the data into his notebook."
"What kind of instrument?"
"It took me a while to figure it out. Treasure hunters and prospectors commonly use two devices. The first is a flux gradiometer proton magnetometer, which is basically an incredibly sophisticated metal detector. You walk along the ground and it measures tiny variations in the local magnetic field. But the data output, measured in milligauss, doesn't look like these numbers at all.
"The second device is a ground-penetrating radar or GPR. It's a machine that looks like a perforated dish with a cluster of bow-tie antennae. It basically fires pulses of radar at the ground and records the echo. Depending on the type of ground and how dry it is, the radar can penetrate as deeply as five meters before being reflected back up. You can get a rough 3D image of something hidden in
the ground or in certain types of rock. It lets you see voids, caves, old mines, buried treasure chests, metal-bearing veins, ancient walls or graves-that sort of thing."
He paused to catch his breath, and went on in a rapid undertone. "It turns out the numbers in your notebook were the data stream from a very sensitive, custom-built ground-penetrating radar. Luckily it had a standard output mimicking a Dallas Electronics BAND 155 Swept FM, so that the imagery could be processed by off-the-shelf software."
"This treasure hunter was serious."
"He certainly was. He knew exactly what he was doing."
"So did he find a treasure?"
"He certainly did."
Tom could hardly stand the suspense. "What was it?"
Wyman smiled, held up his finger. "You're about to see a radar image of it, mapped using the GPR. That's what all those numbers in the notebook were all about: a careful mapping of the treasure in situ in the ground."
Tom watched as Ford connected to a Website maintained by the Boston University Department of Geology. He drilled down through a series of highly technical hypertext pages dealing with radar, satellite imagery, and Landsat, before arriving at a page entitled:
BAND 155 SWEPT-FM GPR PROCESSING AND ANALYSIS WITH
TERRAPLOT®
ENTER YOUR ID AND PASSWORD
"Hacked my way in," Ford whispered with a grin, typing in an ID and password. "No harm done, just pretended to be a student at BU." "This doesn't strike me as very monkish behavior," said Tom. "I'm not a monk yet." He typed some more and a new screen popped up:
UPLOAD DATA NOW
He typed some more, then sat back with a grin, his finger poised above the ENTER key, a smile hovering on his lips. "Are you ready?" "Don't torture me any longer." He brought his finger down with a crisp rap, executing the program.
21
COWBOY COUNTRY REALTY was located in a cutsie pseudo-adobe building on the Paseo de Peralta, strings of red chiles flanking the door and a chipper secretary in a western outfit manning the reception desk. Maddox strolled in, his own boots making a satisfying clunk-clunk on the Saltillo tile floors. He raised his hand to remove the Resistol hat he had purchased that morning-16X beaver, $420- but then decided against it, seeing as how he was now in the West where real cowboys left their hats on indoors. He went over to reception, leaned on the desk.
"What can I do for you, sir?" the receptionist asked.
"You handle summer rentals, right?" Maddox gave the girl a lopsided grin.
"We sure do."
"Name's Maddox. Jim Maddox." He extended his hand and she took it. Her blue eyes met his.
"Are you here to see anyone in particular?"
"Nope, I'm what you might call a walk-in."
"Let me call an agent for you."
A moment later he was being ushered into a well-appointed office, fully loaded in Santa Fe style.
"Trina Dowling," said the agent, offering her hand and seating him down opposite herself. She was a fright-fifty something, X-ray thin, black dress, blond hair, a voice that scared you with its efficiency. A potential client, thought Maddox. Definitely a potential client.
"I understand you're interested in a
"What kind of instrument?"
"It took me a while to figure it out. Treasure hunters and prospectors commonly use two devices. The first is a flux gradiometer proton magnetometer, which is basically an incredibly sophisticated metal detector. You walk along the ground and it measures tiny variations in the local magnetic field. But the data output, measured in milligauss, doesn't look like these numbers at all.
"The second device is a ground-penetrating radar or GPR. It's a machine that looks like a perforated dish with a cluster of bow-tie antennae. It basically fires pulses of radar at the ground and records the echo. Depending on the type of ground and how dry it is, the radar can penetrate as deeply as five meters before being reflected back up. You can get a rough 3D image of something hidden in
the ground or in certain types of rock. It lets you see voids, caves, old mines, buried treasure chests, metal-bearing veins, ancient walls or graves-that sort of thing."
He paused to catch his breath, and went on in a rapid undertone. "It turns out the numbers in your notebook were the data stream from a very sensitive, custom-built ground-penetrating radar. Luckily it had a standard output mimicking a Dallas Electronics BAND 155 Swept FM, so that the imagery could be processed by off-the-shelf software."
"This treasure hunter was serious."
"He certainly was. He knew exactly what he was doing."
"So did he find a treasure?"
"He certainly did."
Tom could hardly stand the suspense. "What was it?"
Wyman smiled, held up his finger. "You're about to see a radar image of it, mapped using the GPR. That's what all those numbers in the notebook were all about: a careful mapping of the treasure in situ in the ground."
Tom watched as Ford connected to a Website maintained by the Boston University Department of Geology. He drilled down through a series of highly technical hypertext pages dealing with radar, satellite imagery, and Landsat, before arriving at a page entitled:
BAND 155 SWEPT-FM GPR PROCESSING AND ANALYSIS WITH
TERRAPLOT®
ENTER YOUR ID AND PASSWORD
"Hacked my way in," Ford whispered with a grin, typing in an ID and password. "No harm done, just pretended to be a student at BU." "This doesn't strike me as very monkish behavior," said Tom. "I'm not a monk yet." He typed some more and a new screen popped up:
UPLOAD DATA NOW
He typed some more, then sat back with a grin, his finger poised above the ENTER key, a smile hovering on his lips. "Are you ready?" "Don't torture me any longer." He brought his finger down with a crisp rap, executing the program.
21
COWBOY COUNTRY REALTY was located in a cutsie pseudo-adobe building on the Paseo de Peralta, strings of red chiles flanking the door and a chipper secretary in a western outfit manning the reception desk. Maddox strolled in, his own boots making a satisfying clunk-clunk on the Saltillo tile floors. He raised his hand to remove the Resistol hat he had purchased that morning-16X beaver, $420- but then decided against it, seeing as how he was now in the West where real cowboys left their hats on indoors. He went over to reception, leaned on the desk.
"What can I do for you, sir?" the receptionist asked.
"You handle summer rentals, right?" Maddox gave the girl a lopsided grin.
"We sure do."
"Name's Maddox. Jim Maddox." He extended his hand and she took it. Her blue eyes met his.
"Are you here to see anyone in particular?"
"Nope, I'm what you might call a walk-in."
"Let me call an agent for you."
A moment later he was being ushered into a well-appointed office, fully loaded in Santa Fe style.
"Trina Dowling," said the agent, offering her hand and seating him down opposite herself. She was a fright-fifty something, X-ray thin, black dress, blond hair, a voice that scared you with its efficiency. A potential client, thought Maddox. Definitely a potential client.
"I understand you're interested in a
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