Lemuel Reis pressed his sweaty palms to the smooth leather of the satchel in his lap as the Lear jet taxied to the end of a pristine runway, then gently turned its sleek nose toward the steady lights of a terminal that rose from the darkness like a jeweled tiara. Flying always made Lemuel nervous, and the bumpy flight over the Octzaler Alps had sent panic rioting with him. He had made four trips to the lavatory in the past hour, but Devin didn’t seem to have noticed.
Across the cabin, Devin Sloane was leaning forward—his aristocratic, sharply handsome face hovering near the window like a child’s. “Fifty-three centuries,” he murmured, probably more to himself than to Lemuel. “Thirty-three centuries before Christ. He lived before the great pyramids, before the Egyptians began to use papyrus, before the Bronze Age. Sumerian civilization was at its height when he walked the earth; King Memes the Fighter had yet to unite upper and lower Egypt. What could he have known, this man?”
“It’s a pity his brain can’t be dissected,” Lemuel remarked, resisting a fresh wave of nausea as an image of desiccated brain matter rose before his eyes. “I hear the Austrians are quite vehement about protecting him even though—”
“His brain can wait.” Devin turned to Lemuel, a look of implacable determination on his face. “It has waited fifty-three hundred years; it will wait until technology is able to assess its patterns and roadmap our friend’s existence. When we are ready, we will plumb its depths and know all he knew. But now”—he turned toward the window again— “it’s not his brain that interests me.”
The lights aboard the jet flickered as the pilot’s voice hissed over the intercom. “They are ready for you, Mr. Sloane. A car is waiting to take you into Innsbruck.”
Devin stood, slipped into his cashmere overcoat, and grinned at Lemuel. “You look a little green,” he said, adjusting the coat’s collar. “Lift your thoughts above your stomach, my friend, and consider the possibilities. I’m taking you to meet a man greater than either of us.”
Sloane swept down the aisle, pausing at the cockpit to speak to the pilot as Lemuel struggled into his coat. Why hadn’t he made his parents happy and entered rabbinical school? He would have enjoyed a rabbi’s life; the dissection of the Talmud and Torah seemed infinitely preferable to what awaited him in this place. But Devin Sloane’s attention had been flattering, and the prospect of financial adventure positively tantalizing. And so after college he had ignored his father’s advice and affiliated himself with a brilliant financier whose idea of adventure had landed them at this frostbitten airport.
“Lemuel! Bring the box under my seat. And be careful, will you? It’s fragile.”
“Coming.” Leaving his forebodings behind, Lemuel pulled a brightly beribboned gift box from beneath Devin’s chair and carefully slid it into his leather satchel. Pulling his coat over his still-queasy stomach, he glanced around to be certain he hadn’t overlooked any detail, then hurried from the plane.
The driver did not speak as he whisked them over the gleaming asphalt road. Since the jet had flown from Paris, Devin had asked that the car be reserved in a French-sounding name. His ruse had worked; the Austrian driver did not recognize Devin, nor did he feel inclined to make conversation with an unknown called Javier Raison.
Lemuel studied the clean-cut hairline that edged the driver’s collar and wondered how the situation would change if the Austrian knew he was driving one of the world’s few billionaires. Would he ask for something? A new house for his ailing mother, perhaps? A later model sedan? Lemuel had heard others boldly ask for more and less, but this reticent fellow might be one of those contented men who would not ask for more than God had already given him.
His eyes met the chauffeur’s in the rearview mirror for the flicker of a moment, then the driver shifted in his seat and focused his attention on the road. Lemuel tapped his fingertips on the satchel resting on his knees and looked out the window. Outside the car, civilization had replaced the forest. They were driving through the tourist district, a world of neon-coated sleaze.
The car stopped at a traffic signal and Lemuel studied the way the vehicle’s reflection splintered on the wet road. Though the local time was just past midnight, music floated from a nightclub on the corner. Clusters of swaggering men and giggling women clogged the sidewalks.
Lemuel glanced at his companion. Devin’s eyes were wide, his thoughts obviously a thousand miles away. He saw, he heard, but the sights and sounds of this place did not touch him.
The light changed; the car moved on through the city. After a few moments, they entered another stretch of forest and Lemuel relaxed, resting his head against the upholstery. The strobic play of oncoming headlights and the drawn-out sucking sounds of passing cars intensified his weariness, lulling him into a thin doze.
