beaky nose.
Tim started, as if he’d just come out of a trance, which was probably not that far from the truth. “I’m, uh, Tim Loeffler,” he said, almost knocking over his drink when he unfolded what seemed like more arms and legs than he strictly needed. “I’m a student of Professor Scofield’s at UI, and I’m here hoping to learn more about, uh, the ethnobotanical practices and, um, resources of the Amazonian Basin, and, uh-” At a subtly impatient jiggle of the lighter that Scofield was using to relight his pipe, Tim skidded to an abrupt halt. “And, um, I guess that’s about it.”
“Thank you, Tim,” Scofield said around the bit of his pipe. He clicked the lighter closed, turned to his left, and tipped his head benignly at the woman with the Laura Petrie hairdo. “Maggie?”
She stopped jiggling her foot, uncrossed her jeans-clad legs, and turned to face Gideon’s table, the table of strangers. “My name’s Maggie Gray-”
“Oh, I forgot,” Tim blurted. “I should have said – I’m also a student of Maggie’s – of Professor Gray’s.”
“-and, as Tim indicates, I also teach in the ethnobotany program at the University of Iowa.” She paused. “At the moment, anyway. My primary interests are in the area of ethnopharmacology with a concentration on anaesthetics, hypnotics, and opiates.” She had an unusual, not unattractive manner of speaking, biting and humorously ironic, as if everything she said was half taunting – self-taunting as much as anything else. The set of her face, with its wide, sardonic mouth, and with one eyebrow slightly raised – much practiced, Gideon suspected – added to the general impression of barbed, above-it-all skepticism.
“Mel?” said Scofield.
Beside Maggie, the fourth person at the table, the big guy with the bull neck, now smiled affably. “Hi all, I’m Mel Pulaski and I’m not a botanist, I’m a writer, so in a way I’m kind of just along for the ride-”
“Wait a minute,” Phil said. “I know you. Didn’t you used to play for the Dallas Cowboys?”
“Minnesota,” Mel said, pleased. “You got a good memory.”
“Running back, right?”
“Linebacker. But that was a few years and a few pounds back. I’m a freelance writer now. I’m writing up an article on the cruise for EcoAdventure Travel. I also worked with Dr. Scofield on his latest book-”
“Indeed you did, and we’ll come to that in just a few minutes, Mel,” Scofield said, talking over him. “But there at that table are four gentlemen whom I haven’t met.” He leaned forward, smiling at Osterhout and radiating cordiality. “I think I can guess, however, who that particular gentleman, our butterfly expert, is.”
“Well, I’m Duayne Osterhout. Yes, I’m an entomologist, an ethno entomologist, I suppose I should say in this august company, and I’m with the Department of Agriculture.” He was still on his first pisco sour, but obviously he wasn’t much used to drinking, because it had gone to his head. He was speaking a little too carefully, almost visibly preforming the words before trying them out. “In other words, I’m a bug man.”
“Dr. Osterhout is being unduly modest,” Scofield said. “He is not just any bug man, he is one of the world’s leading bug men, and an internationally recognized authority on the order Blattaria.”
Visibly pleased, Osterhout simpered and waved a dismissive hand. “Oh now, really, I don’t know that I’d say…”
“What’s Blattaria?” John whispered to Gideon.
“Cockroaches.”
John inconspicuously shifted his chair a few inches further away from Osterhout.
“Surely this isn’t your first trip to the Amazon, Dr. Osterhout?” Scofield asked. “I imagine your studies must have taken you here many times.”
“Not really. I can assure you that if it’s cockroaches one is interested in, one has no trouble studying them in the Washington, DC, area, so as a matter of fact, yes, it is my first visit. You
Tim started, as if he’d just come out of a trance, which was probably not that far from the truth. “I’m, uh, Tim Loeffler,” he said, almost knocking over his drink when he unfolded what seemed like more arms and legs than he strictly needed. “I’m a student of Professor Scofield’s at UI, and I’m here hoping to learn more about, uh, the ethnobotanical practices and, um, resources of the Amazonian Basin, and, uh-” At a subtly impatient jiggle of the lighter that Scofield was using to relight his pipe, Tim skidded to an abrupt halt. “And, um, I guess that’s about it.”
“Thank you, Tim,” Scofield said around the bit of his pipe. He clicked the lighter closed, turned to his left, and tipped his head benignly at the woman with the Laura Petrie hairdo. “Maggie?”
She stopped jiggling her foot, uncrossed her jeans-clad legs, and turned to face Gideon’s table, the table of strangers. “My name’s Maggie Gray-”
“Oh, I forgot,” Tim blurted. “I should have said – I’m also a student of Maggie’s – of Professor Gray’s.”
“-and, as Tim indicates, I also teach in the ethnobotany program at the University of Iowa.” She paused. “At the moment, anyway. My primary interests are in the area of ethnopharmacology with a concentration on anaesthetics, hypnotics, and opiates.” She had an unusual, not unattractive manner of speaking, biting and humorously ironic, as if everything she said was half taunting – self-taunting as much as anything else. The set of her face, with its wide, sardonic mouth, and with one eyebrow slightly raised – much practiced, Gideon suspected – added to the general impression of barbed, above-it-all skepticism.
“Mel?” said Scofield.
Beside Maggie, the fourth person at the table, the big guy with the bull neck, now smiled affably. “Hi all, I’m Mel Pulaski and I’m not a botanist, I’m a writer, so in a way I’m kind of just along for the ride-”
“Wait a minute,” Phil said. “I know you. Didn’t you used to play for the Dallas Cowboys?”
“Minnesota,” Mel said, pleased. “You got a good memory.”
“Running back, right?”
“Linebacker. But that was a few years and a few pounds back. I’m a freelance writer now. I’m writing up an article on the cruise for EcoAdventure Travel. I also worked with Dr. Scofield on his latest book-”
“Indeed you did, and we’ll come to that in just a few minutes, Mel,” Scofield said, talking over him. “But there at that table are four gentlemen whom I haven’t met.” He leaned forward, smiling at Osterhout and radiating cordiality. “I think I can guess, however, who that particular gentleman, our butterfly expert, is.”
“Well, I’m Duayne Osterhout. Yes, I’m an entomologist, an ethno entomologist, I suppose I should say in this august company, and I’m with the Department of Agriculture.” He was still on his first pisco sour, but obviously he wasn’t much used to drinking, because it had gone to his head. He was speaking a little too carefully, almost visibly preforming the words before trying them out. “In other words, I’m a bug man.”
“Dr. Osterhout is being unduly modest,” Scofield said. “He is not just any bug man, he is one of the world’s leading bug men, and an internationally recognized authority on the order Blattaria.”
Visibly pleased, Osterhout simpered and waved a dismissive hand. “Oh now, really, I don’t know that I’d say…”
“What’s Blattaria?” John whispered to Gideon.
“Cockroaches.”
John inconspicuously shifted his chair a few inches further away from Osterhout.
“Surely this isn’t your first trip to the Amazon, Dr. Osterhout?” Scofield asked. “I imagine your studies must have taken you here many times.”
“Not really. I can assure you that if it’s cockroaches one is interested in, one has no trouble studying them in the Washington, DC, area, so as a matter of fact, yes, it is my first visit. You
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