Chapter 34 Section 33

The curfew time is approaching, and visitors leave from several exits of the museum.The museum shop that you can see as soon as you enter the south gate is doing well. In the marble corridor leading from the south gate to the interior of the museum, conversations and footsteps can be heard clearly.The opening reception of the exhibition will be held in the sky hall near the west gate, where it is much quieter, and the sound echoes under the huge vault, like a dream that is about to be forgotten.Continuing to walk deeper into the museum, there are more and more laboratories, antique lecture halls, storage rooms and offices lined with bookshelves, overlapping each other, and the noise made by visitors cannot penetrate the layers of barriers.The long corridor was dark and quiet.

At Butterfield Corner, the noise seemed to come from another planet.The staff were making the most of the curfew, returning home early, and George Moriarty's office, like the other six floors of the turret, was dead silent. Moriarty stood at his desk, his mouth pressed tightly into a clenched fist. "Damn it!" he muttered. He was upset, and suddenly kicked up, but hit the file cabinet behind him, and a stack of files fell to the ground. "Damn it!" he howled, this time in pain, as he sank into a chair and rubbed his heels. The pain gradually eased, and so did the frustration.He sighed, looked around, and muttered to himself, "My God, George, how do you always screw things up?"

Moriarty had to admit to himself that his social skills were next to zero.No matter what he did to attract Margot's attention, no matter what he did to win her favor, he always ended up shooting himself in the foot.It was really inappropriate to mention Margo's father casually. He turned abruptly to the computer terminal and typed in a command.He was going to email Margot, hoping to make up some of the damage.He thought for a moment, then began typing. Hi Margot!would love to know if you Moriarty struck a button abruptly, clearing the message.Doing so is likely to be self-defeating.

He sat there for a moment, staring at a blank screen.He knows only one way to surely soothe the pain: treasure hunting. Many of the treasured artifacts at the Global Indigenous Culture Exhibition are directly from his treasure hunts.Moriarty was deeply in love with the vast collections of the museum, and he was more familiar with its nooks and crannies than many long-term employees.Shy by nature and with few friends, Moriarty spent his spare time hunting for long-forgotten relics in museum storerooms.He gets a sense of worth and fulfillment from it that he can't get anywhere else. He turned to the keyboard again, opened the museum's collection database, and flipped through the records absently but engrossed.He knew how to walk in the database, knew the various shortcuts and backdoors of the database, just like an experienced river captain was familiar with the riverbed terrain.

After a few minutes, his fingers slowed down. .He has not yet explored this part of the database: a collection of Sumerian artifacts discovered in the early twenties but never seriously studied.He carefully circled a group of objects, then parts of them, and finally a single object.Interesting to look at: a series of clay tablets, examples of early Sumerian writing.Collectors believe they are related to religious rituals.Moriarty read the notes one by one, nodding as he read.Maybe put in the showroom.A smaller miscellaneous gallery has room to spare for a few more artifacts. He checked his corona watch: it was almost five o'clock.He knew where the tablet was kept.If it does look good, he can show it to Cuthbert early tomorrow morning, get permission, and set up the display between the Friday night celebration and the opening to the public.He jotted down a few lines of notes, then turned off the computer.

In the lonely office, the sound of the terminal closing was like a gunshot.Moriarty sat for a few seconds while pressing the power button.Then he stood up, tucked the hem of his shirt into his belt, and walked out of the office, trying not to strain his bruised heels, closing the door softly.