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The story read, “The Museum of Man is moving ahead with plans to make the models in its Diorama of Paleolithic Life light-skinned, sources within the museum told the Bugle. Currently a neutral hue, neither dark nor light, the figures represent an early form of mankind and are visited by people from all over the world.

“Despite criticism from experts on the need for diversity in role modeling, officials at the museum, according to the Bugle’s investigation, will be spending several hundred thousand dollars to replace the current models with what one source called ‘white-skinned, red-haired Caucasians.’

“The Bugle has also learned that Norman de Ratour, who is white, is proceeding with the changeover based on what some experts call ‘narrow, unsubstantiated, and preliminary research.’

“Repeated efforts last night to reach de Ratour, who has been charged with accessory in the murder of Heinrich von Grümh, a curator at the museum, were unsuccessful. Some reports indicate that de Ratour has gone into hiding as the management situation at the museum, never very stable, has deteriorated alarmingly in recent weeks, according to an informed source.”

In fact the phone had rung several times the night before. I vaguely remembered Amanda Feeney’s flat voice squawking at me on the speaker as she left a message for me to call her immediately.

Right then, still in pain, I wanted to throw in the towel. That is, type up and send in a letter of resignation, leave this house to Alphus, Ridley, and chaos, and retreat to the country, to the bosom of my little family. And I might have done just that had I not, with sudden clarity, perhaps jolted by the story in the Bugle, recalled what it was I remembered in the middle of the night.

I had been in the Neanderthal diorama with Edwards experimenting with the lighting to see if we could do anything to make the skin tones of the models appear lighter than they were. I noticed Stella Fox not only because she is a striking woman in that small brunette way, but because she seemed out of place. The style of her couture, including black shiny high heels along with an extravagant choker of pearls, belonged more in Las Vegas than the Museum of Man. Not only that, but she paid scant attention to the elaborate display through which she walked. Because … because she was talking with a man who also looked like he had just flown in from Las Vegas. They were leaning in to each other talking quietly but emphatically. And I saw them there more than once. When my memory works, it really works.

I quickly went over Alphus’s schedule for the day to see who would be coming to visit. Any excursions that might be planned. I usually hang around until someone shows up, even if it’s Dolores, who comes in to clean up and tend to things in Di’s absence.

But this morning, still nursing my head, just barely able to hold coffee, I drove to the museum. I was anxious to get to the office. I called ahead and left a message with Mort in Security to have one of the surveillance technicians on hand when I arrived.

By ten o’clock, I was sitting in front of a screen looking at digitized footage from a camera that covers a particularly well-lighted tableau called “Early Kitchen.” It shows a group using primitive knives and scrapers to carve up the leg of a bison. Strange how even adults act when confronted with our distant ancestors. A lot of them laugh, but nervously.

I watched and watched and grew bored and annoyed. How fat, dull, and stupid our population appears to have grown. Whole families of fatties. Most of them scarcely glance at the informational placards or put on the available earphones to hear the recorded message. The kids fidget and whine. They waddle on. This is what has become of us. But then, I was still suffering from the night before.

I was about to arrange to have the feed transferred to the laptop on my desk when it occurred to me someone else could look for the sequence I was seeking. I asked the technician, a pleasant young man named Hank, if he knew of anyone on the staff willing to put in some overtime.