. .”
Carter put the paper down and looked up at Mr. Gunderson, the museum director. He was leaning back in his high-backed leather chair, with his hands folded across his belly.
“This hasn’t gone out yet, has it?” Carter asked.
“You haven’t even finished reading it. Go on.”
Carter dropped his eyes to the page again; the glare in the room from Gunderson’s bank of windows—washed at his insistence, according to the scuttlebutt, three times a week—made it difficult to read. The text made it even harder.
“Although the museum already contains over two million finds, ranging from mastodons to giant ground sloths, saber-toothed cats to camels, only once before have human remains been unearthed.”
That much at least was true.
“Known as the La Brea Woman, she was approximately eighteen years old, stood a mere 4’8”, and died, based on radiometric dating, 9,000 years ago. Although the cause of her death and how her remains came to be entombed in an asphalt seep (commonly referred to as tar) are questions that still beg an answer, one thing is now clear.”
Carter could guess what was coming.
“La Brea Woman is no longer alone.”
Why was this starting to sound more and more like a “Bride of Frankenstein” scenario? And did that make Carter the God-defying Victor Frankenstein?
“Discovered in what is known as Pit 91, an open dig site with an observation station open to all museum visitors, these early remains have yet to be dated—” Carter stopped and looked up again.
“It says here the remains have yet to be dated.”
“Which is true,” Gunderson replied.
“But only because they haven’t even been excavated yet.” Carter waved the press release in his hand. “This whole thing is premature. Not only haven’t we removed the fossil, we haven’t even gotten a good look at it yet. It’s still buried in the tar.”
“Dr. Cox,” Gunderson said, leaning forward in his chair now, “we’ve made a marvelous discovery here, and I don’t see any point in hiding our light under a bushel.”
It didn’t escape Carter’s notice that Gunderson had included himself in the discovery.
“Do you know,” Gunderson went on, “what museums and research institutions, just like this one, need to survive?”
Before Carter could tell him—it wasn’t exactly a riddle worthy of the Sphinx—Gunderson went on.
“Money. And do you know what keeps the money flowing?”
“Prehistoric human remains?”
“News. And yes, in this case, prehistoric human remains happen to be the news. Big news, I might add.”
Carter could see his point—he hadn’t been raised in a cave—and Lord knows, he’d spent a fair amount of his own time chasing research grants and funds. But what he didn’t want—what he never wanted—was to go off half-cocked.
“I understand what you’re saying. But couldn’t we just hold off a bit? All I need right now is a couple more people on my crew—experienced people—and some extended hours, a second automated pulley to remove the buckets, maybe even night lights. It’s cooler at night, and we could get some more mucking-out done then.”
“You make my point,” Gunderson said. “Everything you’re asking for costs money. And right now, the museum is strapped for funds.”
Maybe he should have his windows washed only twice a week, Carter thought.
“And we have several grant requests that are currently under review. A discovery of this magnitude, given the proper play, could bring in a lot of additional monies. Not to mention the revenues from increased attendance alone. Can you imagine the number of people who will flock to the observation station to watch this drama unfold?”
Yes, Carter could well imagine that, and it was one of the main
Carter put the paper down and looked up at Mr. Gunderson, the museum director. He was leaning back in his high-backed leather chair, with his hands folded across his belly.
“This hasn’t gone out yet, has it?” Carter asked.
“You haven’t even finished reading it. Go on.”
Carter dropped his eyes to the page again; the glare in the room from Gunderson’s bank of windows—washed at his insistence, according to the scuttlebutt, three times a week—made it difficult to read. The text made it even harder.
“Although the museum already contains over two million finds, ranging from mastodons to giant ground sloths, saber-toothed cats to camels, only once before have human remains been unearthed.”
That much at least was true.
“Known as the La Brea Woman, she was approximately eighteen years old, stood a mere 4’8”, and died, based on radiometric dating, 9,000 years ago. Although the cause of her death and how her remains came to be entombed in an asphalt seep (commonly referred to as tar) are questions that still beg an answer, one thing is now clear.”
Carter could guess what was coming.
“La Brea Woman is no longer alone.”
Why was this starting to sound more and more like a “Bride of Frankenstein” scenario? And did that make Carter the God-defying Victor Frankenstein?
“Discovered in what is known as Pit 91, an open dig site with an observation station open to all museum visitors, these early remains have yet to be dated—” Carter stopped and looked up again.
“It says here the remains have yet to be dated.”
“Which is true,” Gunderson replied.
“But only because they haven’t even been excavated yet.” Carter waved the press release in his hand. “This whole thing is premature. Not only haven’t we removed the fossil, we haven’t even gotten a good look at it yet. It’s still buried in the tar.”
“Dr. Cox,” Gunderson said, leaning forward in his chair now, “we’ve made a marvelous discovery here, and I don’t see any point in hiding our light under a bushel.”
It didn’t escape Carter’s notice that Gunderson had included himself in the discovery.
“Do you know,” Gunderson went on, “what museums and research institutions, just like this one, need to survive?”
Before Carter could tell him—it wasn’t exactly a riddle worthy of the Sphinx—Gunderson went on.
“Money. And do you know what keeps the money flowing?”
“Prehistoric human remains?”
“News. And yes, in this case, prehistoric human remains happen to be the news. Big news, I might add.”
Carter could see his point—he hadn’t been raised in a cave—and Lord knows, he’d spent a fair amount of his own time chasing research grants and funds. But what he didn’t want—what he never wanted—was to go off half-cocked.
“I understand what you’re saying. But couldn’t we just hold off a bit? All I need right now is a couple more people on my crew—experienced people—and some extended hours, a second automated pulley to remove the buckets, maybe even night lights. It’s cooler at night, and we could get some more mucking-out done then.”
“You make my point,” Gunderson said. “Everything you’re asking for costs money. And right now, the museum is strapped for funds.”
Maybe he should have his windows washed only twice a week, Carter thought.
“And we have several grant requests that are currently under review. A discovery of this magnitude, given the proper play, could bring in a lot of additional monies. Not to mention the revenues from increased attendance alone. Can you imagine the number of people who will flock to the observation station to watch this drama unfold?”
Yes, Carter could well imagine that, and it was one of the main
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