He woke when the car stopped outside a rigid concrete and glass building. In stiff lettering a sign proclaimed that they’d reached the University of Innsbruck’s Cryogenics Laboratory.
Lemuel shook his head to clear the remaining cobwebs of sleep, then nodded his thanks to the driver, who had opened his door. By the time he reached the other side of the car, Devin stood on the sidewalk, his hands thrust behind his back. He looked around, appraising the building with a casual, proprietary air. “Well. Let’s see if they’ve followed my orders,” he said, not looking at Lemuel.
Devin strode toward the double glass doors, and Lemuel hurried to keep up, the heavy satchel nearly slipping from his gloved fingers. Inside the building, a pair of men in white lab coats flung the doors open as if they’d been waiting.
“Mr. Sloane, we are so glad you could visit.” The first researcher, a graying man with the craggy look of an unfinished sculpture, thrust his hand toward Devin. “I am Dr. Hans Altbusser. We’ve been anxious to meet you. Before you so generously agreed to support our research, we were working with pitifully outdated equipment. We’ve been quite eager to exhibit the improvements—and the specimen himself, of course.”
“I’m glad I could help.” Devin shook the man’s hand. “My impatience to see him has been outweighed only by my eagerness to meet you, Dr. Altbusser.”
“Thank you.” The man smiled, his brows flickering in the face of Devin’s flattery. He released Devin’s hand, then gestured to the man beside him. “I would be remiss if I did not introduce my colleague, Dr. Rupert Hirsch.”
Hirsch was a younger, paler version of Altbusser, but his eagerness matched the older man’s. Devin gave the second man a perfunctory handshake, then clasped his hands and nodded at the younger scientist. “I am delighted to meet you both. With me, of course, is my assistant, Lemuel Reis. We apologize, gentlemen, for the late hour, but we did not want to attract any media attention. We’re most anxious, however, to see Homo Tyrolensis.”
Dr. Altbusser released a nervous laugh as he led the way through the functionally decorated lobby. “So you’ve heard what we’re calling him. It only seemed natural, since he was found in the Tyrolean Octzaler Alps. In honor of the mountains, some of the locals are referring to him as Otzi.”
Devin fell into step beside the doctor. “Naturally. Twentieth-century humans always seek to debase whatever is high and holy.” His voice flattened out. “The American press has dubbed him the Iceman. Have you heard that?”
“Ja, the American papers reach even into our mountains.” A polite smile flickered across the doctor’s face. “But we have not had much time to read them. Our work, you see, keeps us busy.”
“And the custody controversy?”
A muscle quivered at Altbusser’s jaw. “You have heard of that?”
“How could I not?” Devin lifted his shoulder in an elegant shrug. “Last week all the Italian and Austrian papers published the results of the survey teams. The Iceman was discovered 101 yards inside Italian soil, so technically he should not be in Austria at all.”
Sudden anger lit the doctor’s eyes. “The Italians did not want him! When the hikers found him, they called police on both sides of the border. The Italian carabinieri, thinking the body was yet another climber caught unprepared for the cold, showed no interest. But the Austrian police went out the next afternoon. I myself spoke to Markus Pirpamer, the man who operates the nearest mountain shelter, and he said this body was nothing like the white, waxy, chewed-up corpses he usually recovers from the glacier. He knew it was unique, that it was unusual—”
Devin held up a restraining hand. “I applaud your righteous indignation, Dr. Altbusser, and I agree with your reasoning, though I disapprove of the rough way they handled the body. The Iceman is a treasure, yet your Austrian police nearly destroyed him.”
Dr. Hirsch frowned at Devin. “But they did not. And what remains is still priceless, Mr. Sloane. You will not be disappointed.”
They paused in a gleaming corridor before a locked steel door. Altbusser punched a code into a numeric keypad, the latch clicked, and then Hirsch held the door open while the others filed into the room.
“When Homo Tyrolensis first arrived here, he resembled a slab of meat that had been in the freezer too long,” Altbusser said, walking toward a glass container upon a rolling table in the center of the room. “We took all possible measures to protect him. Filtered, sterilized air flows through this box. He is a cold mummy, not completely desiccated, so we dare not leave him out long enough for the ice crystals to thaw. After thirty minutes of examination we return him to his freezer chamber, which is maintained at a glacial temperature of twenty-one point two degrees Fahrenheit.”
