Dead as a Dinosaur by Frances Lockridge Page A

all,” Pam said, “even if you had it all, what would you have? I mean—”
    â€œKnow what you mean,” Landcraft said. “Knowledge, woman. Knowledge. What do you want?”
    â€œLife,” Pam North said.
    â€œOh,” Landcraft told her, “there’s plenty of that.” His voice was, suddenly, not so young as it had been. Jesse Landcraft’s voice seemed to have tired.
    Pamela North was shaking her head, but Homer Preson came back before she had organized any answer to this last; to this, at best, elevation of the past above the present. This—
    â€œQuite a good deal of it, Mr. North,” Homer Preson said. He carried two boxes, tied with string. The boxes had contained typewriter paper; now, it was to be assumed, they held typewriter paper still, but now the paper was manuscript. Jerry opened the boxes and examined and was relieved. The typescript had been considerably corrected, in pencil. But it was still readable, and at least preliminary revisions had been made. He leafed through the two hundred odd pages in the first box and the more than a hundred in the second. The last page was numbered 315. He calculated. A hundred thousand words, perhaps. Volume I had run longer. Still—He came on four pages clipped together, numbered consecutively. At the start of the first was typed: “Chapts. 22, 23, 24—summary.” The rest was terse; all too evidently a listing of topics still to be covered. It meant very little to Gerald North, who sighed. He re-turned and read the last two pages of the completed, or semi-completed, manuscript. It was concerned with the “bear dog” of prehistory; it was clear, interesting, now and then witty. When he wrote those pages, at any rate, Orpheus Preson had still had his wits about him, and the grace of mind—the unexpectedness—which had given life to his saga of old bones. He had ended with a half-finished sentence.
    â€œI’ll take it along,” Jerry said. “We may be able to publish as it is. Perhaps somebody can finish it along his lines.”
    â€œI,” Homer Preson said, “don’t know. I’ll have to ask that you consult the Institute.”
    â€œOf course,” Jerry told him. “That’s obvious, Mr. Preson.”
    â€œI am not familiar with the situation, technically,” Preson insisted. “I should like to be certain that the Institute, whose property this is, or will be, approves your plans.”
    A very precise little man, Jerry thought. A pettifogging little man; a man who moved with short steps and cautious ones.
    â€œMy firm is entirely responsible,” Gerald North said, and knew that he echoed Homer Preson’s primness. “All contingencies will be considered.” He felt that the last would appeal to Homer Preson.
    â€œWell—” Preson said. “I rather wish my sister—”
    â€œI’ll tell you,” Pam North said, “we’ll go up to the Institute right now, won’t we, Jerry. Take the manuscript up to them, explain Mr. Preson’s position, get their approval. Won’t we, Jerry?”
    It was Jerry North’s turn to say, “Well—” and to say it doubtfully. He looked quickly at his wife; she nodded with emphasis. “Why yes,” Jerry said, “we’ll do that.”
    â€œGood,” Homer Preson said. “I’m sure that is the correct procedure, Mr. North.”
    They were through the rain again, in the car again, in a few minutes. Preson had taken them to the door. Jesse Landcraft apparently had gone to sleep in his chair but, as Jerry started the car, Pam said, “He was wide awake, all the same. I looked back and he was just closing them.”
    â€œHis eyes?” Jerry said, preparing to drive around a block, turning right at the first corner.
    â€œOf course,” Pam said. “Did he make you shiver?”
    â€œLandcraft?” Jerry said.