ROBERT REED - Treasure Buried

R & D WERE UP AGAINST THE titans from Marketing, seven innings of groin-pulling,
hamstring-shredding, take-no-prisoners slow-pitch softball, and Marketing had
stacked their team. It was obvious to Mekal.

"What do you think, Wallace? That kid in center field? He's got to play college
ball. And their shortstop, what's her name? With the forearms? I bet if you
stuck her you'd get more testosterone than blood, I bet so. And Jesus, that
pitcher has got to have a dose of chimp genes. You haven't been moonlighting,
have you, Wallace? Arms like those. Reaching halfway to home plate before
releasing. But hey, Meiter drew a walk at least. If they don't double us up, I'm
getting my swings. So wish me luck, Wallace. I'm planning to go downtown!"

Wallace nodded, uncertain what "downtown" meant and certainly bored with the
pageant happening around him. He was aware of Mekal rising to his feet -- a tall
rangy man old enough not to be boyish anymore, yet not softened enough to be
middle-aged -- and then Wallace wasn't aware of anything besides the sunshine
and his own convoluted thoughts. "Chimp Genes" reminded him of a problem at
work. Not Wallace's problem, but he was the resident troubleshooter and the
Primate Division was having more troubles with their freefall monkeys. The
little critters weren't behaving themselves in orbit, either their training or
their expensive genes at fault. They were put into the space stations to help
clean and to keep the personnel company. Friendly, cuddly companions, and all
that. But the prototypes were shitting everywhere and screaming day and night.
And Wallace was wondering if it was something subtle, even stupid, overlooked as
a consequence. Zero-gee, freefall . . . was it some kind of inbred panic
reaction? Maybe the monkeys had troubles with weightlessness. What if . . . what
if they felt as if they were falling, tailoring and instinct making it seem as
if they were tumbling from some infinitely tall canopy -- a thousand mile drop,
the poor things-- and with that sweet possibility in mind Wallace heard the
crack of a composite bat, Mekal standing at home plate, screaming:

"Go go go you ugly fuck of a ball!"

A blurring white something arced across the soft blue sky, geometric perfection
drawing Wallace's attention; and then the center fielder jumped high against the
back fence, ball and glove meeting, his grace casual to the point of insulting
and the inning finished. Five runs down already, and Mekal stormed back to the
dugout in the worst kind of rage -- silent -- standing without moving for a long
moment, unable to focus his eyes or even think. It was that famous Mekal
intensity. In R&D he was feared and sucked up to, some employees openly hoping
that the man's temper would cause some vital artery to burst in his brain. Not
necessarily killing him, no. But causing a constructive kind of brain damage,
removing the most offensive portions of his personality --

-- and then there was a voice, close and almost soft. The voice said to Mekal,
"But you almost did it." A woman's voice. A girl's. Nobody Wallace knew, and he
turned his head before shyness could engage, the girl watching Mekal with a
mixture of concern and wariness. "Maybe you should warm up," she continued. Then
she added, "Dear?" with a quieter voice.

Mekal came out of the spell, finding his old resolve. He snorted and said,
"Yeah, right." His glove . . . where was it? Then he said, "Wallace? Tell you
what, since you're here and all, why don't you chart Marketing's hits? All
right? Which field and how far, that sort of data. Give us an edge next time.

Will you do that for me, pal?"

"I'll try. Sure."

"Try?" Mekal laughed and shook his head. "Do!"

"Good luck," offered the girl; and again Wallace looked at her, her pretty face
a little too round for the current fashion, her long blonde-white hair worn
simply, blue-white eyes radiant, both hands reaching through the chain-link and
their smoothness implying true youth, one finger adorned with a diamond-heavy
ring a gold band nestled beside it. She said, "Darling -- ?"

"You'd better get back in the stands," Mekal told her. "It's all right. I'm
fine. Fine."

She nodded, tried a smile and then tried to say, "Just do," with her husband's
intensity. That was Mekal's rallying cry in R&D. "Just do." Except it didn't
have the impact, coming from her mouth. A couple other R&D players smiled at the
sound of her voice, and Mekal made the dramatic walk to the pitcher's mound. As
much as Marketing, the R&D players were glad that the long fly ball had been
caught. Wallace could sense it, smell it. Because if Mekal won this game
single-handedly, they knew he wouldn't be bearable for at least a week. He'd
prance and grin, making life miserable in the labs, which is why some of them
giggled now, taking their warm-up throws out of the dirt and joking about the
oncoming rout.

