“But—?” Smithback prodded.
The old man shot a glance at Smithback. “Very well,” he glowered. Then he leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. “I told you that John Whittlesey was my friend,” he said. “Before he left, Whittlesey had collected all the stories he could find about the Kothoga tribe. Mostly from lowland tribes living downstream, Yanomamo and the like. I remember him telling me one story the day before he left. The Kothoga, according to a Yanomamo informant, had made a deal with a being called Zilashkee. This was a creature like our Mephistopheles, but even more extreme: all the evil and death in the world emanated from this thing, which slithered around on the peak of the tepui. Or so the legend went. Anyway, according to their arrangement, the Kothoga would get the Zilashkee’s child for a servant in return for killing and eating all of their own children, and vowing forevermore to worship him and only him. When the Kothoga had finished their grisly task, the Zilashkee sent his child to them. But the beast proceeded to run rampant through the tribe, murdering and eating people. When the Kothoga complained, the Zilashkee laughed and said: What did you expect? I am evil. Finally, using magic or herbal spells or some such thing, the tribe managed to control the beast. It couldn’t be killed, you see. So the Zilashkee child remained under the control of the Kothoga, and they used it to do their own malignant bidding. But using it was always a dangerous proposition. The legend says that the Kothoga have been looking for a way to get rid of it ever since.”
J?rgensen looked down at the disassembled motor. “That was the story Whittlesey told me. When I heard about the plane crash, the death of Whittlesey, the disappearance of Montague ... well, I couldn’t help but think the Kothoga had finally managed to unload Zilashkee’s child.”
Picking up a piece of the machine, the old botanist turned it over in his hands with a distant expression. “Whittlesey told me the name of the Zilashkee’s child was Mbwun. He Who Walks On All Fours.” And he dropped the piece with a clank and grinned.
= 33 =
As closing drew near, the visitors began to trickle out toward the Museum exits. The Museum shop—located directly inside the south entrance—did a brisk business.
In the marble hallways leading away from the south entrance, the sounds of conversation and the drumming of feet could be clearly heard. In the Hall of the Heavens near the West entrance, where the opening party for the new exhibition was to be held, the noise was fainter, echoing inside the huge dome like a vaguely remembered dream. And deeper within the Museum, as more laboratories, antique lecture halls, storage vaults, and book-lined offices interposed themselves, the sounds of visitors did not penetrate. The long corridors were dark and silent.
Within the Butterfield Observatory, the noise and bustle could just as well have been on another planet. The staffers, making the most of the curfew, had gone home early. George Moriarty’s office, like all six floors of the observatory, was deathly quiet.
Moriarty stood behind his desk, a balled fist pressed tightly against his mouth. “Damn,” he mumbled.
Suddenly, one foot lashed out in frustration, the heel slamming against a file cabinet behind him and knocking a pile of papers onto the floor. “Damn!” he howled, this time in pain, as he sank into his chair and began rubbing his ankle.
Slowly, the pain lifted, and with it, his funk. Sighing heavily, he looked around the room. “Jeez, George, you always manage to screw things up, don’t you?” he murmured.
He was hopeless socially, he might as well admit it to himself. Everything he did to catch Margo’s attention, everything he did to gain her favor, seemed to backfire. What he’d said about her father was about as tactful as a machine gun.
Suddenly, he swiveled toward his terminal and typed in a command. He’d send her an e-mail message, maybe repair some of his damage. He paused a moment, composing, then began to type.
HI, MARGO! JUST CURIOUS TO KNOW IF YOU
Abruptly, Moriarty hit a key, purging the message. He’d probably just mess things up even worse.
He sat for a moment, staring at the blank screen. He knew of only one surefire method to ease his hurt: a treasure hunt.