With the reverence he might have shown the Ark of the Covenant, Devin stepped toward the box. “The cryogenic chamber is monitored at all times?”
“The tank has six temperature sensors,” Altbusser replied, following in Devin’s wake, “connected to alarms and portable pagers. If the temperature should rise by even a single degree, one of our people would be alerted and the problem corrected within moments.”
“How long has he been out?”
“Only ten minutes. Your pilot radioed from the airport. You have twenty minutes to examine him before the flesh will begin to thaw.”
Standing alone near the door, Lemuel folded his arms and glanced around him. Aside from the Iceman’s cryogenic coffin, the room appeared to be an ordinary laboratory. A pair of computer monitors blinked from a counter installed along the wall to Lemuel’s right, while a series of stainless-steel doors lined the wall to his left. Styrofoam coffee cups, a newspaper, and stacks of green-striped computer printouts littered a long black table beside the tank.
The only item of interest in the laboratory was the glass-covered capsule, and the long, rectangular box dominated the room. Though Lemuel couldn’t see inside the tank from where he stood, Devin was clearly enraptured with its contents. Lemuel leaned against the door frame and looked away, not trusting his queasy stomach enough to approach.
Reaching the box, Devin slowly lifted his arms, then spread his hands upon the glass. His face flushed. “Lemuel, you must see this,” he commanded, his voice echoing in the lab’s vast emptiness.
With an inward groan, Lemuel pulled himself off the wall, then set his satchel on the floor and joined Devin by the tank. A leathern body lay inside the sealed box, the chilliness of its flesh frosting the glass. After Dr. Altbusser produced a cotton cloth and wiped the exterior, through the clouded aperture Lemuel could see a shrunken body, one arm extended over its head, the other covered by a blanket of surgical gauze. The frozen man’s eyes were open and vacant, his nose pressed flat, one lip bent upward in a snarl. The head was completely bald. Lemuel noted with some surprise that not even an eyelash remained.
“We found thick strands of wavy brown hair in the ice near the body,” Altbusser was explaining, a ripple of excitement in his voice. “All of it was three and one half inches long, proving that men cut their hair prior to the Bronze Age. We had never suspected such a thing.”
“His teeth are quite worn, and a broad gap separates the two upper middle incisors,” Hirsch added. “The ice is responsible for the hair loss, the flattened nose and bent lip. You will notice that the shell of the left ear is also folded, leading us to believe that the Iceman fell asleep on his left side. He had to be totally exhausted not to notice that his ear was bent—”
“Nonsense,” Devin interrupted. “If ice can flatten his nose, it can certainly bend his ear.”
Altbusser cast his colleague a warning glance, then folded his hands and continued his narration. “In any case, our fellow obviously lay down to sleep in a ravine where he would be sheltered from the winds. But that night he froze to death, and snow covered the body long enough for wind to dehydrate the corpse. As the first snows of that winter hardened into ice, the glacier rose above him.”
A tremor touched Devin’s mouth as he returned his gaze to the corpse’s face. “I can see pores in his skin! And his eyes—they are intact! The combination of wind and cold was sufficient to preserve even the eyes!”
“Yes.” A tight smile overtook Altbusser’s stern features. He lifted his elbow and leaned almost casually upon the edge of the tank. “Though he was ravaged by the excavators who had no idea what they had found, the specimen remains in astoundingly stable condition. Though the tank’s sterile atmosphere cannot reverse cellular damage, it has demonstrated remarkable powers of preservation.”
“The body alternately thawed and froze for several days and nights while the rescue effort was under way,” Hirsch added. “Thirty men with picks and compressors worked to free him. Unfortunately, they tore the clothing from his body and ripped a sizable chunk of flesh from the left hip.”
Devin’s dark gaze flew up to meet Hirsch’s. “You’re joking.”
Hirsch lifted a brow. “Afterward, we were horrified by the destruction, but six other corpses had been found in glaciers that summer. No one had any idea this was a Copper Age mummy.”
Devin pressed his hand to the glass above the Iceman’s face. “It doesn’t matter. All I need for my work is a single cell. I never dreamed I’d be able to look upon an entire body.”
“In keeping with your request,” Altbusser gestured toward his assistant, “we have prepared this.” From a compartment beneath the cluttered table, Hirsch withdrew a silver container the size of a child’s jewelry box. With a poorly disguised frown, he handed the container to the doctor. Altbusser’s spidery hands seemed to caress the metal box for an instant; then he offered it to Devin.