Wallace himself didn't dislike Mekal. Not really. He assumed some kind of
insecurity fueling the man, some partly hidden weakness or flaw, and with that
in mind Mekal was bearable. Sometimes amusing. Even friendly, given the right
circumstances. But then again, Wallace was a legend for his easygoing attitudes.
His ego genes were deleted, making room for more important talents. A different
kind of fuel driving him. . . .

And now Mekal's wife retreated, Wallace studying her bare legs -- a little thick
but firm -- and the way she carried herself, not with submissiveness but with an
enduring patience, allowing a couple screaming children to play chase around her
legs and then stopping to help some grandmother off the wooden bleachers. Mrs.
Mekal; a strange concept. But then Wallace was always surprised by people's
private lives . . . and now the girl took a seat up high, near the center, her
gaze steady and honest and her applause genuine whenever R&D managed to make an
out against the juggernaut from Marketing.

"What the hell are we doing, people?" Mekal screamed from the mound, his face
ready to burst with all the blood. "Be crisp! Be alert! Execute, execute! Eight
runs down is nothing!"

Another pitch, then the ominous swift crack.

"Just do," Wallace muttered to himself, diagramming another blast into left
field. "Just do."

He solved the monkey puzzle -- it was the freefall sensation, in part -then
helped Simmons and Potz in the Microbe Division, learning enough about green
algae genetics to see new possibilities; and somewhere in the midst of work,
without planning it, he asked Potz about Mekal's young wife. How long had they
been married, how many children?

"Three years, and none." Potz gave her coffee a quick suspicious glance. "Rumor
says that Mekal lacks. Wants kids and can't. Only you know rumors, it could be a
lot of hopeful thinking from the downtrodden. The prick shoots blanks, and all
that."

Wallace absorbed the comments, nodding and then saying, "He doesn't wear a ring,
does he?"

"Probably allergic."

"She looks young. What is she, ten years younger than him?"

"More like fifteen. Met her when he was doing one of those community relations
lectures at the college." Potz plucked a thick brown hair from her coffee cup.
"Not mine. Yours? No? God, I was in Meiter's lab this morning. He had that yeti
skullcap on a countertop, and you don't suppose . . . uggh!" Then she sipped her
coffee anyway, smiling eyes on Wallace.

He didn't notice her expression. He was thinking hard about several things, some
of them invisible even to him. Wallace was famous for his long pauses and the
sluggish, thoughtful voice, particularly when some problem deserved his full
focus. The yeti skullcap, yes. He had to find time to go over the genetic maps
with Meiter, its authenticity established but the Company unsure what to do with
their investment. Rumors said that the Tibetan monks had sold it to them for a
small fortune. Their people were arming against the Chinese again, selling art
and oddities worldwide. What if they'd sold other yeti artifacts to their
competitors? It was a problem, all right. Cloning the yeti would bring it back
from extinction, which was good news. But were the genes too close to human?
That was the main issue now. There were half a billion rules and regulations
concerning genetic work with human substances. Maybe it would be best for their
competitors to move first. Let their fancy lawyers hit the beach, and all that.
That's how the Executives would be thinking now. Besides, where was the profit
in cloning yetis? They'd make a splash, sure, but not like ten or twenty years
ago. Resurrecting the dead -- one of Wallace's favorite things --had reached its
high water mark when the Japanese cornered the market on carnosaurs. Tailored
monitor lizards, in effect. But how could shy near-humans compete with that
scale of things?

Eventually Wallace was aware of sitting alone, Potz and her coffee gone and his
stomach aching from hunger. He had forgotten lunch. What time was it? Three? He
went to the cafeteria, bought candy bars and Pepsi, then returned to his office
intending to work. Only he found himself daydreaming about Mekal's wife, his
imagination taking him as far as a conversation at the ball park. Of course the
chance of Wallace ever having the chance seemed remote. He was famous for his
imagination --indeed, almost everyone in the industry knew one or two Wallace
stories -- but to save his life he couldn't envision anything more than speaking
to the girl, and then just for a few moments. In passing.

"So forget it," he warned himself. "Get to work, will you?"

