Skorpio Read Online Free Page B
monster with turrets at the corners. It had previously been an armory. It now housed the Museum and various collections. It had been retrofitted with cable, sprinklers and New Age light bulbs but the main doors were still iron and looked capable of withstanding the Crusades.
It was a warm day in early June but the foot-thick walls kept the high-ceilinged interior cool. They entered the vast foyer and inhaled the smell of centuries. Dust, graphite, a hint of sage. The tile floor was checkerboard. Framed black and white photographs of pioneers, Indians, famous persons lined the corridor cutting through the heart of the building. They passed the Lecture Hall and Library, went through a set of double doors and down a concrete stairwell to the basement.
The basement floor was gray painted concrete. Flourescent bulbs in aluminum hoods lit the way past several locked doors to a metal door marked B-12. Video cams watched the hall discreetly from the corners. Beadles removed a set of keys from his pocket and was about to insert one when the door swung inward.
A stout Native American, long gray hair tied in a ponytail wearing a blue workshirt and Dickey's gray work pants stepped aside. His coppery face was as lined as old gloves.
"Professor," he croaked.
"Hello, Anatole," Beadles said entering the long, low-ceilinged chamber followed by Whitfield. A series of rectangular tables covered with sheets of brown paper held the new collection. Pottery, woven goods, shaped stones and flint arrowheads seemed to stretch to the end of the room. It smelled like a dig, like fresh-turned earth with a hint of sage.
"Anatole, Rob Whitfield. Rob, Anatole Cerveros. Anatole's been a custodian here for, what, fifteen years?"
"Sixteen," the old Indian replied. "But who's counting."
"We're just going to take a look. If you want to leave I'll lock up."
Cerveros shut the door. "Gotta stay, Professor. Them's the rules."
Beadles was surprised. He was not yet in charge of the collection but he assumed he was in the loop. "What rules?"
"Professor Liggett."
"I see." He hoped Whitfield hadn't seen him grimace. He shouldn't let the little toad get to him. Joel Liggett. Even his name was chinless.
"Don't touch anything," Beadles said.
The room was well lit with flourescents. Whitfield stared down at the first table.
"Holy shit. Look at the fluting on this arrowhead, Professor."
Beadles joined him and looked at the beautifully shaped shard sitting on a sheet of white paper. "It's certainly unique. I wonder how they worked that squiggle."
"Why do you call them the Azuma?"
"It's as close as I can get to a translation of the petroglyphs discovered in 1938 in Corkindale, Arizona. Of course this is assuming a cultural basis in ancient Pueblo. That one site was the foundation for most of my research. The rest is from a 16th century Spanish diary."
Beadles turned toward the janitor. "What do you think of all this stuff, Anatole?"
The old Indian shrugged and crossed his arms. "They're all ancestors far as I'm concerned."
"You're Navajo, aren't you?"
"That's right."
"You ever hear of the Azuma?"
Shrug. "My father and grandfather told me and my brothers and sisters all sorts of stories when I was growing up. Most of them were bullshit."
Whitfield's scream split the air like a cleaver. A pot fell to the concrete floor and shattered with a sharp report. Cerveros and Beadles whirled in shock to see the undergrad dancing away from the table frantically shaking his arm. A pale scorpion dropped and skittered along the baseboards.
Beadles raced around the table to his student whose back was against the wall staring in horror at a tiny red dot on his wrist.
"I told you not to touch anything!" Beadles said grabbing the wrist.
"I didn't! It leaped out of the fucking pot! It stung me! Am I going to die?"
"Don't be absurd. Scorpion stings are rarely fatal for adults. Come on. Let's get you to the ER."
As Beadles led the stunned and shocked Whitfield through the
It was a warm day in early June but the foot-thick walls kept the high-ceilinged interior cool. They entered the vast foyer and inhaled the smell of centuries. Dust, graphite, a hint of sage. The tile floor was checkerboard. Framed black and white photographs of pioneers, Indians, famous persons lined the corridor cutting through the heart of the building. They passed the Lecture Hall and Library, went through a set of double doors and down a concrete stairwell to the basement.
The basement floor was gray painted concrete. Flourescent bulbs in aluminum hoods lit the way past several locked doors to a metal door marked B-12. Video cams watched the hall discreetly from the corners. Beadles removed a set of keys from his pocket and was about to insert one when the door swung inward.
A stout Native American, long gray hair tied in a ponytail wearing a blue workshirt and Dickey's gray work pants stepped aside. His coppery face was as lined as old gloves.
"Professor," he croaked.
"Hello, Anatole," Beadles said entering the long, low-ceilinged chamber followed by Whitfield. A series of rectangular tables covered with sheets of brown paper held the new collection. Pottery, woven goods, shaped stones and flint arrowheads seemed to stretch to the end of the room. It smelled like a dig, like fresh-turned earth with a hint of sage.
"Anatole, Rob Whitfield. Rob, Anatole Cerveros. Anatole's been a custodian here for, what, fifteen years?"
"Sixteen," the old Indian replied. "But who's counting."
"We're just going to take a look. If you want to leave I'll lock up."
Cerveros shut the door. "Gotta stay, Professor. Them's the rules."
Beadles was surprised. He was not yet in charge of the collection but he assumed he was in the loop. "What rules?"
"Professor Liggett."
"I see." He hoped Whitfield hadn't seen him grimace. He shouldn't let the little toad get to him. Joel Liggett. Even his name was chinless.
"Don't touch anything," Beadles said.
The room was well lit with flourescents. Whitfield stared down at the first table.
"Holy shit. Look at the fluting on this arrowhead, Professor."
Beadles joined him and looked at the beautifully shaped shard sitting on a sheet of white paper. "It's certainly unique. I wonder how they worked that squiggle."
"Why do you call them the Azuma?"
"It's as close as I can get to a translation of the petroglyphs discovered in 1938 in Corkindale, Arizona. Of course this is assuming a cultural basis in ancient Pueblo. That one site was the foundation for most of my research. The rest is from a 16th century Spanish diary."
Beadles turned toward the janitor. "What do you think of all this stuff, Anatole?"
The old Indian shrugged and crossed his arms. "They're all ancestors far as I'm concerned."
"You're Navajo, aren't you?"
"That's right."
"You ever hear of the Azuma?"
Shrug. "My father and grandfather told me and my brothers and sisters all sorts of stories when I was growing up. Most of them were bullshit."
Whitfield's scream split the air like a cleaver. A pot fell to the concrete floor and shattered with a sharp report. Cerveros and Beadles whirled in shock to see the undergrad dancing away from the table frantically shaking his arm. A pale scorpion dropped and skittered along the baseboards.
Beadles raced around the table to his student whose back was against the wall staring in horror at a tiny red dot on his wrist.
"I told you not to touch anything!" Beadles said grabbing the wrist.
"I didn't! It leaped out of the fucking pot! It stung me! Am I going to die?"
"Don't be absurd. Scorpion stings are rarely fatal for adults. Come on. Let's get you to the ER."
As Beadles led the stunned and shocked Whitfield through the