FOUR

IT was the smell of the place, she thought, that really brought home the fact she was back in the museum: that mixture of mothballs, dust, old varnish, and a whiff of decay. She walked down the great fifth-floor corridor, past the oaken office doors, each sporting the name of a curator in black-edged gold leaf. She was surprised at how few new names there were. A lot of things had changed in six years, but here, in the museum, time seemed to run at a different pace.

She had been worried-more worried than she cared to admit- about how it would feel to be back in the museum several years after the most frightening experience of her life. In fact, that worry had delayed her decision to return. But she had to admit, after a slightly rough first couple of days, that little of the old terror still clung to the place. Her nightmares, the lingering sense of vulnerability, had faded with the years. The old events, the bad events, were now ancient history. And the museum was still a wonderful old pile, a Gothic castle of Brobdingnagian proportions, full of wonderful, eccentric people-and bursting with strange and fascinating specimens. The most extensive collection of trilobites in the world. Lucifer's Heart, the most precious diamond ever found. "Snaggletooth," the largest and best-preserved T. rex fossil known.

Nevertheless, she had been careful not to stray into the museum's sub-basement. And it was not laziness that made her limit the number of nights she worked much past closing.

She remembered the time when she had walked down this august corridor for the first time as a graduate student of no account. Graduate students were so low on the museum's totem pole they were not even despised-they were simply invisible. Not that she'd been resentful: it was a rite of passage everyone had to go through. Back then she was a nobody-a "you," or, at best, a "Miss."

How things had changed. Now she was "Doctor," sometimes even "Professor," and her name appeared in print with a string of titles after it: Pierpont Research Fellow (the "fellow" part always made her smile); adjunct professor of ethnopharmacology; and her most recent title, only three weeks old: editor in chief of Museology. While she'd always told herself that titles meant nothing, she was surprised to discover that, once she'd acquired them, they were most gratifying. Professor… that had a nice round sound to it, especially on the lips of those crusty old curators who, six years ago, wouldn't even give her the time of day. Now they went out of their way to ask her opinion or press their monographs on her. Just that morning, no less a personage than the head of anthropology and her titular boss, Hugo Menzies, had asked solicitously after the subject of her panel discussion for the forthcoming Society of American Anthropologists meeting.

Yes: a refreshing change, indeed.

The office of the director lay at the end of the hall, in one of the coveted tower offices. She paused before the great oaken door, darkened with the patina of a century. She raised her hand, then lowered it, suddenly feeling nervous. She took a deep breath. She felt happy to be back in the museum, and she wondered yet again if the sudden controversy she was about to launch herself into wasn't a serious mistake. She reminded herself that this controversy had been forced on her and that as editor of Museology she had to take a stand. If she ducked this one, she would immediately lose her credibility as an arbiter of ethics and free expression. Worse, she wouldn't be able to live with herself.

Her hand fell firmly upon the oaken door, once, twice, three times, each knock firmer than the last.

A moment of silence. Then the door was opened by Mrs. Surd, the dry and efficient secretary to the museum's director. The sharp blue eyes gave her a rapid once-over as she stepped aside.

"Dr. Green? Dr. Collopy is expecting you. You may go straight in."

Margo approached the inner door, if anything darker and more massive than the other, grasped the ice-cold brass knob, turned it, and pushed it open on well-oiled hinges.

There, behind the great nineteenth-century desk, under a vast painting by De Clefisse of Victoria Falls, sat Frederick Watson Collopy, director of the New York Museum of Natural History. He rose graciously, a smile creasing his handsome face. He was dressed in a somber gray suit of old-fashioned cut, the starched white shirtfront enlivened only by a bright red silk bow tie.

"Ah, Margo. How good of you to come. Please take a seat."

How good of you to come. The note she had received had more the flavor of a summons than an invitation.

Collopy came around his desk and indicated a plush leather armchair which formed part of a group arrayed before a pink marble fireplace. Margo sat down and Collopy followed, taking a seat opposite her.

"Care for anything? Coffee, tea, mineral water?"

"Nothing, thank you, Dr. Collopy."

He leaned back, threw one leg casually over the other.

"We're so pleased to have you back at the museum, Margo," he said in his old New York society drawl. "I was delighted when you agreed to accept the editorship of Museology. We felt so lucky to lure you away from GeneDyne. Those research papers you published really impressed us, and your background here in ethnopharmacology made you the perfect candidate."

"Thank you, Dr. Collopy."

"And how do you find it? Everything to your satisfaction?" His voice was genteel, even kind.

"Everything is well, thank you."

"I am glad to hear it. Museology is the oldest journal in its field, publishing continuously since 1892, and still the most respected. It is a great responsibility and challenge you've taken on, Margo."

"I hope to carry on the tradition."

"And so do we." He stroked his closely trimmed iron-gray beard meditatively. "One of the things we are proud of is the strongly independent editorial voice of Museology."

"Yes," said Margo. She knew where this was going, and she was ready.

"The museum has never interfered with the editorial opinions expressed in Museology, and we never will. We consider the editorial independence of the journal to be well-nigh sacred."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"On the other hand, we would not like to see Museology devolve into a… what should one call it? An op-ed organ." The way he said it made it sound like another kind of organ entirely. "With independence comes responsibility. After all, Museology bears the name of the New York Museum of Natural History."

The voice remained soft-spoken, and yet it had taken on an edge. Margo waited. She would remain cool and professional. In fact, she had already prepared her response-even written it out and memorized it so she could express herself more eloquently-but it was important to let Collopy have his say.