Potz had given him some data. Wallace sipped warm Pepsi, then a cold dose of old
coffee, punching up files he had begun during graduate school. They were like
old trusted friends, these files. Trusted but secretive. Genetic maps flowed
past him on the screen, in vivid colors, thousands of base pairs forming unique,
easily recognizable patterns that were almost repeated in other species. Related
ones or not, it didn't matter. Every eukaryotic organism on Earth had excess
DNA. Most of it was leftover stuff from ancient times. Early life had been
sloppy, genetically speaking, full of useless genetic noise that natural
selection had flattened into a kind of hum. Flat, harmless. A lot of the DNA was
poly-A -- adenine bases repeated for huge spans. But what Wallace had noticed
when he was twenty, what had struck him as puzzling, were chunks of DNA buried
in the poly-A. Bursts of static, sort of. There were several thousand base
pairs, some of it common to all eukaryotes. Yet the stuff produced no
polypeptides, nor did it seem to influence the expression of any other genes.
What could be so important that it was shared by green algae and PhDs? He had no
idea. Which was why he recorded new data whenever possible. For more than a
decade, Wallace had plotted the differences between all sorts of species,
finding no evolutionary patterns. None. It was such a useless but distinct bit
of genetic noise -- a biochemical shout, more than anything -- and he found it
humbling to consider the problem every little while. Like now. Potz's algae data
added to the puzzle, and Wallace perched over the screen, hoping against hope
for some kind of inspiration.

What made no sense, he knew, was misunderstood.

Misunderstood, or wrong. And either way Wallace felt a sacred duty to solve or
to fix.

"What are you doing?" asked a girl's voice.

And now Wallace began explaining the problem to the imaginary Mrs. Mekal, her
standing over him with the blonde-white hair hanging limp, the soft ends
brushing against his cheek and feeling very nearly real.

WALLACE WENT to three other softball games. R&D won once, managing to squeak
past a pack of gray-haired Executives 11-10, but Mekal's wife never showed
again, even in passing. Which seemed to help, because Mekal wasn't quite so
unbearable. He even managed to control himself when they won, limiting his
high-fives because the winded, red-faced opponents were still and always his
superiors. Their position on the pecking order was secure, and Mekal wasn't an
idiot. Yet his good mood persisted into the next morning, him bringing doughnuts
for two hundred and inviting some of his closer associates to his home next
Saturday night. "A social thing, for a change." He grinned and asked Wallace,
"Are you interested?"

"What time?"

Which surprised Mekal, but just for a moment. "So you're feeling social, huh?
Well then, good. Eight o'clock. Bring a date if you want. Your choice."

No date. He could have picked one of two girls that he saw casually, but either
would have been a distraction. A filter. Instead he drove himself to the big
house built on a leveled blufftop, Mekal at the door, Wallace walking into the
big living room with its picture window, him drinking in the view of dusk and
the river, wondering all the time: "Where is she?" It was eight o'clock and half
a dozen minutes. Almost no one had arrived yet. What Wallace had hoped to find
was noise and confusion, using them as a smoke screen to cover his shyness and
the uncomfortable silences. But people never arrive on time for parties; he'd
forgotten that salient fact. And he turned just as the gift emerged from the
kitchen, his scheme gone. Deflated. He offered the weakest smile, and she handed
him a heavy glass filled with sweet punch brighter than blood. "You look
thirsty," she reported. "He said, 'Give Wallace a drink, ' and you're Wallace,
right?"

"Yes." Nobody else around. Just them. . . .

"I'm Cindy. Cin, for short. Whichever." She smiled, showing perfect teeth as
small as a child's. "How does it taste, Wallace?"

He sipped and said, "Very good. Thank you."

"My husband made it. Some special recipe of his."

Suddenly it didn't taste as delicious, but Wallace kept drinking. He was quite
thirsty and afraid that Cindy--Cin--would leave him now. She would feel that her
duty as hostess was finished, or some such thing. So he turned back to the
window and said with force, "It's a lovely view you have."

Were the words as contrived as they sounded?

But she replied, "Thanks," and nodded happily.

"And it's a beautiful house."

"You've never been here before?"

"No."

"Well, thanks again then."

Yet when he examined his surroundings -- the living room and dining room and the
faraway front door -- he saw nothing that reminded him of anyone except Mekal.
Things were clean, but the furnishings and wall hangings exuded maleness, a
faintly Western atmosphere, everything possessing utility and an indifference to
bright colors. The sole feminine touch was Cindy; she was dressed in a very
feminine gown, light and blue like her eyes, and more than a little clinging.
Yet the girl -- she looked like a college student playing a grown-up --
obviously didn't belong here. She was alien. Wallace could see that much, so
much so that he fought the temptation to say, "Get out of here! You don't belong
here! Run!"

Their conversation continued, deliciously ordinary; and in the middle, without
any warning, Cindy assured him, "He thinks the world of you." Then she winked,
just slightly. "Which is something for him."

Mekal. She meant Mekal. Wallace didn't know how to respond, moving his empty
glass from one hand to the other.

"You help everyone in R&D, he says. 'Wallace is the intellectual grease for us!'
Actually, I think he's a little jealous, although he'd never admit it to anyone.
Never."

