Pendergast looked at her curiously. “Are you quite sure? It’s what medical science has most desired since the beginning.”
“There is an old French curse: may your fondest wish come true. If this treatment is cheap and available to everyone, it will destroy the earth through overpopulation. If it is dear and available only to the very rich, it will cause riots, wars, a breakdown of the social contract. Either way, it will lead directly to human misery. What is the value of a long life, when it is lived in squalor and unhappiness?”
“What about the immeasurable increase in wisdom that this discovery will bring, when you consider the one, maybe two hundred years, of additional learning and study it will afford the brilliant mind? Think, Aunt Cornelia, of what someone like Goethe or Copernicus or Einstein could have done for humanity with a two-hundred-year life span.”
The old woman scoffed. “The wise and good are outnumbered a thousand to one by the brutal and stupid. When you give an Einstein two centuries to perfect his science, you give a thousand others two centuries to perfect their brutality.”
This time, the silence seemed to stretch into minutes. By the door, Dr. Ostrom stirred restlessly.
“Are you all right, my dear?” the old lady asked, looking intently at Pendergast.
“Yes.”
He gazed into her dark, strange eyes, so full of wisdom, insight, and the most profound insanity. “Thank you, Aunt Cornelia,” he said.
Then he straightened up.
“Dr. Ostrom?”
The doctor glanced toward him.
“We’re finished here.”
TWO
CUSTER STOOD IN A POOL OF LIGHT BEFORE THE ARCHIVES DESK. CLOUDS of dust—by-products of the ongoing investigation—billowed out from aisles in the dimness beyond. The pompous ass, Brisbane, was still protesting in the background, but Custer paid little attention.
The investigation, which had started so strongly, was bogging down. So far his men had found an amazing assortment of junk—old maps, charts, snakeskins, boxes of teeth, disgusting unidentifiable organs pickled in centuries-old alcohol—but not one thing that resembled an actual clue. Custer had been certain that, once in the Archives, the puzzle would immediately fall into place; that his newfound investigative skill would make the critical connection everyone else had overlooked. But so far there had been no brainstorm, no connection. An image of Commissioner Rocker’s face—staring at him through lowered, skeptical brows—hung before his eyes. A feeling of unease, imperfectly suppressed, began to filter through his limbs. And the place was huge: it would take weeks to search at this rate.
The Museum lawyer was talking more loudly now, and Custer forced himself to listen.
“This is nothing but a fishing expedition,” Brisbane was saying. “You can’t just come in here and turn the place upside down.” He gestured furiously at the NYPD evidence lockers lying on the floor, a riot of objects scattered within and around them. “And all that is Museum property!”
Absently, Custer gestured toward the warrant that Noyes was holding. “You’ve seen the warrant.”
“Yes, I have. And it’s not worth the paper it’s written on. I’ve never seen such general language. I protest this warrant, and I am stating for the record that I will not permit the Museum to be further searched.”
“Let’s have your boss, Dr. Collopy, decide that. Has anybody heard from him yet?”
“As the Museum’s legal counsel, I’m authorized to speak for Dr. Collopy.”
Custer refolded his arms gloomily. There came another crash from the recesses of the Archives, some shouting, and a ripping sound. An officer soon appeared, carrying a stuffed crocodile, cotton pouring from a fresh slit in its belly. He laid it in one of the evidence lockers.
“What the hell are they doing back there?” Brisbane shouted. “Hey, you! Yes, you! You’ve damaged that specimen!”
The officer looked at him with a dull expression, then shambled back into the files.
Custer said nothing. His feeling of anxiety increased. So far, the questioning of Museum staff hadn’t come up with anything either—just the same old stuff the earlier investigation had produced. This had been his call, his operation. His and his alone. If he was wrong—it almost didn’t bear thinking, of course, but if—he’d be hung out to dry like last week’s laundry.
“I’m going to call Museum security and have your men escorted out,” Brisbane fumed. “This is intolerable. Where’s Manetti?”
“Manetti was the man who let us in here,” Custer said distractedly. What if he’d made a mistake—a huge mistake?
“He shouldn’t have done that. Where is he?” Brisbane turned, found Oscar Gibbs, the Archives assistant. “Where’s Manetti?”
“He left,” Gibbs said.