Devin’s dark eyes inspected the row of dials above the latches. “The combination?”
“Nine, nineteen, ninety-one.” Altbusser clasped his hands. “The date Homo Tyrolensis was discovered.”
Devin lowered the box to the top of the tank, whirled the dials with his thumb, then lifted the lid. A stream of milky vapor poured from the opening.
Lemuel stepped forward and peered over Devin’s shoulder. A small glass vial rested on a bed of dry ice inside the box. Within the vial Lemuel could see a square bit of leather not much larger than a postage stamp.
“It is a generous sample.” Altbusser inclined his head in a deep gesture, emphasizing his double chin. “We will have a difficult time explaining the disappearance of such a large amount of flesh.”
Satisfaction pursed Devin’s mouth as he snapped the box shut. “No, you won’t. The body is torn and mangled in several areas, so one other tear won’t matter. This sample is of no great consequence, gentlemen, and you know it.” His gaze turned again to the ancient body on the table, his eyes glowing with a sheen of purpose. “But it is worth every schilling of the money I shall deposit into your accounts.”
Altbusser shifted uneasily. “You still have not told us, Mr. Sloane, what you intend to do with the sample.”
“I will conduct research, Doctor,” Devin answered. Taking charge with quiet assurance, he grasped the silver box’s handle, then thrust it toward Lemuel.
As the cold metal came to rest in his hands, Lemuel felt an awful premonition brush lightly past him, stirring the air and lifting the hair at the back of his neck.
While tourists and skiers partied in Innsbruck’s nightclub district, the four men sat in a crowded lounge and debated over drinks. Lemuel kept glancing at his watch in a rather obvious gesture, but Devin seemed not to care that the hour was late and the jet still waited at the airport.
“How can you give credence to such a fantastic theory?” Altbusser exclaimed, his reserve and tact severely eroded by a succession of double vodkas. “Surely you can’t believe that Homo Tyrolensis was a man more intelligent than you or me!”
“How do you explain his ax?” Devin countered.
Altbusser frowned. “His copper ax? It is unremarkable. Men had not yet learned how to blend copper and tin to make bronze.”
“You are wrong. It is quite remarkable.” Devin tapped a manicured fingernail against the base of his wineglass. “I’ve spoken to others on your team. I know that x-rays of the ax head show bubbles in the copper, proving it was cast, not chiseled. This man and his contemporaries knew how to make a furnace that could reach the melting temperature of copper—a precise 1,981 degrees.” He leaned forward, his eyes glowing. “How many of your students could manage the same feat without modern tools?”
“Bah!” Altbusser waved Devin’s supposition away. “Someone made a hot fire and got lucky.”
Devin shook his head. “The Iceman was sophisticated. His ax was cast and hammered to a sharp edge in a manner that would be extremely difficult to replicate even with modern metallurgical knowledge. The ax head was fixed with millimeter precision into a yew haft shaped to provide our Iceman with mechanically ideal ratios of leverage. And what of his other goods? With him he carried a bag of fungus, a natural antibiotic; tools, glue, needles, live coals, ropes, and clothes. He had a wider variety of useful equipment on his person than the German hikers who found him.”
“Mr. Sloane,” Hirsch protested, smiling, “you cannot seriously suggest that the Iceman’s mental capacities were greater than ours. Evolution dictates that we must grow stronger and more fit as the centuries progress.”
Lemuel winced slightly, then lowered his gaze and tightened his grip on his coffee cup. Dr. Hirsch had wandered onto a volatile subject, one best left unexplored. Devin Sloane held strong views about the evolution of man, and Lemuel did not particularly want to follow his employer onto yet another philosophical battleground—especially not at 2:44 a.m.
Too late.
“And out of the ground the Lord God formed every beast of the field and every fowl of the air,” Devin said, his voice calm and utterly reasonable, “and brought them unto Adam to see what he would call them. And whatsoever Adam called every living creature, that was the name thereof.”
Altbusser blinked. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“The Bible, the Pentateuch.” The corner of Devin’s mouth dipped in a secretive smile. “Genesis, chapter two, verse nineteen. God brings every creature in the world to the first man, and Adam names them. Every creature, gentlemen.” His long, slender fingers drummed the polished surface of the table. “Could you recall the name of every animal, or even every species? Yet Adam named them all.”
