The Dig Read Online Free

mail worn over one’s inner clothing. Or maybe it wasn’t clothing at all but a piece of a satchel, stitched from metal to increase its weight-bearing capacity. Alternatives flew through his mind.
    It would be extraordinary enough to find a piece of woven fabric in so deep a sediment, due to (a) the obvious lack of any species present on Earth at the time with the necessary intelligence to create such an item, and (b) the fact that it hadn’t deteriorated out of existence millions of years ago. That it was crafted of metal fibers removed some of the shock over its longevity. But it remained outright inconceivable that an intelligent being possessed not only the weaving skills but all the considerable array of technology that would be required to mine and isolate the raw minerals, create the alloy, and spin or extrude the threads. There were just too many aspects to consider, and none of it made a damned bit of sense.
    He tugged at his neat gray beard and sighed.
    The object was simply an OOPArt—an out-of-place artifact—he decided, like the zinc-silver alloy vase found in the 1850s near Dorchester, Massachusetts, in 100,000-year-old rock. Or the rusty screw recovered from a piece of 20-million-year-old feldspar. There were long lists of mysterious out-of-place artifacts that no one could explain, though many professionals had invested years of research to no satisfactory end. If this one couldn’t be debunked, it would likely be added to the bottom of the lists.
    It was an easily dismissible unknown, but Meier could not just shelve it so blithely—especially considering that Pete, a solid scientist with a healthy sense of skepticism, seemed fairly well convinced. He picked up the phone and dialed George Miller’s extension.
    “Yes, Dr. Meier,” George answered between indelicate slurping sounds—obviously, he was eating.
    “George, I need to speak with Matthew Turner.”
    A choking sound replied.
    “George… ?”
    “Yeah—yes sir, um… after the, uh… I don’t know how easy that’s going to be.”
    “I don’t care—make it happen.”
    He hung up the phone.
    Dr. Meier’s door swung open, and in walked Tuni, followed by a stream of people with notepads in hand and name tags pinned to their shirts.
    “What the hell is this!” he spluttered.
    Tuni’s eyes narrowed as she crossed her arms.
    “The tour that was scheduled two weeks ago for this very moment, Doctor,” she replied through her teeth, “of which I reminded you but a few short minutes ago. Please, ladies and gentlemen, file in around the director’s desk—and feel free to touch anything you like.”

4
    T HE MONSOON IRRITATED D R. R HEESE TO no end. As he sat protected by the canopy jutting from the top of his RV, the back legs of his lawn chair began to sink in the mud.
    “Blasted bloody useless piece of… !” he muttered, and stood up. He had sent home all but a few of his laborers. Across the trench in front of him, Enzi and the other two men he kept on-site were wrestling with the tarps in the wind. It wasn’t as though Rheese really cared what happened to that corner of the excavation now, but in the interest of appearances, he would make his best effort to feign appropriate concern for its preservation.
    As Enzi gestured for one of the men to anchor the tarp’s corner with a rock, Dr. Rheese surveyed the encircling forest around them. It was thick in this area. They had chopped down quite a few trees to clear this particular patch (with appropriate permission from the government, of course). The pack of thieves had demanded 60 percent of the proceeds from the logging company, leaving Rheese with a piddling eight thousand pounds sterling for himself.
    Now he wished he had cut down three times as many trees, if for no other reason than the uneasiness he felt at night. Who knew what could be on the other side of that black wall? He almost didn’t mind walking it in the daylight—it would actually serve as a rather nice escape