"That is why the previous editors of Museology have always been exceedingly careful about how they exercised their editorial freedom." He let the words hang in the air.

"I assume you're referring to the editorial I am about to publish on the repatriation request of the Tano Indians."

"Exactly. The letter from the tribe, asking for the return of the Great Kiva masks, arrived only last week. The board of trustees has not yet discussed it. The museum hasn't even had time to consult its lawyers. Isn't it a bit premature to be editorializing on something that hasn't even begun to be evaluated? Especially when you're so new to the position?"

"It seems to me a straightforward issue," she said quietly.

At this, Collopy leaned back in his chair, a patronizing smile on his face. "It is anything but straightforward, Margo. Those masks have been in the museum's collections for one hundred and thirty-five years. And they're to be the centerpiece of the Sacred Images show, the biggest exhibition in the museum since Superstition, six years ago."

Another heavy silence.

"Naturally," Collopy went on, "I'm not going to ask you to alter your editorial stand. I will merely point out that there may be a few facts you are unaware of." He pressed an almost invisible button on his desk and said into an equally invisible speaker: "The file, Mrs. Surd?"

A moment later, the secretary appeared with an ancient file in her hand. He thanked her, glanced at it, then handed it to Margo.

Margo took the file. It was very old and brittle and gave off a fearful smell of dust and dry rot. She opened it carefully. Inside were some handwritten papers in spidery mid-nineteenth-century script, a contract, some drawings.

"That is the original accession file of the Great Kiva masks you seem so anxious to return to the Tano Indians. Have you seen it?"

"No, but-"

"Perhaps you should have before you drafted your editorial. That first document is a bill of sale, itemizing two hundred dollars for the masks: a lot of money back in 1870. The museum didn't pay for those Great Kiva masks in trinkets and beads. The second document is the contract. That X is the signature of the chief of the Great Kiva Society-the man who sold the masks to Kendall Swope, the museum's anthropologist. The third document, there, is the letter of thanks the museum wrote to the chief, in care of the Indian agent, which was read to him by the agent, promising the chief that the masks would be well taken care of."

Margo stared at the ancient papers. It continually amazed her how tenacious the museum was with everything, especially documents.

"The point is, Margo, the museum bought those masks in good faith. We paid an excellent price for them. We've now owned them for almost one and a half centuries. We've taken beautiful care of them. On top of that, they're among the most important objects in our entire Native American collection. Many thousands of people view them-are educated by them, make career choices in anthropology or archaeology because of them-every week. Not once in a hundred and thirty-five years did any member of the Tano tribe complain or accuse the museum of acquiring them illegally. Now, doesn't it seem just a tad unfair for them to suddenly be demanding them back? And right before a blockbuster exhibition in which they are the featured attraction?"

Silence fell in the grand tower office, with its tall windows overlooking Museum Drive, its dark-paneled walls graced with Audubon paintings.

"It does seem a bit unfair," Margo said evenly.

A broad smile creased Collopy's face. "I knew you would understand."

"But it won't change my editorial position."

A gradual freezing of the air. "Excuse me?"

It was time for her speech. "Nothing in that accession file changes the facts. It's quite simple. The chief of the Great Kiva Society didn't own the masks to begin with. They weren't his. They belonged to the entire tribe. It would be like a priest selling off church relics. By law, you can't sell something you don't own. That bill of sale and contract in that folder are not legally valid. What's more, when he bought the masks, Kendall Swope knew that, and that is clear from the book he wrote, Tano Ceremonials. He knew the chief didn't have the right to sell them. He knew the masks were a sacred part of the Great Kiva ceremony and must never leave the kiva. He even admits the chief was a crook. It's all right there in Tano Ceremonials."

"Margo-"

"Please let me finish, Dr. Collopy. There's an even more important principle at stake here. Those masks are sacred to the Tano Indians. Everyone recognizes that. They can't be replaced or remade. The Tanos believe each mask has a spirit and is alive. These aren't conveniently made-up beliefs; they're sincere and deeply held religious convictions."

"But after one hundred and thirty-five years? Come, now. Why hadn't we heard a peep from those people all this time?"

"The Tano had no idea where the masks had gone until they read about the upcoming exhibition."

"I simply cannot believe they were mourning the loss of those masks for all this time. They were long forgotten. This is all too convenient, Margo. Those masks are worth five, maybe ten million dollars. It's about money, not about religion."

"No, it isn't. I've spoken to them."

"You've spoken to them?"

"Of course. I called and spoke to the governor of Tano Pueblo."

For a moment, Collopy's mask of implacability fell away. "The legal implications of this are staggering."

"I was simply fulfilling my responsibility as editor of Museology to learn the facts. The Tanos do remember, they remembered all along-those masks, as your own carbon dating proved, were almost seven hundred years old when they were collected. Believe me, the Tanos remember their loss."

"They won't be properly curated-the Tanos don't have the proper facilities to take care of them!"

"They should never have left the kiva to begin with. They aren't 'museum specimens'-they're a living part of Tano religion. Do you think the bones of St. Peter under the Vatican are being 'properly curated'? The masks belong in that kiva, whether it's climate-controlled or not."

"If we give these masks back, it would set a terrible precedent. We'll be inundated with demands from every tribe in America."

"Perhaps. But that's not a valid argument. Giving back those masks is the right thing to do. You know it, and I'm going to publish an editorial saying so!"

She stopped, swallowed, realizing she had violated all her resolutions by raising her voice.

"And that is my final, and independent, editorial judgment," she added more quietly.

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