Altbusser flushed. “Surely you aren’t offering a creation myth as proof of your hypothesis? No rational scientist places his faith in myth, Mr. Sloane.”
“Faith is irrelevant, Dr. Altbusser. My point is that oral traditions support the view that ancient man was wiser and more intelligent than his contemporary descendants. And for an age, at least, he was certainly longer-lived.”
Unfazed by the skepticism in the scientists’ eyes, Devin paused to sip from his drink. Lemuel took advantage of the silence to clear his throat and glance pointedly at his watch. “Devin, it’s two forty-five and the jet is waiting—”
Devin put his drink down as if he hadn’t heard a word Lemuel said. “If you prefer a more concrete example of ancient intelligence, consider the great pyramids of Egypt.” His eyes sparkled with the love of debate as he looked at the bewildered Austrians. “The Egyptians accomplished their construction without wheels or computers. Could you and a research team design and build the pyramids or the hanging gardens of Babylon?”
Altbusser flashed him a look of disdain. “You can not possibly begin to compare—”
“The wisdom in Pepi’s instructions to his son could not be improved upon by a contemporary psychotherapist, and yet Pepi wrote three thousand years before Christ,” Devin continued. “At the same time, men began systematic astronomical observations in Egypt, Babylonia, India, and China. Five hundred years later the Egyptians were creating timeless lyric poetry lamenting the age-old quest for the meaning of life. They were also preserving their dead—so well that in 1985 Svante Paabo was able to extract and sequence DNA from a mummy twenty-five hundred years old.”
“You have misled us, Mr. Sloane.” Hirsch leaned forward, irritation struggling with patience on his pale face. “You led us to believe that you were a financier by trade and a philosopher by avocation, yet we see now that you fancy yourself a scientist. But science and philosophy do not mix; they are two separate disciplines.” One of his dark brows drew downward in a frown. “In the face of contemporary technology and thought, you cannot seriously support the idea that ancient man was superior to contemporary humankind. If that were true, if we are digressing, we have no hope for the future.”
Devin leaned back against the booth’s upholstery and thrust his hands into his coat. “I would expect an educated twentieth-century man to respond as you have, Doctor. Pharaoh’s wise men might have responded in the same way if someone had suggested that a wiser, more intelligent race might someday follow. But the idea that wiser men have preceded us is not hypothesis; it is the truth.”
“Sir,” Altbusser said, sputtering. “You are impertinent!”
“Perhaps,” a thin smile twisted Devin’s lips, “but the essence of science, doctors, is that a man may ask an impertinent question and be well on his way to a pertinent answer. You forget that evolutionary theory flies directly in the face of entropy, the second law of thermodynamics. Scientific law decrees that the overall disorder of most systems will increase. As individuals we age and our bodies break down; despite all our efforts, no one has yet been able to reverse the system of aging. We humans are also deteriorating as a species. According to the immutable laws of science, we must grow more disorganized; we must break down. ”
Altbusser’s nostrils flared. “Your philosophy dooms the human race to extinction.”
Devin gave the men a lazy smile. “Quite right—unless we overcome our human predisposition to illness and injury, to entropy itself.”
“In time, perhaps that will be possible.” Altbusser lifted his drink. “But not in your lifetime or mine, Mr. Sloane.”
“Perhaps not.” Lemuel felt his stomach tighten when a gleam lit Devin’s eye. “But I’d like to think I can buy the human race another five thousand years. If my plan succeeds, gentleman, I may do just that. With the sample you have given me tonight, I plan to revitalize our genetic stock.”
An awkward and embarrassed silence stretched across the table, and Lemuel lowered his head into his hand, desperately eager to be away. Devin didn’t usually indulge in such Cinderella talk among mere acquaintances. The two researchers were shocked now, but by morning they would be laughing at the eccentric American billionaire over their coffee cups.
Altbusser shook the shadow of shock from his face, tossed back his drink, then dropped his glass to the polished table. “Now I know why they say you Americans are crazy,” he said, showing his teeth in an expression of pained tolerance. “Mr. Sloane, obviously you are a charming, rich American who patronizes science the way others sponsor the arts.” Contempt dripped from Altbusser’s voice, and Lemuel wasn’t sure if he heard the scientist or the liquor talking. “But you are not scientifically trained; you have not the faintest idea what you are talking about. These ideas of yours are idiotic, incomprehensible.”
