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In my office, an imperious voice mail from Professor Brattle regarding the story in the Bugle about the Neanderthals awaited me along with a note from Felix that he would be dropping by. Chair Brattle informed me she was convening a special meeting of the Oversight Committee to discuss “this highly sensitive issue” and take “appropriate measures.” I let that one hang.

I couldn’t let Felix hang. He came by with the Elgin Warwick folder, which I noticed had thickened since the last time I saw it. Tanned, tall and energetic, Felix was positively beamish, his face at such a wattage I found it necessary in my recovering state to avert my eyes from time to time.

“Not now, Felix,” I begged as he sat down and looked at me intently.

“You don’t look happy.”

“I have committed a dietary indiscretion.”

“With a bottle?”

“With several bottles.”

“You should take a personal day.”

“I think a personal month would be more like it. Did you see the Bugle?”

“No big deal. It’s become a regular rag since Don Patcher left. No one takes it seriously anymore. No one that counts. It’s a newspaper that talks to itself.”

“I need to get a statement up about the Neanderthals.”

“Why? It’s none of their business.”

“They’ve made it their business.”

“So tell them the issue is under consideration given the weight of scientific research, et cetera, et cetera. Swamp them with facts.”

“I suppose. But I am very vulnerable right now. I need all the … non-enemies I can get.”

Felix smiled. “That’s why I’m here.” He patted the file. “And good old Warwick.”

“Felix, not now.”

“Norman, this guy is on the Governing Board. You don’t want to alienate him. You want him on your side. You want him in your pocket. You should be helping him to pick out the right byssus for his eternal wrapping.”

“Byssus?”

“The fine linen used by the ancient Egyptians to bandage their departed. I’ve been doing my homework.”

“There are principles involved.”

“How about the principle of survival?”

“I am not going to stand by and watch the Museum of Man be turned into a mortuary for the rich.”

“Of course not. Your active involvement would be very much appreciated.”

“No, Felix, no. People will start calling it the Mausoleum of Man.”

“That’s not bad. That’s a great tag. Instant brand recognition. This is so big, I can’t believe it.” He removed several sheets from the folder. “I’ve come up with a plan. We wouldn’t just be storing the remains of people. No. For a modest fee, they could have their history kept in perpetuity on a special Web site sponsored by the museum. For a little more, no, a lot more, they could also have their DNA preserved in the Genetics Lab. With the promise, of course, that when the technology is available, we bring them back alive. We’ll be taking over from God. And we’ll do a better job. If we get proactive, it won’t look like we’re buckling under to a powerful and wealthy supporter. No, it will look like we are staking out the ultimate future. I’d sign up in a heartbeat. And talk about outreach … I’ve come up with some suggestions.” He pointed to the folder.

“Such as?”

“We could hold an annual Halloween party there. Everyone comes in costume. All ghouls night. Charge a mint.”

“No.”

“Come on, Norman.…” He gave me his winning smile. “Why not?”

“Because … in all honesty, Felix, I do not want to be reduced to running a high-end funeral parlor.”

“It’s an honorable calling.”

“Felix … I can’t think about this right now.”

“I’ll think for you.” He turned lawyerly. “Let’s back up. According to the last communiqué you received from Robert Remick, the board will convene on July twenty-fourth for a special meeting to decide, and I quote, ‘action to be taken regarding the directorship of the museum,’ unquote.”

“I know.”

“He also said, you told me, that you are to serve on a probationary basis in close consultation with the museum’s counsel. Which happens to be one Felix Skinnerman.”

“Is this a coup d’état?”

“No, just a regular coup. Norman, let