"I suppose not," said Wallace.

"You know my husband. . . ."

To which Wallace thought: "You and he don't belong together. This is a mistake,
you two. All wrong!"

He felt it -- knew it -- almost shivering from the stress of keeping his
knowledge inside himself.

He wasn't thinking about love, even his own love for the gift. He was oblivious
to it. If someone had told him, "You're smitten, Wallace," he would have denied
it, never sensing that he was lying.

And besides, love wasn't the point.

The point -- and no other seemed more important in the world -- the point was
that Cindy and Mekal were existing against the laws of nature. Marriages should
be working unions. The poor girl was chasing a fatherly figure, no doubt. And
Mekal was scrambling to regain his youth. It was a shame, he felt, and a little
sad; and he found himself frowning while Cindy said something about it being
nice, company coming like this, and she wished they could do it more often, and
would he like some more punch? Snacks? "Help yourself," she told him. "Make
yourself at home."

"Come see," said Meiter. "We got it this morning."

It was a month later, softball season finished and volleyball season starting;
and Wallace looked up at Meiter, coming out of his daydream and asking, "What
are you talking about?"

"The hand! It's here!"

The yeti hand, sure. Wallace remembered hearing the minors, antiaircraft
missiles exchanged for a dismembered chunk of fossil tissue. Meiter took him to
the freezer, letting him peer in through the frost. "See? Mangled but whole. And
old. Maybe thirty thousand years old, we think. Some kind of anaerobic
circumstances preserved it. Peat moss. A deep cave. Something. Whatever it was,
there's virtually no decay. We're already running the first maps. Fossils don't
give whole cells, but the hand's never read the textbooks. We've got nice fat
whole ones. No need to jigsaw things together, it looks that good!"

"It looks human," Wallace mentioned. "Doesn't it?"

That disturbed Meiter. "Oh, I don't agree." Then he asked, "How would you know,
anyway? It could be an apish hand just as well --"

"Maybe so."

"And the good part, the best part, is that it's female. The skullcap's male, and
here we've got a lady. They're separated by three hundred centuries, which
assures genetic diversity. Mekal's saying that the big kids upstairs are
thinking about making a splash, playing up our charity in bringing yetis back.
They're even talking about buying up part of Nepal, making a preserve, planting
new forests and using human volunteers to carry the little critters part-term.
Neat, huh? You bet it is!"

Wallace looked at the ugly bunch of bone and brutalized meat, knowing it was
human. Chromosome numbers were the same between humans and half-humans; he
didn't fault Meiter. But what was, was. What any person believed never changed
what was real and true. That was the first lesson that he carried into work
every day -- the towering impotence of his hard-held opinions -- which helped
him think and rethink, always seeing the old as new.

Later Meiter came with the sorry news. "A human hand," he said bravely, "but
it's not all lost. It's got some primitive genetics, which means the academics
will be curious. Human evolution and all that stuff."

Wallace had a thought.

He asked, "Are you going to keep mapping? Because I'm not sure anyone's ever
done a total map of such an old, high-quality fossil."

"And tie up the machinery? Take lab-tech time?"

He couldn't have given any reason; Wallace had only a feeling, distinct but
imprecise, that something useful might come out of it.

"Listen," he said. "why don't you keep people at it? If you need, I'll get
Mekal's signature. Okay?"

Meiter hesitated.

Then Wallace said, "Just do!"

Meiter laughed. "All right. We've got a block of empty time soon. Someone gives
me shit, I'll send them to you."

And a couple days later it was done. Wallace asked his computer to find
such-and-such series of bases among the poly-A -- you never knew where it might
be -- but soon it became obvious that thirty thousand years ago, in at least
this one unfortunate woman, the telltale bit of DNA was missing.

Yes, he thought, it couldn't serve any important genetic function.

And yes, probably no other res catcher on the globe would care about such a tiny
treasure.

Yet Wallace found the enthusiasm to open every file, working through the night
and the next day, then losing track of an entire weekend, again and again asking
himself why every living organism now had this one genetic shout . . . and
finally perceiving a simple, coherent answer that he checked and double-checked
and then triple-checked, becoming more certain every instant. At long last . .
." Good God!". . . placing both hands flush against the top of his desk, rising
and trying to find the doorway to his office of six years. . . .

It was a night of supreme clarity; and Wallace knew he was at his pinnacle.
Never again, no matter how long he lived, would he succeed in anything so
glorious, so wondrous.

Yet while he wandered the hallways, hunting for anyone to tell his news, if only
a napping guard, he had a new thought, stopped and dipped his head,
concentrating hard on a new possibility.

