enough that nobody would use it, but not so far out of date they’d be surprised it was shipped through. Cunning stuff, methinks.”

“Thank you, Jimmy. Does anybody have anything more?” Griffin waited. “All right, then, let’s put it together. We’ve got a box of sacred bones, somebody who knows which nondescript patch of land here-and-now is going to be fossil-rich sandstone at Holy Redeemer Ranch sixty-seven million years in the future, and the very specific knowledge that a Martin Marietta Ptolemy launch system was newly obsolete. All of which adds up to—what?”

“It means we’ve got a creationist mole among our people,” Molly said.

“A deep creationist!” Cho thumped her cane for emphasis. “Not a garden-or-common-or-everyday creationist, but a deep creationist.”

“What’s the difference, then?”

“They’re the ones who believe in violence. They’re the ones who kill people.”

There was a moment’s silence as they all absorbed this information.

“What options are open to us?” Griffin asked at last. “Can we go back and intercept this thing when it’s delivered? Most importantly, can we capture the mole before he does something else?”

“There haven’t been any disappearances or unexplained absences in the last six months among the scientists, sir. Which is where our mole would be nestled. So no, we can’t.”

Molly glanced quickly at Tom and said, “I’ve gone over the records. There’s nothing on who delivered this crate, when it arrived, who signed for it. It simply shows up on the inventory one day. And we know that something frightened off our mole.”

“Have you gone through everything?”

“Yes, sir, I have. There’s a great deal of silence surrounding the arrival of the crate. Somebody—and I have every reason to believe it’s us—has gone to a lot of trouble to create that silence.”

“Is it a big enough silence to inject an operation into? Realistically speaking, is there enough space there for us to operate a sting?”

Everybody leaned ever so slightly forward to hear Molly’s answer. Eyes gleamed. Even Amy Cho showed a feral flash of teeth.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I’m sure of it.”

When they had finished making plans and all had been given their orders, Griffin dismissed them and went to his office. No matter where or when Griffin found himself, his office always looked the same. He insisted upon it. Desk here and liquor cabinet there. Active memos in the top left hand drawer in order of issuance. Backup documentation one drawer down. Forms, letterhead, and a ream of cream-colored heavy bond at the bottom. From the Triassic to the Holocene, from Pangaea through the breakup of the supercontinent into what eventually became the modern configuration of continents, he liked to find his pencils sharp and where he expected them to be.

It had been a good day’s work. Briefly, he felt content. Then he read halfway down the first of the active memos, and his stomach soured.

It was a schedule for a series of lectures in which generation-one celebrities visited generation-two and generation-three research stations to lecture young scientists on the history of their field. He always scanned these carefully because the temptation for a researcher to pass information back to a formative idol was so great.

The third lecturer listed was Richard Leyster.

Among those slated to attend was Gertrude Salley.

He slammed open a drawer, drew out a sheet of letterhead, and began drafting a memo. To all concerned: The third lecture on the attached sheet has been permanently canceled. All care will be taken henceforth that Salley and Leyster are not to be given the opportunity to…

The door opened and closed behind him. The room filled with a familiar presence.

“Don’t stand up,” the Old Man said.

“I wasn’t going to.”

The Old Man walked over to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a shot of bourbon. He raised it to his nose and sniffed, but did not drink.

Then he picked up the memo Griffin had been working on, and tore it in half.

Griffin closed his eyes. “Why?”

“You’ve been listening to rumors again.” The Old Man dropped the torn halves on the desk. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be trying to keep those two apart.”

“So I pay attention to rumors. I’m just playing the edges. If I want to get anything accomplished, I’ve got to play the edges. What other chance have I got?”

“There are no edges here.” The Old Man put down his glass to remove a folder from his attaché. “Here’s the report on the probe you’ve set into motion today. It doesn’t catch your mole. He has to expose himself. You’ll have to let him act out his intentions.”

“Don’t tell me any more. Leave me room to maneuver.”

The Old Man shook his head. “Read the report. Then play it the way it’s written.”

Reluctantly, Griffin opened the folder. He turned the cover page, folded it flat, and began to read.

Halfway down the first page, he stopped.

“You’ve made a mistake here. I wasn’t supposed to see the list of casualties.”

“That was deliberate. I felt you were ready.”

“Damn you,” Griffin said vehemently. He could see no operational or administrative reason why he should know this information. Only malice could account for its disclosure. “Why implicate me in this? There’s a big difference between sending people into a dangerous situation, and sending them out to die.”

“Not so big as you might think.”

“It’s murder, plain and simple.”

The Old Man said nothing to this, nor did Griffin expect him to. He slowly read through to the very end of the report, sighed, and said, “So that’s why Leyster hates me. God help me. If I’d known, I would’ve been easier on the poor bastard.”