Chapter 26 Section 25

Smithback quietly opened the dirty door and peered in.He found this to be the creepiest part of the museum: the physical anthropology lab's storage area, known in museum slang as the "skeleton room."The museum's collection of skeletons is among the best in the United States, second only to the Smithsonian Institution. There are 12,000 skeletons in this room alone.Mostly North and South American Indians and Africans, collected during the heyday of physical anthropology in the nineteenth century.Large metal chests of drawers piled neatly on top of each other to the ceiling; each drawer contained at least part of a human skeleton.There are yellow labels inserted in the front of the drawers, marking the number and name of the tribe, and occasionally a brief introduction.Other labels with few words send shivers down the spine because the skeletons inside are nameless.

Smithback had spent an afternoon wandering the cabinets, opening drawers and reading labels, nearly all of which were handwritten in beautiful, faded handwriting.He copied several of them in his notebook: Specimen No.: 1880-1770 Walking in the Clouds.Sioux Yankton people.Killed at the Battle of Medicine Bow Creek, 1880. What a strange cemetery. In those labyrinthine rooms on the other side of the storage area are the physical anthropology laboratories.In the early years, physical anthropologists spent most of their time in the laboratory weighing bones, trying to determine the relationship between races and understand where humans originated.But now, physical anthropology labs do much more complex biochemical and epidemiological research.

A few years ago, at Flock's insistence, the museum decided to combine the genetic research and DNA labs with the physical anthropology lab.On the other side of the storage area are all kinds of cutting-edge instruments, from giant centrifuges and hissing autoclaves to electrophoresis machines and gleaming monitors, from delicate hand-crafted glass distillation towers to Titration equipment: This is one of the most advanced technological facilities of its kind.Chuanbei's studio was built in this no-man's land between the old and the new. Smithback stood between the rows of tall storage shelves in the storage room and looked towards the laboratory door.Just after ten o'clock, there was only Chuanbei alone.Through the open shelf, Smithback could see Chuanbei and him separated by a row or two of shelves, with his left hand raised above his head, waving something, repeating abrupt pulling movements again and again.Then Smithback heard the screech of the line and the whine of the flywheel.Ha, eye-opening, thought Smithback, this guy is fishing.

"What did you catch?" he called out. He was answered with an exclamation and the crack of the fishing rod. "Damn it, Smithback," Kawakita said, "you've always been so sneaky. Now's not the time to scare people, and you know that. It's hard to say that I don't have a four or five around." He walked down the aisle to the end, turned the corner, put away his fly-hook, and stared at Smithback with a frowning but pleasant look. Smithback laughed. "I told you not to work here with all these skeletons. Look at the result: you've finally lost your mind."

"It's just practice," Chuanbei said with a smile, "Look, the third shelf. Buffalo back." He swung his rod and the line whined and the fly hit the third drawer of a shelf at the end of the aisle.Smithback walked over.Very accurate: the bones inside were once a man named Buffalo's Back. Smithback whistled. Chuanbei took back a piece of fishing line, coiled it into several circles and grasped it loosely with his left hand, while his right hand held the cork end of the fishing rod. "Second row, fifth floor. John Mboya," he said. The line flew again through the narrow space between the shelves, and the little fly hit the tag with perfect accuracy.

"Come here, Gregory," said Smithback, shaking his head. Chuanbei wound up the fishing line and began to disassemble the fishing rod. "It's not the same as fishing on the river," he said as he unwrapped it, "but it's still good practice, especially in this enclosed space, to help me relax when I take a break. But only if I don't get tangled in the line." Go to a closet." When he was first hired by the museum, Kawakita turned down the sunny fifth-floor office he was assigned and asked for a much smaller room in the lab, saying he wanted to be closer to the work site.Since then, he has published more papers than some full-time researchers have published in their entire careers.His interdisciplinary research under Flock's supervision soon led to a position as a Research Assistant in Evolutionary Biology.Chuanbei skillfully used the fame of his mentor to improve himself.When he first entered this field, he spent all his time on the study of plant evolution, but recently he temporarily put aside the subject of plant evolution and devoted himself to writing gene sequence extrapolator programs.Aside from work, his only hobby seems to be fly fishing—or rather, as he explains to anyone who will listen: his obsessive pursuit of the prized but elusive Atlantic salmon.

Chuanbei stuffed the fishing rod into the worn-out Orvis box, leaned the box casually against the corner of the room, waved for Smithback to follow, and then led him through several long and narrow aisles to a large writing desk and three sturdy wooden chairs.Smithback noticed that the desk was covered with papers, stacks of monographs that were about to crumble, and platters with plastic lids filled with various human skeletons in sand. "Look at this." Kawakita said as he slid something to Smithback.This is an engraved genealogy chart, in brown ink on handmade marbled paper.Each branch of the family tree is marked with a different Latin word.