Five minutes, and he'd superseded his first success.

Hands shaking with excitement, tired eyes weeping, Wallace felt the ceiling
split as his joyous spirit sailed free . . .!

"You look like shit," Mekal reported. "Glance at a mirror, Wallace. I'm worried.
My prize heifer, and you look wrung out and half-dead. Not to mention your
aroma, which isn't pretty either."

"I need sleep," Wallace conceded. "I'm going home now."

"On Monday moming? You can't just leave us dangling!" Mekal waved a finger at
him. "Hampston and Yates hit another wall with their pigeon project. Not with
the natural genes, but it's the tailoring part. I know that's not your area, but
this is a contract job and the client's getting nervous -- "

"Tomorrow," he promised. Then he said, "I just wanted to talk first. I've got a
problem of my own, a little thing . . . but it might be important. I don't know
why, but I keep getting this feeling."

"Well, great!" Mekal meant it. "Jesus, we get bonuses because of your hunches.
Soon as you're done with the pigeons, I'll schedule you some extra time."

"I've had time. I can't figure it out."

"Really . . . ?"

"Maybe, I was wondering . . . you could try, maybe. How about it? I'll give you
the file codes, my notes, and you work on it. At your own pace. Give me a
vacation from the damned thing, okay?"

"Really?" Mekal was more surprised than suspicious. Wallace giving him work?
Trusting him with a puzzle beyond Wallace's reach? It took Mekal several seconds
to engage his ego, then he nodded and accepted the challenge. "What the hell,
sure. I'll muscle in time. Cin's got volunteer stuff tonight, she'll be out of
my way . . . yeah, I can give this bird a try."

Which he did. For several days he played with the bird's wings, looked into its
eyes, and accomplished nothing. For more than a week Wallace avoided his
associate, eavesdropping on the man's use of his files but nothing more. Wallace
had set things up to make nothing too obvious, yet he'd left enough hints to
lead in proper directions. Or had he? What seemed transparently obvious to
Wallace was baffling Mekal. Mekal wasn't stupid by any means; but sometimes,
watching the man pull and replace files, Wallace felt like bursting into his
office and shouting at him. Telling him, "It's so damned obvious. Just think
about it this way!"

"What I think," Mekal reported next week, "is that it's useless crap. It's
something persistent, sure, but that's because of structural properties. Nothing
else."

"Not true," Wallace replied without doubts. "And why's it everywhere? Can you
explain its distribution?"

"I know, I know. It looks odd, you're right. The same parts are always the same,
regardless of species. The middle stuff varies, and I can't explain why. Maybe a
dead old virus code --"

"Inside oak trees and people?"

"A universal virus, maybe?"

"But not inside a woman who died thirty thousand years ago. Nor in any of the
incomplete fossil samples."

"A genetic fart then." Mekal tried laughing.

"You're going to give up?" Wallace spoke as if injured. [He wasn't. He was
panicky.] "I've been working on it for years. You've already done a good job
excluding things, narrowing the suspects. Can't you keep at it some more? A
little while?" He paused, then asked, "Just do? Can you?"

Just do.

There was an instant when Mekal seemed disgusted and thoroughly disinterested;
but those two words had their effect, percolating into him, pride or fear of
failure causing him to say:

"All right. When I've got time. But that's all I promise."

And with that Wallace returned to his office and carefully, on the sly, inserted
a few more telling dues into some files not yet accessed. Hoping it was enough.
Hoping, yet in the same instant sensing that it wouldn't be. Not quite yet. . .
.

ANOTHER TWO weeks of nothing. Wallace was stuck on the pigeon work, and Mekal
worked harder than he'd ever admit, using his nights and both weekends and his
face drawn and tired when he approached Wallace, asking if he'd come to
tonight's volleyball match. They might need him to sub, or at least score. How
about it? So Wallace came, and after the first game Cindy arrived, coming from
an aerobics class with sweats over the colored tights. Too bad. But Wallace was
in heaven when she took the empty chair beside him, remembering his name and
then cheering for her husband in the second game.

They were matched against the bastards from Marketing again. Everyone on
Marketing was at least six two, it seemed, and they had flutter on their shoes.
The game was forever on the brink of a slaughter. Mekal's heroics kept them
within seven or eight points. Then as a long volley looked won, Cindy bent close
to Wallace and said, "You know, he hates when I watch. He's afraid he'll look
--"

There was a scream, a spongy white ball bouncing to death and Mekal on the hard
floor, gripping an ankle and his face the color of cottage cheese. A bad sprain
was the verdict. He was helped from the court, and Cindy dashed back from
somewhere with ice and towels. Wallace watched as she doctored her husband, her
concern obvious and her manners motherly; and she seemed to know when her
attentions embarrassed him, because suddenly she returned to her seat beside
Wallace, watching Mekal in the corner of her eye but otherwise letting him sulk
alone.

