Douglas_Preston_

Odnośniki

[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

And if we do that? Pendergast asked. What can the city do about these Wrinklers?
Mephistothought a moment. Like any infestation. Get them where they live.
Easier said than done.
Mephisto shard, glittery gaze landed on the FBI agent. You got a better idea, Whitey? he hissed.
Pendergast was silent. Not yet, he said at last.
= 24 =
Robert Willson, librarian at the New York Historical Society, looked at the other occupant of the map
room with irritation. Odd-looking guy: somber black suit, pale cat s eyes, blond-white hair combed
severely back from a high forehead. An-noying, too. Annoying as hell. He d been there all afternoon,
making demands and throwing the maps askew. Every time Willson turned back to his computer to
resume work on his own pet project the definitive monograph on Zu�i fetishes the man would be up,
asking more questions.
As if on cue, the man got out of his chair and glided over noiselessly. Pardon? he said in his polite but
insistent mint-julep drawl.
Willson glanced up from the screen. Yes? he snapped.
I hate to trouble you again, but it s my understanding that theVaux and Olmstead plans for Central Park
called for canals to drain the Central Park swamps. I wonder if I could look at those plans?
Willson compressed his lips. Those plans were rejected by the Parks Commission, he replied.
They ve been lost. A tragedy. He turned back to his screen, hoping the man would take the hint. The
real tragedy would be if he didn t get back to his monograph.
I see, the visitor said, not taking the hint at all. Then tell me, howwere the swamps drained?
Willson sat back in his chair exasperatedly. I should have thought it was common knowledge. The old
Eighty-sixth Street aqueduct was used.
And there are plans for the operation?
Yes, said Willson.
May I see them?
With a sigh, Willson got up and made his way through the heavy door back into the stacks. It was, of
course, in its usual mess. The room managed to be both vast and claustrophobic, metal shelves reaching
two stories into the gloom, tottering with rolled maps and moldering blueprints. Willson could al-most feel
the dust settling on his bald scalp as he scanned the arcane lists of numbers. His nose began to itch. He
found the correct location, pulled the ancient maps and carried them back to the cramped reading room.
Why do people always request the heaviest maps, he wondered to himself as he emerged from the
stacks.
Here they are, Willson said, placing them on the ma-hogany counter. He watched as the man took
them over to his desk and began looking them over, jotting notes and making sketches in a small
leather-bound notebook.He s got money, Willson thought sourly.No professor could afford a suit like
that.
A heavenly quiet descended on the map room. At last, he could get some work done. Bringing some
yellowed reference photographs out of his desk, Willson began making changes to his chapter on clan
imagery.
Within minutes, he felt the visitor standing behind him again. Willson looked up again silently.
The man nodded at one of Willson s photographs. It showed a nondescript stone carved in an abstract
representation of an animal, a small piece of sinew holding a flint point to its back. I think you ll find that
particular fetish, which I see you ve labeled as a puma, is in fact a grizzly bear, the man said.
Willson looked at the pale face and the faint smile, won-dering if this was some kind of a joke. Cushing,
who col-lected this fetish in 1883, specifically identified it as puma clan, he replied. You can check the
reference yourself. Everybody was an expert these days.
The grizzly fetish, the man continued undeterred, al-ways has a spearpoint strapped to its back, as
this one does. The puma fetish has an arrowhead.
Willson straightened up. Just what is the difference, may I ask?
You kill a puma with a bow and arrow. To kill a grizzly, you must use a spear.
Willson was silent.
Cushing was wrong on occasion, the man added gently.
Willson shuffled his manuscript together and laid it aside. Frankly, I would prefer to trust Cushing over
someone ... He left the sentence unfinished. The library will be closing in one hour, he added.
In that case, the man said, I wonder if I could see the plates from the 1956 Upper West Side Natural
Gas Pipeline Survey.
Willson compressed his lips. Which ones?
All of them, if you please.
This was too much. I m sorry, Willson said crisply. It s against the rules. Patrons are allowed only ten
maps at a time from the same series. He glared at the visitor triumphantly.
But the man seemed oblivious, lost in thought. Suddenly, he looked back at the librarian.
Robert Willson, he said, pointing at the nameplate. Now I remember why your name is familiar. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

zanotowane.pl

doc.pisz.pl

pdf.pisz.pl

angamoss.xlx.pl