The editors, who had grouped together at the back of the crowd, for fear of being invited to dig, eyed the excavation efforts nervously. "Suppose it isn't there?" asked Lily Warren.
Enzio O'Malley shrugged. "You ask them to write their stories from memory and you get better stuff, because now they've been pros for thirty years."
"What about the dead ones?"
"Even better. You get Mistral or Surn to give you a general description of the plot, and then you farm out the story to somebody famous who can really write. I'd like to see Robert Mc-Cammon write the Curds Phillips story. Maybe Michael Moorcock for Deddingfield's stuff. Now that anthology would be worth publishing!"
Lily Warren gave him a sour smile. "So, Enzio, you will actually be disappointed if they find anything?"
"I wouldn't say that. But if I acquire the rights to it, I'll make sure the contract says I get to request some rewriting."
The Del Rey editor heaved a sigh of exasperation. "If Enzio had been given the Ten Commandments on Mount Sinai, he would have had them down to six before he left the summit."
A clink of shovel on metal drew gasps from those nearest the hole, and the crowd surged forward. "We got it!" shouted Geoffrey Duke, wiping his forehead with a mud-stained forearm. "I see a lid down there!"
"Easy, fellas!" said Mistral, elbowing his way to the side of the pit. "Don't break the glass now. That water would completely ruin the contents."
Marion went up and hugged Erik Giles. "They found it!" she cried. "I'm so happy for you!"
"I hope it's worth it," said Giles sadly.
One of the diggers jumped into the rapidly collapsing hole and, knee-deep in muddy water, fastened a rope around the neck of the jar. While he pushed and rocked the jar to free it, the others pulled on the rope, and moments later it gave, sending the digger sprawling into the side of the mud hole as the brown encrusted jar slid to the surface amid cheers from the onlookers. With a triumphant flourish Geoff Duke wrapped the unopened jar in a clean plastic sheet, while the other mud-caked diggers helped their comrade out of the hole and headed for the river to rinse off as best they could.
At Mistral's insistence, the Lanthanides grouped around him, smiling sheepishly into various camera lens, as their leader held the jar aloft like a recently bagged trophy.
"Here it is!" yelled Mistral. "The Dead Sea Scrolls of Science Fiction!"
"Are you going to open it, Mistral?" asked one of the reporters.
"Not in the middle of this pigsty," he retorted. "It's too valuable
for that. Let's go on back to the lodge, and we'll clean this thing up and let you get a look at it."
"When can we look at it?" yelled one of the editors.
"Photocopies will be made of the material, and you will have until tomorrow morning to read the contents, and to deliver your sealed bid to Sarah Ashley."
Another reporter waved her hand above the crowd. "Mr. Mistral!" she called out. "One more question! Isn't that the highway up there beyond those trees?"
Mistral looked up, just as a car whizzed past a few hundred yards above their heads. Just past the grove of oak trees up beyond the boundary of the lake, the road curved around the mountain, running parallel to the lake for a stretch before it snaked away again. Mistral grinned ruefully and held up his hands.
"Could you tell us then why we had to take boats to get here?"
Ruben Mistral grinned at her. "I wasn't sure how to recognize Dugger's farm from the road. It isn't always that close to the lake, you know. Besides, honey, the boat trip makes better copy," he told her. "But anybody who wants to hitchhike back has my permission." With that he handed the jar back to Geoffrey Duke for safekeeping, then turned and ambled back down the hill toward the river. After a moment's pause, the entire troop of muddy followers plowed along after him.
He wanted to pound on their doors, call them out
in their housecoats and frowsy pajamas,
and tell them in clear words
that time buries itself like a river under a lake
that river feeds, that though the past is irretrievable,
nothing left down there is gone.
– DON JOHNSON Watauga Drawdown
Jay Omega and Marion Farley were not invited to the remainder of the afternoon's events. When the three boats had safely moored again at the Mountaineer Lodge boat ramp, Ruben Mistral gave everyone an hour's break to get cleaned up from their muddy trip upriver. At that time, he informed the Lanthanides, they were to assemble in the downstairs conference room to witness the official opening of the time capsule, to be followed by interview sessions with the journalists. The editors who did not want to observe the publicity marathon in action were urged to attend a private screening of Ruben Mistral's latest movie, Laser Nova, after which photocopies of the time-capsule contents would be issued to them, and they would be returned to their hotel in Johnson City to prepare for Sunday's auction.
"You ought to try to talk to Ruben Mistral sometime this weekend," Marion told Jay. "Did you bring along a copy of Bimbos of the Death Sun? Maybe he could help you sell the movie rights."
Jay shook his head. "Just what I need-to be famous for writing Bimbos of the Death Sun. It was bad enough when it was a paperback original that no one could ever find." "But think of the money, Jay!"
"Think of the dean of engineering, Marion. Try to get tenure with something called Bimbos of the Death Sun on your vita!" He smiled at her expression of disappointment.
She sighed. "Tell me about trying to get tenure! My department hires two tenure-track people for every one position. I wish I could have become a professor in the good old days, like Erik Giles did. Back then you got tenure more or less automatically, just for hanging around for a few years without screwing up. I don't know if he's ever published anything. Whereas I have to spend every waking moment grubbing up some obscure footnote-"
"I see," said Jay. "So you think that if I could make a career out of science fiction I could escape all that hassle."
"You could. Ask Isaac Asimov about academia some time." Jay smiled. "Ask practically everybody else about low advances and an uncertain income. Anyway, thanks for trying so hard to make me famous, Marion. But it takes more than talent to be Ruben Mistral, and I don't think I've got it. Anyhow, we have more important things to do. Can you find the hotel manager and see what he knows about Malone's death?"
"I suppose so. But is this really any business of ours? Shouldn't we at least consult Erik before we do anything?"
"I talked to Pat Malone late last night after the party. I kind of liked him." He grinned. "Maybe I'm becoming a Pat Malone fan. Anyway, this is between me and him. Will you help?"
"I said I would." Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What are you going to do?"
"I'll be up in the room mobilizing the troops." Marion hesitated. "Look… you're not going to get arrested for breaking into the files of the U.S. government, or AT &T or anything. Are you?"
"Me? A hacker? Not a chance. Besides, I doubt if government records would be much help. What we need is a lot of people from a lot of different places to make phone calls for us and ask the pertinent questions."