Thunderbird by Jack McDevitt Page B

to the rectory this morning,” Mary said. “We told Reverend Claude what happened. He was skeptical at first. Thought we’d both lost it, but then he said that it might have something to do with the Johnson’s Ridge excavation. That strange things had been reported recently. I don’t know. But we sure owe
somebody
.”
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    I T LEAKED OUT to the media, and Brian found himself talking to television cameras that evening. The story appeared in the
Herald
next morning, bringing a surge of phone calls from neighbors, friends, and relatives. Even his two daughters, one living in Boston and the other in California, got in touch. Most people tiptoed around the divine-intervention theory, not wanting to call him crazy, but they all told him they weren’t surprised that he’d shown up where he was needed.
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    H IS CONVERSATION WITH the president continued to replay itself in Walker’s mind.
“I can tell you honestly that I’m not sure where we go from here. I wish that thing had never turned up.”
    Taylor was a good man. But he was on the wrong side of the issue.
    â€œ. . . If the Roundhouse suffered a complete breakdown, I’d have no regrets. Sometimes I’m tempted to think we should arrange it.”
    Taylor did not care about the potential benefits for the tribe. Or, more likely, he simply did not grasp the reality. The Spirit Lake Sioux stood at the crux of history. Walker was not going to let the opportunity melt away. But he did not want to force the president’s hand. He’d tried to signal the president that he was a player also. That he was willing to reduce the number of missions. But he wasn’t going to terminate them. Taylor didn’t seem to have gotten the message. Consequently, the chairman would have to make a statement.

FIVE
    The night is more melancholy than the day; the stars seem to move in a more melancholy manner than the sun; and our imagination roams more widely because we suspect that everyone else sleeps.
    â€”Bernard de Fontenelle,
Conversations on the Plurality of Worlds
, 1686
    D URING THE FIRST few weeks after the Roundhouse had been opened, the Sioux had allowed visitors inside during daylight hours. Walker had never been comfortable with the policy, but tourists had become a major element in life on the Rez and, for that matter, around Devils Lake generally. But the crowds quickly became overwhelming, so Walker had been forced to exclude them. They could drive past on the access road, take as many pictures as they liked, but casual visitors would no longer be allowed inside the building.
    Most of the local politicians objected. They wanted him to permit visitors. Even Devils Lake Mayor Wilma Herschel, usually a reasonable woman, tried to persuade him to reopen the place and deal with the risks by hyping security measures. He’d just finished a discussion with Wilma over lunch and returned to the Blue Building when a call came in for him. “From a Mr. Osborne,” Miranda said.
    Walker tried his coffee and picked up the phone. “This is the chairman,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
    â€œMr. Walker, I represent Caulfield and Barker. The law firm out of Grand Forks. I assume you know who we are.” Walker had no idea. “Can you make some time to talk with me this afternoon? It’s very important.”
    â€œMay I ask what it’s about?”
    â€œI’d rather not discuss it on the phone. We have an offer to make. I’d be surprised if you wouldn’t find it to your advantage.”
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    O SBORNE WAS TALL , with a precisely manicured black beard, gray eyes, and the features of a guy accustomed to having his way. He was almost bald, probably approaching sixty. He carried a briefcase, and he wore a coat and tie, a proclivity not often seen in Fort Totten.