preston&child.thecabinetofcuriosities-第29部分

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　〃Don't　underestimate　him；〃　replied　Pendergast。　〃He　has　Moegen…Fairhaven；　the　Museum；　and　the　mayor　behind　him。　And　he　is　no　imbecile。〃
　〃Yeah。　Except　that　I'm　a　reporter　for　the　New　York　Times。〃
　〃Don't　make　the　mistake　of　thinking　even　that　lofty　position　will　protect　you。〃
　。　。　。　and　now；　without　more　ado；　let　us　unveil　the　Museum's　latest　creation；　the　Hall　of　Primates　。　。　。
　O'Shaughnessy　watched　as　a　ribbon　beside　the　podium　was　cut　with　an　oversized　pair　of　scissors。　There　was　a　smattering　of　applause　and　a　general　drift　toward　the　open　doors　of　the　new　hall　beyond。　Pendergast　glanced　at　him。　〃Shall　we？〃
　〃Why　not？〃　Anything　was　better　than　standing　around　here。
　〃Count　me　out；〃　said　Smithback。　〃I've　seen　enough　exhibitions　in　this　joint　to　last　me　a　lifetime。〃
　Pendergast　turned　and　grasped　the　reporter's　hand。　〃I　am　sure　we　shall　meet　again。　Soon。〃
　It　seemed　to　O'Shaughnessy　that　Smithback　fairly　flinched。
　Soon　they　were　through　the　doors。　People　drifted　along　the　spacious　hall；　which　was　lined　with　dioramas　of　stuffed　chimpanzees；　gorillas；　orangutans；　and　various　monkeys　and　lemurs；　displayed　in　their　native　habitats。　With　some　surprise；　O'Shaughnessy　realized　the　dioramas　were　fascinating；　beautiful　in　their　own　way。　They　were　like　magic　casements　opening　onto　distant　worlds。　How　had　these　morons　done　it？　But　of　course；　they　hadn't　done　it…it　was　the　curators　and　artists　who　had。　People　like　Brisbane　were　the　deadwood　at　the　top　of　the　pile。　He　really　needed　to　e　here　more　often。
　He　saw　a　knot　of　people　gathering　around　one　case；　which　displayed　a　hooting　chimpanzee　swinging　on　a　tree　limb。　There　was　whispered　conversation；　muffled　laughter。　It　didn't　look　any　different　from　the　other　cases；　and　yet　it　seemed　to　have　attracted　half　the　people　in　the　hall。　O'Shaughnessy　wondered　what　was　so　interesting　about　that　chimpanzee。　He　looked　about。　Pendergast　was　in　a　far　corner；　examining　some　strange　little　monkey　with　intense　interest。　Funny　man。　A　little　scary；　actually；　when　you　got　right　down　to　it。
　He　strolled　over　to　check　out　the　case；　standing　at　the　fringe　of　the　crowd。　There　were　more　murmurs；　some　stifled　laughter；　some　disapproving　clucks。　A　bejeweled　lady　was　gesturing　for　a　guard。　When　people　noticed　O'Shaughnessy　was　a　cop；　they　automatically　shuffled　aside。
　He　saw　that　an　elaborate　label　had　been　attached　to　the　case。　The　label　was　made　from　a　plaque　of　richly　grained　oak；　on　which　gold　letters　were　edged　in　black。　It　read：
　　
　ROGER　C。　BRISBANE　III
　FIRST　VICE　PRESIDENT
　
　THIRTEEN
　　
　THE　BOX　WAS　made　of　fruitwood。　It　had　lain；　untouched　and　unneeded；　for　many　decades；　and　was　now　covered　in　a　heavy　mantle　of　dust。　But　it　had　only　taken　one　swipe　of　a　soft　velour　cloth　to　remove　the　sediment　of　years；　and　a　second　swipe　to　bring　out　the　rich；　mellow　sheen　of　the　wood　beneath。
　Next；　the　cloth　moved　toward　the　brass　corners；　rubbing　and　burnishing。　Then　the　brass　hinges；　shined　and　lightly　oiled。　Finally　came　the　gold　nameplate；　fastened　to　the　lid　by　four　tiny　screws。　It　was　only　when　every　inch；　every　element；　of　the　box　had　been　polished　to　brilliance　that　the　fingers　moved　toward　the　latch；　and…trembling　slightly　with　the　gravity　of　the　moment…unsnapped　the　lock；　lifted　the　lid。
　Within；　the　tools　gleamed　from　their　beds　of　purple　velvet。　The　fingers　moved　from　one　to　the　next；　touching　each　lightly；　almost　reverently；　as　if　they　could　impart　some　healing　gift。　As　indeed　they　could…and　had…and　would　again。
　First　came　the　large　amputation　knife。　Its　blade　curved　downward；　as　did　all　American　amputation　knives　made　between　the　Revolutionary　and　Civil　Wars。　In　fact；　this　particular　set　dated　from　the　1840s；　crafted　by　Wiegand　&　Snowden　of　Philadelphia。　An　exquisite　set；　a　work　of　art。
