Diablo Mesa(13)

Nora took a deep breath. “Look: If I do this, I’ll be known forever as the UFO archaeologist. I’ll never be taken seriously again. How do I reconcile that?”

“Only if nothing is found. And that’s not going to happen. I promise, you will find something of significance. You’ve seen the crash pattern on the ground. You’ve seen artifacts scattered like raisins beneath the surface. Something crashed here. This is a legitimate archaeological investigation. You won’t be known as the ‘UFO archaeologist,’ but as the archaeologist who finally revealed to the world that we’ve been visited by extraterrestrials. What’s more, I’ll have your back, Nora. I’ll make sure your work is taken with the seriousness it deserves.” He paused. “As far as the specifics of your employment go, the salary I’m offering is two hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars per annum. We expect the active phase to last five weeks, but to be followed up by an indefinite analysis phase. In other words, permanent employment. I’m setting up a nonprofit organization, of which you’ll be the director.”

Nora swallowed. That was a pretty astonishing salary—and an amazing offer. “But I have to ask again: Why me?”

“It’s like I told you back in the parking lot of the Institute. I attribute my success not just to my own brilliance, but to the fact that I find the best people.” He smiled deprecatingly. “That’s the key. There are plenty of archaeologists out there, but I want someone with not only the brains, experience, and skills—but also the capacity to think outside the box. Just like you did at Quivira, and Victorio Peak, and probably a dozen other digs I haven’t heard of. Consider this: in our lifetime, we’ll never get the chance to visit aliens on their home planets. The only chance we’ll get to examine them is if they come here. Now—will it be yes or no?”

“I have to think about it.”

“Another thing about me: I’m an impatient person. You have all the information you need to make a decision right now. Certainly, feel free to think about it—for the next five minutes.”

Nora stared at him. “Five minutes?”

“After that, I’ll be going to the second name on my list.” He paused. “I find the best decisions are made quickly and intuitively.”

She could see he was serious. Five minutes. Well, what the hell. It was a lot of money, she’d just been fired, and she had no immediate prospects. Besides, the more primitive part of her brain loved the idea of Weingrau’s fury when she found out Nora had accepted the directorship of a nonprofit—and the Institute not getting Tappan’s big donation or the project, after all. And, perhaps most important, she could keep an eye on Skip.

“All right,” she said. “I’m on board.”

“Fabulous!” he cried.

“There’s a catch.”

“What’s that?” His smile vanished.

“Skip and I have a dog, Mitty. We need to bring him. He needs to be welcome here.”

He seized her hand. “Is that all? Christ, of course! I love dogs. This is the best news I could have—dog included. Welcome to the team!”

He clinked his martini glass with her Pellegrino, then drained it and placed it on the table. “Let’s get you and Skip back to Santa Fe to pack up your things and fetch the dog. You’ll be back in time for a late supper.”

“You don’t waste any time.”

“No.”

Nora paused. “If I’d said no, who was the next name on your list?”

He laughed. “There was no next name. That was just a negotiating ploy.” A pause. “I hope you’ll forgive me.”





7



TAPPAN WAS AS good as his word: that evening, Nora and Skip were flown back to Santa Fe, where they packed up their stuff and Mitty, then returned by helicopter to find dinner waiting for them in the galley of a custom two-bedroom Airstream trailer assigned to them. It had a fully stocked kitchen and larder. Skip, the cook of the family, went through the freezer and found it filled with gourmet meats, poultry, and fish. Similarly, the vegetable drawers were packed with fresh greens, and the pantry cupboard brimmed with all kinds of delicacies.

Nora unpacked as Skip looked through it all, oohing and aahing and talking about the fine dishes he was going to prepare—even though Tappan had told them the camp was equipped with a two-star Michelin chef named Antonetti.

They were up before dawn the next morning. While Nora worked on her laptop in the small office area, answering introductory emails and getting up to speed, Skip took Mitty around the camp, making friends with everyone. On his return he whipped up a celebratory breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, and avocado toast—despite the lobster eggs Benedict being served in the canteen—and now, at nine sharp, Nora was seated at the head of a conference table in Quonset 1, before an audience of the Three Engineers, Noam Bitan, Skip, two postdocs, and Tappan. That morning, Nora had prepared a preliminary timetable and excavation plan for the first week, and she now distributed it to the team. Tappan had made it clear to everyone that she was in charge, but she wondered if he’d honor that dictum himself if push came to shove. For now, he seemed perfectly content to let her run the meeting.

“As you can see,” she said, “we’ve got quite a lot to do. After gridding off the site in one-meter squares, we’ll open ground in the northwestern quad and then work east and south, meter by meter. We’ll keep going down layer by layer, until we reach the 1947 horizon. This is a delicate excavation, because the site is really just sand on sand, with a scattering of artifacts.”