"I don't even know her," Wallace told himself. "I've spent what? Maybe ten
minutes in my life spent talking to her, and what am I thinking? Am I crazy
now?"

Potz had come off the bench, luckily. Three years of high school volleyball
showed in her digs and the clean arcing sets, and R&D managed to stage a
comeback. The game was hanging in the balance for what seemed like forever.

At one point Mekal tried walking, the limp weak and painful to watch.

He ended up sitting on the opposite side of Wallace, watching everything with a
mixture of agony and feverish intensity; and maybe that's why Cindy tried to
change the subject, sensing that it would be best to deflect everyone's
attention, if only for a bit.

"So how's your pigeon business going?" she asked Wallace.

He tried to remember what pigeon business. His mind started and stopped, then
moved again. He said, "Better, mostly."

"Mekkie told me about it --"

Mekkie?

"-- and it sounds exciting. And lovely. How many passenger pigeons are you
making? I mean in this test flock."

"Fifty thousand," Wallace allowed.

"That's very noble of you," she assured both of them.

Then Mekal snapped, "It's for a pizza chain. It's so they can sell more pizzas."

"Nonetheless." She refused to be cynical. "A good thing is a good thing, no
matter its motives."

Wallace felt a little weak. She sounded so young and noble and sweet, and he
nearly forgot to record the next goal.

Then Cindy was telling him, "I've troubles understanding genetics. Mekkie's
explained them a thousand times. Base pairs and dominating--"

"Dominance," her husband corrected.

" -- but it's all such a muddle to me. I guess I'm just too slow to pick it up."

"No, you're not," Wallace responded. "I'm sure you're not."

"No?"

"I know you're not."

Mekal seemed oblivious to them, his brow furrowed, eyes tracking after the
arcing ball.

Wallace had an idea, an inspiration. "How about if I explain genetics? I'll tell
you how I think about them."

Cindy smiled while looking straight ahead. "Okay. Do."

"Think of DNA as another way of talking. That's all. Chromosomes and the rest of
it are just machines that record the words in the DNA. Genes are a set of
instructions meant for the future. They tall new generations how to build
proteins, metabolize, then reproduce when it's their turn. The actual parts are
simple. What's complicated is that there are so many parts, you see? I don't
understand more than a fraction of the whole setup, and it's my job. Which is
why I feel pretty humble most of the time."

"Do you?" she asked.

"Oh, sure." He paused, deciding what to say next. Then he heard his voice coming
out of him, seemingly of its own volition. "Think of your genes this way. Your
parents and grandparents and all the way back . . . all those people are talking
to you, millions of biochemical voices working together, and the words are
wrapped up in machinery more complicated and much, much more reliable than any
machine people have ever built."

"That's something to think about," she said.

Mekal stretched out his sore leg, saying nothing.

"We're full of stuff, and a lot of it isn't even used anymore. For me it's like
hunting for treasures, doing what I do." Then he decided to forget caution,
pressing ahead. "I just had a weird thought. This is the same subject, just a
different way of looking at it. Suppose someday we go to another star and find
life on a planet. It's more primitive than Earth, but maybe someday it'll get to
building campfires and condos. Who knows? So anyway, we decide to leave a
message for the future. We can carve stone, I suppose, but what if the stone
weathers away? We can put a message on the planer's moon, but no place is really
safe. I mean, what we want is to be able to tuck our message where nothing can
destroy it. We make a simple code, but where can it go? Where would a code be
repaired and replicated without our having to worry --"

"In the genes? The alien ones?" Cindy seemed genuinely excited, asking him, "Am
I right? That's what you're saying, isn't it?"

"I suppose so." It was the logic that Wallace had employed several weeks ago.
"If I ever find myself in a starship, it's something I'd consider."

Nobody spoke for a long moment.

Boom went the serve, flat and fast, then dipping to the floor. Point! Game!
Match!

But Mekal didn't curse or even grimace. Indeed, when he rose to his feet,
icewater dripping from the towels around his foot, he managed a limping gait
while gazing into the distance. At nothing. Then he said, "All right, this is
done. Why don't we get home, Cin? What do you say?"

"You played well," she offered with a clear, confident voice.

And he said, "I guess so," shrugging his shoulders and starting for the door. "I
suppose."