“If an idea can be framed in words, it can be comprehended.” Devin’s mouth curved in a confident smile. “You may disagree with me, Dr. Altbusser, but if you want to continue your work at my expense, you must humor me. I’m not asking for much.”
“But now you have what you asked for.” Altbusser’s brows slanted in a frown. “You have had your look at Homo Tyrolensis, and you shall take with you one slice of the Iceman’s flesh. And if the Italians hear that I have surrendered this biological material, I shall deny everything.”
“There will be no need for denial.” Devin smiled, but his smile held only a shadow of its former warmth.
Lemuel checked his watch again, then cleared his throat. “It’s nearly three, Devin. The pilot is waiting.”
“My assistant is right; we must go.” Devin slid toward the edge of the booth, then paused and gave the scientists a benign smile. “It was a pleasure to debate with you, doctors. I’d invite you to visit me in order to continue this discussion, but I’ve a feeling you won’t have time to do much traveling.”
Lemuel tossed back the remaining dregs of his coffee, then picked up the silver box and his satchel, eager to be away.
In a lingering silence, the Austrian scientists drove Lemuel and Devin to the airport. “Have the gift ready,” Devin whispered as Lemuel opened the car door.
Fumbling in the cold, Lemuel pulled the box from the satchel and waited respectfully as Devin said his final good-byes to the inebriated Dr. Altbusser and his assistant.
“And there is this to thank you,” Devin said, nodding toward the package in Lemuel’s arms. Lemuel stepped forward and handed the wooden box to Dr. Altbusser as Devin continued: “A gift of appreciation for arranging this hasty rendezvous. I am certain you have sacrificed more than a few hours’ sleep to meet with me tonight.”
Smiling, Altbusser took the package and shook it slightly.
“Careful,” Devin warned, thrusting his hands into the warmth of his overcoat. “I’d hate to discover that you cracked bottles of the best Italian vintage I could find. When you uncork your wine, gentlemen, raise a toast to your success and think of me.”
Warmed by the unexpected gesture, the Austrians spewed forth a stream of gracious thanks; then Devin turned and walked briskly toward the plane. “Come, Lemuel,” he called, hunching low into his coat.
“This place is much too cold.”
“You should record our impressions of the Austrians,” Devin said, shifting on the couch in order to face Lemuel. They were airborne, the jet surrounded by the emptiness of black velvet night. Devin kicked off his shoes and removed his suit coat, but despite the late hour, his attitude was far from relaxed. The specimen case rested on his lap, his fingers occasionally fluttering across its surface as though it were a musical instrument from which he was determined to wring music. A corresponding symphony of emotions played across Devin’s handsome features, and Lemuel bit his lip, bidding farewell to his hopes for a few hours’ rest.
“One moment,” Lemuel murmured, struggling to keep resentment from his voice. He shrugged out of his own coat and hung it next to Devin’s, then sat in the chair across from the sofa and balanced his satchel on his knees. In the act of pulling out his laptop, he spilled a folder of computer printouts, maps, and newspaper clippings, but Devin seemed oblivious to Lemuel’s clumsiness. He folded his hands across the specimen box and stared at the ceiling, his mellow voice blending with the roar of the jet’s engines.
Lemuel opened his laptop, punched the power on, then took a moment to fasten his seat belt, letting Devin ramble while the machine booted. Devin was describing the layout of the lab in general terms, so Lemuel let him talk, knowing he had taken more notice of the place than his employer had. Once Devin saw the tank, he had concentrated only on the Iceman.
When Lemuel was certain he would not be thrown from his seat if the jet slammed into another pocket of turbulence, he opened his word-processing program and began to record Devin’s thoughts.
“I have in my possession,” Devin said, his eyes closing as his voice softened to a dreamy tone, “DNA that Mother Earth herself protected from fifty-three centuries of environmental and mutational damage. Homo Tyrolensis lived in an age when people were strong. Their minds were quick and agile, not stagnant, atrophied, or chemically altered. Other men have tried to better the human race by looking forward, by taking what we are and making it better. I will change the world, I will change humankind by restoring what we were. The wisdom of Solomon, the strength of Hercules, the extrasensory perception of Greek gods and goddesses— they shall be ours again, for we were once better than we are now.”