　The　fingers　moved　on；　a　solitary　ring　of　cat's…eye　opal　winking　conspiratorially　in　the　subdued　light：　metacarpal　saw；　Catlin　knife；　bone　forceps；　tissue　forceps。　At　last；　the　fingers　stopped　on　the　capital　saw。　They　caressed　its　length　for　a　moment；　then　teased　it　from　its　molded　slot。　It　was　a　beauty：　long；　built　for　business；　its　heavy　blade　breathtakingly　sharp。　As　with　the　rest　of　the　tools；　its　handle　was　made　of　ivory　and　gutta…percha；　it　was　not　until　the　1880s；　when　Lister's　work　on　germs　was　published；　that　surgical　instruments　began　to　be　sterilized。　All　handles　from　that　point　on　were　made　of　metal：　porous　materials　became　mere　collector's　items。　A　pity；　really；　the　old　tools　were　so　much　more　attractive。
　It　was　a　fort　to　know　that　there　would　be　no　need　for　sterilization　here。
　The　box　contained　two　trays。　With　worshipful　care；　the　fingers　removed　the　upper　tray…the　amputation　set…to　expose　the　still　greater　beauty　of　the　neurosurgical　set　below。　Rows　of　skull　trephines　lay　beside　the　more　delicate　saw　blades。　And　encircling　the　rest　was　the　greatest　treasure　of　all：　a　medical　chain　saw；　a　long；　thin　band　of　metal　covered　in　sharp　serrated　teeth；　ivory　hand　grips　at　each　end。　It　actually　belonged　among　the　amputation　tools；　but　its　great　length　consigned　it　to　the　lower　tray。　This　was　the　thing　to　use　when　time；　not　delicacy；　was　of　the　essence。　It　was　a　horrifying…looking　tool。　It　was　consummately　beautiful。
　The　fingers　brushed　each　item　in　turn。　Then；　carefully；　the　upper　tray　was　lowered　back　into　position。
　A　heavy　leather　strop　was　brought　from　a　nearby　table　and　laid　before　the　open　box。　The　fingers　rubbed　a　small　amount　of　neat's…foot　oil　into　the　strop；　slowly；　without　hurry。　It　was　important　that　there　no　longer　be　any　hurry。　Hurry　had　always　meant　mistakes；　wasted　effort。
　At　last；　the　fingers　returned　to　the　box；　selected　a　knife；　brought　it　to　the　light。　Then…with　lingering；　loving　care…laid　it　against　the　leather　strop　and　began　stroking　back　and　forth；　back　and　forth。　The　leather　seemed　almost　to　purr　as　the　blade　was　stropped。
　To　sharpen　all　the　blades　in　the　surgical　set　to　a　razor　edge　would　take　many　hours。　But　then；　there　would　be　time。
　There　would；　in　fact；　be　nothing　but　time。
　
　The　Appointed　Time
　
　ONE
　　
　PAUL　KARP　COULD　hardly　believe　he　was　actually　going　to　get　some。　Finally。　Seventeen　years　old　and　now　finally　he　was　going　to　get　some。
　He　pulled　the　girl　deeper　into　the　Ramble。　It　was　the　wildest；　least　visited　part　of　Central　Park。　It　wasn't　perfect；　but　it　would　have　to　do。
　〃Why　don't　we　just　go　back　to　your　place？〃　the　girl　asked。
　〃My　folks　are　home。〃　Paul　put　his　arms　around　her　and　kissed　her。　〃Don't　worry；　this　is　great　right　here。〃　Her　face　was　flushed；　and　he　could　hear　her　breathing。　He　looked　ahead　for　the　darkest；　the　most　private　place　he　could　find。　Quickly；　unwilling　to　lose　the　moment；　he　turned　off　the　paved　walk　and　plunged　into　a　thicket　of　rhododendron　bushes。　She　was　following；　gladly。　The　thought　sent　a　little　shiver　of　anticipation　coursing　through　him。　It　only　seemed　deserted；　he　told　himself。　People　came　in　here　all　the　time。
　He　pushed　his　way　into　the　densest　part　of　the　thicket。　Even　though　the　autumn　sun　still　hovered　low　in　the　sky；　the　canopy　of　sycamores；　laurels；　and　azaleas　created　a　verdant　half…light。　He　tried　to　tell　himself　it　was　cozy；　almost　romantic。
　Finally　they　came　to　a　hidden　spot；　a　thick　bed　of　myrtle　surrounded　by　dark　bushes。　No　one　would　see　them　here。　They　were　utterly　alone。
　〃Paul？　What　if　a　mugger…？〃
　〃No　mugger's　going　to　see　us　in　here；〃　he　quickly　said；　taking　the　girl　in　his　arms　and　kissing　her。　She　responded；　first　hesitantly；　then　more　eagerly。
　〃Are　you　sure　this　place　is　okay？〃　she　whispered。
　〃Sure。　We're　totally　alone。〃
　After　a　last　look　around；　Paul　lay　down　on　the　myrtle；　pulling　her　beside　him。　They　kissed　again。　Paul　slid　his　hands　up　her　blouse　and　she　didn't　stop　him。　He　could　feel　her　chest　heaving；　breasts　rising　and　falling。　The　birds　made　a　racket　over　their　heads；　and　the　myrtle　rose　around　them　like　a　thick；　green　carpet。　It　was　very　nice。　Paul　thought　this　was　a　great　way　for　it　to　happen。　He　could　tell　the　story　later。　But　the　important　thing　was　it　was　going　to　happen。　No　longer　would　it　be　a　joke　among　his　friends：　the　last　virgin　of　Horace　Mann's　senior　class。
　With　renewed　urgency；　he　pressed　closer