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several occasions, he never failed to feel awestruck, knowing the secrets held in its walls. Today, however, exiting the taxi, he felt invigorated and oddly at ease, his feet almost weightless on the hot asphalt.
    Carlson made his way up the stairs to the main entrance, sweat beading up on his brow. It was already over ninety degrees that morning, but some of the perspiration was no doubt due to nervousness.
    After all, it wasn't every day you met the Prince of Dunali.
    Carlson stepped inside and heaved a sigh, taking in the cool air of the museum. The first thing to greet Carlson was a gigantic skeleton of the prehistoric fish Eloxothopius. The cadre of bones was part of an exhibit aptly called Skeletons , which explored the differences between endoskeletons and exoskeletons.
    Across the huge rotunda, Carlson could see the marine exhibit displaying some of the three hundred species of poisonous marine animals native to Australia. Grandfather Carlson had educated his young grandson in the dangers of Australian marine life at an early age. The elder Carlson had narrowly escaped with his life after a Great White shark attack. Two hundred stitches closed the wound above his kidneys and the months of rehab had cost him precious time away from his search for a living Thylacine. Carlson had never forgotten what his grandfather had told him: Stay out of the water if you go to Australia.
    Carlson's eyes froze suddenly as he gazed back toward the entrance. Walking through the oversized door was a procession of men in full Arab dress, escorting the most elegant man Carlson had ever seen.

Six
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    M USEUM CURATOR C OLIN E LKSTROM WAS a mere gnome of a man, pale and intense like a lab rat. His thin blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail that hung over narrow shoulders, and his sharp nose was splattered with freckles. Looking at his beady eyes, one couldn't help but think he'd not slept in several days.
    An influential anthropologist before taking the helm at Sydney, Elkstrom's reputation for surliness was matched only by his ceaseless dedication to whatever museum projects were currently underway. He projected, if not enthusiasm, a protective intensity many found off-putting.
    As Peter Carlson followed the feral-looking curator, he found himself walking through an eerie maze of dark-paneled hallways. The labyrinthine network appeared to have been part of the original museum built in 1936. The floor was gray marble tile with darker marble inlays in the shapes of various animals.
    "Dr. Carlson," Elkstrom finally spoke, as he briskly guided Carlson to some unknown destination, "Let me be frank with you, right off the bat." His tone was anything but amicable. " You are here because the board of the museum wants you here. I take my orders from them, even if I disagree with their decisions. Just so there's no misunderstanding, be aware that I do not share the board's enthusiasm for this endeavor. Or for your inclusion, for that matter."
    Carlson could only stare. I traveled seventeen hours on a plane for this kind of welcome. This guy was no Martha Stewart.
    Carlson fired back. "With all due respect, I can't take the opinion of a caretaker," he watched Elkstrom's jaw tighten at that word, "too seriously. After all, I have not signed on for anything. I understood this trip was to explore the possibilities."
    "Very well," Elkstrom said through clenched teeth, "Allow me to spell it out for you."
    "No need. I think you've already got the jump on that."
    Carlson's smart remark seemed to jolt Elkstrom. He slowed his stride for a moment, his dark eyes drilling into Carlson. Then, like a viper uncoiling, he flicked his tongue over his top lip, wheeled around and strode faster, his narrow rodent head leading the way.
    "Understand," Elkstrom began, having regained his starch, "there was a time when I was all for the cloning of the Thylacine. I thought it would be the most brilliant thing ever done. I'm sure you are aware of the attempt by Dr. Whiting