Devin fell silent and Lemuel stopped typing, knowing that his employer waited for his reaction. Too tired to play the devil’s advocate at four a.m., he tapped the keyboard, bit the inside of his cheek, and waited for Devin to continue. The man’s eyes had closed, but he wasn’t asleep. His hand was uplifted, the index finger pointed at Lemuel as if to say, Your turn.
Lemuel took a breath and offered what he hoped was an inoffensive, yet challenging observation. “Dr. Altbusser did not have much to say in support of your theory,” he said, tapping his fingertips against the laptop’s function keys. “And neither did Dr. Hirsch. Granted, they’re not anthropologists, but they are well-versed in modern thought.”
“Modern thought is nothing but ancient thought revisited,” Devin answered, not opening his eyes. “And by his very success in inventing laborsaving devices, modern man has created an abyss of boredom and stupidity that only the privileged classes in earlier civilizations ever plumbed. The average blue-collar worker has more free time and expendable income than did the average man on the streets of ancient Rome, yet he is not a better man for it. He spends his evenings in front of his television, filling his mind with the moronic humor of whatever sleaze happens to be on that evening. Modern technology is supposed to serve us, but the average man serves technology. Our gadgets and gizmos have changed us from active to passive agents. Unless we restore our superiority they will eventually eliminate us altogether.”
Devin’s face settled into determined lines. “The Austrians think I am insane,” he said, opening his eyes. “They forget that every great advance in science has issued from some audacity of imagination. I may be impertinent and audacious, but I am one of the few men bold enough to dream and to act.” He smiled as if at a pleasant joke. “Soon they will remember me as a charming and rich American who had nothing better to do than improve humankind.”
Lemuel let the idea resonate in the confined cabin; then he gestured toward the silver box in Devin’s lap. “What arrangements should I make for the specimen?”
“As soon as we land in Washington”—Devin’s gaze fell upon the container in an almost fond expression—“you will call Dr. Helmut Braun, of the University of Virginia’s Cryogenics Lab. Dr. Braun does not know me well, but last month he received a $500,000 grant to expand and upgrade his genetics laboratory. He will be anxious to talk to me.”
Nodding, Lemuel typed the name in his to-do list. Helmut Braun, whoever he was, was about to be handed a most unexpected responsibility.
Leaning forward, Rupert Hirsch peered through the futile arch made by the wipers. Snow had begun to fall as he and Altbusser left the airport, and the distant lights of oncoming cars were barely distinguishable from the white flakes that fell like stars from the thick sky.
“Sloane is a madman,” Altbusser said in German, thumping the package on his lap for emphasis. “A spoiled American lunatic. Nevertheless, if the Italians ever discover that we sold a sample of Otzi’s flesh to Devin Sloane, the outcry will ruin us.”
“He won’t tell and the Italians will never know,” Hirsch assured him, clinging to the steering wheel. A truck rumbled past, spraying slush over the front of the sedan. For a moment the world went black; then the wipers staggered across the windshield, and Hirsch sighed in relief.
He glanced at his colleague. “No one at the lab saw Sloane with us; no one will remember us at the bar. And I found his theory rather . . . interesting. Fantastic, but interesting.”
“All I want to consider now is a nightcap and my bed,” Altbusser growled. “It’s four thirty. My wife will be frantic or angry, depending upon”—he picked up Devin’s parting gift and gently shook it—“the quality of our friend’s wine.”
“I’m sure it’s the best.” Hirsch tilted his head to relieve the stiffness in his neck. “Sloane can afford anything.”
“Why are we waiting?” Altbusser ripped the winding lengths of ribbon from the box. The wrapping came away easily and fell between the front seats in a tangled heap. Hirsch could see the words The Vineyard of Ernesto Calabria burned into the solid-looking wood. A tiny gold latch secured the lid.
“There had better be two bottles if you’re taking one home to your wife,” he muttered, returning his gaze to the road. He flinched as another truck blasted him with slush.
“Surely there are.” Altbusser flipped the latch and lifted the lid. “The box is big enough—”
A high-pitched squeal pierced the darkness. Hirsch glanced over to see a look of sheer black fright on his companion’s face; then he looked at the box. A small electronic device, hardly larger than a beeper, flashed a sequence of numerals at lightning speed.
A warning spasm of alarm erupted within him.
He looked at Altbusser.
Understood.
The squeal stopped.
A mighty flash of fire lit the night.