"Nice." Smithback sat down. "That's okay," Kawakita replied. "The concept of human evolution in the middle of the nineteenth century. A masterpiece of art, scientifically it's a joke. I'm writing a small article on the early concept of evolution for the "Quarterly Journal of Human Evolution." "When will it be published?" Smithback asked professionally. "Oh, the first half of next year. This kind of magazine is always slow." Smithback put the family tree back on the table. "What does that have to do with your current job—what? GRE? SAT?—?"

"It should be GSE," Chuanbei said with a smile. "It doesn't matter at all. It's just my little opinion, entertainment in my spare time. Playing with mud from time to time makes me happy." He carefully put the picture into a binder Clipped, turned to face Smithback. "So, how is your masterpiece?" he asked. "Is Mrs. Rickman still tormenting you?" Smithback laughed. "My struggles at the hands of the tyrant seem to be well known. But the book will not be disturbed. I actually came to you to talk about Margot." Chuanbei sat down opposite Smith Park: "Margo Green? What happened to her?"

Smithback flipped aimlessly through a monograph thrown on the table, "I know what she needs your help to do." Chuanbei narrowed his eyes. "She called last night and asked if she could run some data with the extrapolator program. I told her the program wasn't ready." He shrugged. "Technically, that's true. I'm not 100% sure Sex must be accurate. But the point is I've been so busy lately, Bill. I don't have time to lead other people through the program." "She's not a science illiterate who needs you to be led around," Smithback replied. "She's doing heavy genetic research herself. You must see her in this lab a lot." Smithback tweeted Open the monograph and lean forward. "There's no harm in pulling that child," he said, "She's been having a rough time recently. Her father just passed away two weeks ago, and you know that." Chuanbei looked surprised: "Really? You talk in the staff lounge This is it?"

Smithback nodded. "She didn't say much, but she could tell she was struggling. She was considering leaving the museum." "That would be a mistake." Chuanbei frowned.He opened his mouth to say something, but suddenly stopped, leaned back in his chair, and looked at Smithback for a long time. "Bill, your altruistic stance is fine." He pursed his lips and nodded slowly. "Bill Smithback, the good Samaritan. New look for you, huh?" "I prefer to be called William Smithback Jr., it sounds nicer." "Bill Smithback, Eagle Scouts," Kawakita continued.He shook his head. "No, that doesn't sound real. It's not all about Margot that you came to see me, is it?" Smithback hesitated to speak. "Well, I have my reasons too," he admitted. "Just know!" Chuanbei shouted, "Come on, let's talk!" "Well, well," sighed Smithback, "listen, I'm looking for information on Whitsey's expedition." "What exactly does that refer to?" "It's the South American expedition that brought back the statue of Mbawang. You know, the centerpiece of the new exhibit." Chuanbei showed a look of sudden realization: "Oh, yes. Mr. Smith from the herbarium also mentioned it that day. Why?" "Well, we feel there is a connection between the expedition and these murders." "What?" Chuanbei asked suspiciously, "Don't tell me you've started spreading rumors about museum monsters, and what do you mean by 'we'?" "I didn't say I believed everything, okay?" Smithback evasively said, "but I've heard a lot of weird things lately. Also, the presence of the Mbawang statue made Rickman nervous. There was something else sent back along with this artifact, several crates in fact. I wanted to learn more about what happened to them." "Excuse me, what can I have to do with these things?" Chuanbei asked. "It doesn't matter. But you are an assistant researcher. Your access to the museum's computer system has a relatively high security level. You can enter the collection database to search and bring up the information on those crates." "I suspect they're not registered at all," Chuanbei said, "but it doesn't matter if they are." "Why?" asked Smithback. Chuanbei smiled: "Wait a moment." He got up and walked into the laboratory, and when he came back a few minutes later, he had a piece of paper in his hand. "Are you telepathic?" He handed the paper to Smithback. "Look what I found in the mail this morning." "My God," murmured Smithback, "look at this. 'Anyone who writes a book.'" "It's you, Bill," Chuanbei laughed. "Are you out of the game? My hands are tied." He took out a handkerchief from his back pocket and blew his nose. "Allergy to bone dust," he explained. "I can't believe it," Smithback said, reading the memo. Kawakita put his arm around Smithback's shoulders. "Bill my good friend, I know this story is going to be a hit, and I'd love to help you write the most controversial, provocative, popular bestseller ever written. But the problem is I can't. I I'll tell you the truth. I have my professional rules at the museum, and—" he added two points"—I'm fighting for tenure. I can't afford to make waves right now. You'll have to look elsewhere, okay?" Smithback nodded resignedly. "Okay." "You don't seem to be quite reconciled," Chuanbei smiled, "but I'm still very glad that you can understand." He gently pulled the writer to stand up, "Speaking of which, let's go fishing on Sunday? It is said that Connahute's fish The flood season is coming early." Smithback finally grinned. "Get me some of your charismatic chrysalis," he said. "It's a deal."