Mekal vanished from public view. Sometimes Wallace would keep tabs on the man's
computer usage, but it was obvious that he'd had the long-last breakthrough. Now
he was busy using code-breaking programs, bringing in consultants from
mathematics and physics as well as patent law. There were rumors of big events.
Potz reported nocturnal meetings with the highest of the high Company officials,
a few select government people in attendance too. There was diffuse noise about
a major discovery, Mekal in the middle of things; yet the rumors never did the
truth any justice. Sometime in the last thirty thousand years alien beings had
come to Earth, seen possibilities, and left behind coded messages inside every
living organism. Nobody could invent such craziness over morning coffee. And
found by Mekal? That would have strained any credulity that remained.

Eventually came word of a big announcement, a press conference combined with a
meeting of key Company people. It would happen Tuesday, then no, Friday. Friday.
And it was Thursday afternoon when Mekal came into Wallace's office, closed the
door with care, then sat and said, "Listen," and said nothing else. He sat with
his hands limp in his lap, his mouth open, his eyes vacant and very nearly
exhausted.

"You getting anywhere on that problem I gave you -- ?"

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I have."

"Good then."

Mekal licked his lips, then said, "It's your data, of course. I sure intend to
give you credit for the data, and you're the person who thought it might be
important."

"Is it?"

Mekal blinked and said, "Huh?"

"Important?"

"Oh, yes. Yes, it is." He outlined the bare bones of what he had discovered. It
was maybe half of what Wallace had deciphered for himself in a single night; but
then Mekal added that there was a lot more, now that experts from everywhere
were involved. "And you'll get flail credit for your part. I want to assure you
-- "

"Thanks."

Mekal was shaken by Wallace's attitude, by the utter lack of hostility toward
him.

"It sounds very, very interesting," said Wallace. "What kinds of things do the
aliens say to us?"

"Inside primates, all primates, are star charts. For instance. The messages are
set up along taxonomic lines --" just as Wallace had suspected -- "and other
groups have mathematics and digitized photographs. Beetles are going to contain
the bulk of the text. A thousand kinds of technology. It's like . . . the whole
thing . . . we've got the keys to the universe, you know?"

Wallace nodded, eager to show a smile.

"Oh, and you can sit up with the rest of us tomorrow. Take your bows with the
others."

"Thank you, Mekal."

It was killing the man, him listening to the ceaseless good tidings. He almost
growled. Then he rose to his feet, wanting to leave.

"A good thing I kept after you, huh?"

Mekal paused, looking back over his shoulder.

"Wasn't it?"

Mekal said, "It was."

"Congratulations."

The tall man didn't have any more words inside him. It was all he could do just
to grip the doorknob and turn it, acting as if it might be wired with
explosives, opening the door with a smooth slow motion and hesitating, looking
up and down the hallway and hesitating, then stepping into the open with one
last backward glance, the face allowing itself a grateful smile with the eyes
wide. Thunderstruck.

MONTHS PASSED. Wallace didn't again see Cindy until the pigeons arrived, in the
spring, the Company organizing a picnic directly below their route. The flock
had been released in second-growth timber in the South; their embedded genetics
told them where to fly, leading them toward a state park in northern Michigan.
Naturally the picnic featured pizza and several self-congratulating speeches
about the project's successes. Wallace's name was mentioned. Applause rose, then
fell, then someone shouted, "Here they come!" and the first wild passenger
pigeons in more than a century were passing directly overhead.

It was a strange sight. The birds formed a great disk in the high blue sky. The
disk was supposed to resemble an airborne pizza; those behavioral genes had been
the toughest puzzles. Wallace pointed and told Cindy, "The clumps are the
anchovies," and she laughed quietly, almost without sound.

Mekal couldn't make it. Cindy had explained that he was in Europe again, giving
lectures and meeting with some German concerns. The alien messages and
technologies had been ruled public property, but the Company had the only
extensive records available as yet. The Germans didn't want to be left behind,
and afterwards Mekal was flying to Japan --

"Sounds busy," Wallace had said.

"Too busy, I think. But he seems happy." Cindy was wearing jeans and a soft red
sweater, and she'd glance at Wallace now and again, on the sly. Sometimes he
thought he detected a whiff of loneliness in her voice. Other times, nothing. "I
know it's hard to imagine," she had said, "but he's enjoying more success than
he ever dreamed possible. And that's something, considering Mekkie. But you know
that. You're his friend and all." She smiled, her pretty face a little fuller
than he remembered. But so pretty, so young, and those eyes reaching straight
into him.

"I know Mekkie, all right," he said.

