placed his limbs about himself with deliberate care. "Professor Lin," he said to her in the soft, sibilant Chinese of the Yangtze Valley, and indicated himself.
"Interpreter Mo." They exchanged cards.
"It is my happiness to meet you," he said carefully, studying her.
"And mine," she answered, following him in keqi hua, Polite speech.
"The idea of the American archaeologist is most interesting to me. In our country, we had almost given up hope of recovering Peking Man."
"Do you study the ape-man, then?" she asked.
"All my life."
"Really." Like Jian, she thought: fascinated by the past.
"It’s been my life’s dream to find Peking Man. Without it, the fossils we have for our research are very limited."
"I see." She looked up, aware of the others. It was inappropriate to conduct a private conversation in a Chinese business meeting. "Duibuqi, " she murmured. They all sat down.
"Dr. Kong and Dr. Lin have some interest in your research," Vice Director Han announced. "As they have luckily consented to accompany your expedition, they can help you with the many arrangements you would naturally be unable to make on your own." He cleared his throat. "This means I do not have to allocate so much time to assisting you, do you understand me or not? It removes a difficult problem for me. Under these circumstances it has been decided that I can grant the permits."
Alice translated everything for Spencer in a neutral, professional tone, smiling at the American when she put the words into English: "I can grant the permits." They went through the arrangements, the date they would depart Beijing, the plan for these two archaeologists to return and make preparations at their home in the city of Zhengzhou, Henan Province, then come north on a separate line and join their train at the halfway point. Through her Dr. Spencer explained, all over again, why he believed Father Teilhard had gotten Peking Man back from the Japanese and hidden it in the Northwest.
As she did her job, her mind humming in its two languages, she tried to keep her eyes off Dr. Lin. But she couldn’t help seeing how he turned her name card over and over in his hands, large hairless hands with smooth, fine-textured pale-amber skin, studying her name in Chinese characters and then in English letters before glancing at her once, briefly, and then carefully sliding her card into his pocket.
"Fax for Dr. Spencer," said the short Chinese woman in the green hotel uniform, and thrust the folded paper at him.
"Yes—thank you...." He stared at it—amazing, it was here—then looked up. She was already off down the hall, her short, curved legs pumping. A young man was holding the elevator for her. She jumped inside and Spencer heard their quick, giggly Mandarin bubble up and then click off when the doors whooshed together.
He closed the door to his room, heart racing with excitement.
Open it!
He’d known they would back him, James Hargrove and Fenton Wills. Old friends. They’d been kind to him all these years, even though their stars had soared straight into the stratosphere and his—his had gone nowhere. Just teaching at the University of Nevada. Publishing the occasional minor paper. An unimpressive academic life which would contribute to Tyler’s inevitable realization—someday, when the boy was much older—that his father had been a failure. He had not succeeded in staying married to Tyler’s mother, and as if that weren’t bad enough, he hadn’t done much with his career either. Adam felt he had to turn things around. He had to be at least as good as his own father, who, though cool and preoccupied, had been a humanities professor of some note at a small campus in Sacramento. He, Adam, couldn’t even seem to measure up to that slim standard. These days he was never quoted, never cited, never invited to present work at conferences. Whereas James and Fenton quickly became the people running the conferences. Still they’d always taken his calls. Always had lunch with him when he passed through town. Maybe they knew what he knew, that he was just waiting for the right idea, the right opportunity—and then he would make his mark. Then he would break out.
Open it.
He turned it over in his hand, visualizing what it was going to say: Dear Dr. Spencer, the National Science Foundation is pleased to inform you ...
He swallowed and pressed the single page open. He read it. Looked out the window for a minute, heart pounding.
He read it again.
And again.
We regret we are unable to