She's fine. She's gone out for pizza. Or she's at the library. Yes. The library. I'd used that one many times when I was in school.

It took a very long time to fal asleep.

===OO=OOO=OO===

By morning, Katy hadn't caled and was stil not picking up. I tried Lija's number in Athens. Another robotic voice requested a message.

I drove to the only anthropology department in America located in a footbal stadium, and gave one of the more disjointed talks of my career. The host of the guest lecture series listed my DMORT affiliation in his introduction and mentioned that I would be working the Air TransSouth recovery. Though I could supply little information, folow-up queries largely ignored my presentation and focused on the crash. The question-and-answer period lasted forever.

As the crowd finaly miled toward the exits, a scarecrow man in a bow tie and cardigan made straight for the podium, half-moon glasses swinging across his chest. Being in a profession with relatively few members, most anthropologists know one another, and our paths cross and recross at meetings, seminars, and conferences. I'd met Simon Midkiff on several occasions, and knew it would be a long session if I wasn't firm. Looking pointedly at my watch, I gathered my notes, stuffed my briefcase, and descended from the platform.

'How are you, Simon?'

'Excelent.' His lips were cracked, his skin dry and flaky, like that of a dead fish lying in the sun. Tiny veins laced the whites of eyes overshadowed by bushy brows.

'How is the archaeology business?'

'Excelent, as wel. Since one must eat, I am engaged in several projects for the cultural resources department in Raleigh. But mainly I spend my days organizing data.' He gave a high-pitched laugh and tapped a hand to one cheek. 'It seems I've colected an extraordinary amount of data throughout my career.'

Simon Midkiff earned a doctorate at Oxford in 1955, then came to the United States to accept a position at Duke. But the archaeology superstar published nothing and was denied tenure six years later. Midkiff was given a second chance by the University of Tennessee, again failed to produce publications, and again was let go.

Unable to obtain a permanent faculty position, for thirty years Midkiff had hung around the periphery of academia, doing contract archaeology and teaching courses as replacement instructors were needed at coleges and universities in the Carolinas and Tennessee. He was notorious for excavating sites, filing the requisite reports, then failing to publish his findings.

'I'd love to hear about it, Simon, but I'm afraid I have to run.'

'Yes, indeed. Such a terrible tragedy. So many young lives.' His head moved sadly from side to side. 'Where exactly is the crash?'

'Swain County. And I realy must get back.' I started to move on, but Midkiff made a subtle shift, blocking my path with a size-thirteen Hush Puppy.

'Where in Swain County?'