Sometimes Wallace envied Mekal's fame, and that surprised him. He hadn't thought
it was in his nature to care about such trivial things. He had to tell himself,
"No, it's enough that you know who made the discovery. What is, is. The world's
assessment doesn't have any relevance at all." And the truth told, Wallace would
have hated the celebrity's life. Being carried around like a trophy, acting as
the voice of the Company, and the unending crush of reporters and strangers,
their motives unknown. It seemed like a picture from Hell. He would be the most
famous scientist since Einstein, but Einstein lived before television and
marketing, talk shows, and overkill. Posters of Mekal were selling in the
millions. He was a public relations dream -- a solid, fiery, and manly scientist
--and it would only increase if the rumors of a Nobel Prize came true.

No, Wallace was thankful for his anonymity.

Particularly now, he thought, standing with Cindy, close enough to smell her
perfume and feel her gentle heat.

There were rumors about things other than the Nobel Prize. About Mekal and
women, for instance. Every hotel room was filled with flowers sent by admirers.
Tabloids linked him with various models and young actresses. Even Potz was
supposedly involved, she and Mekal trying out his giant new office one night,
the tale coming straight from the janitor who stood in the hallway, leaning
against his broom and listening. And of course Cindy had to know at least some
of the stories, making Wallace feel sorry for her. Yet he had set up these
circumstances, hadn't he? He had guessed what would happen, knowing Mekal.
Success can twist and transform people's lives. Fame doesn't corrupt character,
but it surely reveals what is already there.

The pigeons were gone, tracking perfectly -- a giant flying billboard selling
pizzas all the way to a never-seen homeland.

Such a bright day, blue and calm and just a little cool; and Wallace stared
across the green countryside for a long moment, smiling to himself, letting
himself daydream.

"Well, I'm glad I saw them," said Cindy.

The pigeons.

She hugged herself and said, "Maybe I'll go home now. I can't seem to get warm."

"Maybe I'll leave too."

They started for the parking lot below. For Wallace every step seemed full of
possibilities. Mekal gone; his wife alone and lonely. He was aware of her
watching him in profile, measuring something; and finally she told him, "You
know, he's afraid of you. I don't think Mekkie's slept one good night in
months."

"Afraid?"

"Of course he is." She stopped and looked around, making sure they were alone.
"You must think he's an idiot, but he's not. You gave him all that evidence,
those clues, then you stood by while letting him take the credit -- "

"He earned everything" Wallace said with a firm, level voice.

"You hate him, he thinks. You're planning to destroy him." The girl's face was
sorrowful, her own sleeplessness showing. "What he thinks is that you've got
evidence somewhere. You deciphered the aliens' message first, and when you want,
you're going to make him look like a cheat."

"No," he replied. "I'd never do anything like that!"

She said nothing.

What stunned Wallace were the little jolts of anger directed at him.

"Then what were you planning?" she asked him.

He opened his mouth, then she shut it.

"Because I'm not stupid, Wallace. You might think so --"

"No, no. Not at all!"

"-- but you're not fooling me. You knew what you were giving him, I was there,
and don't tell me you didn't. Don't."

So this was it. A minute ago he had been daydreaming, he and Cindy making love
on her living room floor; and now the daydream felt like a premonition, clear
and certain. He reached and grasped one of her hands, squeezing hard. And in
broken, quick sentences he outlined the basics of his bold scheme.

What surprised him was her lack of surprise.

Cindy let him hold her cold hand, blue eyes fixed on him, and after a minute she
interrupted, telling him, "Stop." She told him, "You're claiming that you've
intentionally crippled my marriage, because it didn't satisfy your expectations,
because you thought I'd be happier with someone else," and she pulled back her
hand, shutting her eyes and holding them closed.

And Wallace panicked. He had to say something, give her something to deflect her
anger. That's why he told about Potz and Mekal, painting it as if he were the
person standing outside the office door. He wanted Cindy to see -- see and admit
-- that her husband wasn't worthy of her, that she could find a man who would
treat her as she deserved --

-- and she slapped him with the once-held hand, the crack worse than the pain,
his head jerking back and her speaking quickly and loudly, assuring him, "I
never want to see you again. I don't want you in the same place as me, ever. I
just wish you knew how much I hate you, you bastard. You god damn bastard!"

She turned and walked, then began to run.

And Wallace tried speaking, his mouth ajar and his brain empty. What could he
say? Then he was crying, touching his wet face with both hands, feeling certain
that he would die of shame any moment. Only he didn't. Couldn't. Thousands of
genes inside him, trillions of copies of each, and with their ancient
instructions they kept him alive, making him breathe and grieve while people
stood at a safe distance, watching and pointing, talking among themselves.

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