The Source - Michael Cordy [9]
He paused by a poster announcing that evening's open seminar: 'Solving the Riddle'. Billed as the highlight of Voynich Week, there would be three presentations. A British mathematician from Cambridge University and a computer specialist from MIT were to present the latest techniques for decoding the text. But it was the third that interested the priest: 'The Voynich Manuscript: A Doomed Quest for Eldorado?'
He clutched his attaché case tighter and thought of the photocopied document within it. The original recorded the trial and testimony of a Jesuit priest burnt at the stake for heresy. It also recorded the existence of a book that should have been burnt with him: The Devil's Book.
He confirmed the time of the last presentation, satisfied he could still make his flight, then checked the name of the academic giving it: Dr Lauren Kelly.
4
Sitting on the New Haven line train from Grand Central to Darien, Ross Kelly was preoccupied with thoughts of his career. Geology had not been a popular or easy choice for a schoolboy growing up in the Bible Belt. His mother had believed the Earth was created a few thousand years ago and that the Great Flood was the major geologically related event in human history. Creationism might have morphed into Intelligent Design, but things hadn't changed much – and not only in the Bible Belt: the new pope had recently rejected Darwinian evolution in favour of God's guiding hand in all aspects of creation.
But Ross had always fought for his passions. Ever since he was a boy, growing up on his father's farm in the shadow of the Ozark mountains, he had seen geology as a romantic, magical science that charted Earth's history over an unimaginably deep chasm of time. He could still remember the hairs standing up on the back of his neck when he'd first read that Mount Everest was made of rock that had once formed the floor of the oceans. How could anyone not marvel at the sheer pressure and time involved in pushing the Himalayas from the bottom of the sea to the top of the world?
A scholarship to study geology at Princeton, a PhD from MIT and his first years with the earth-sciences division of the mighty Alascon had fuelled his wonder. It was quickly apparent, though, that the oil industry cared more about making profit than exploring the world's treasures. When Xplore, then a lean, progressive search consultancy, had headhunted him, their desire for fresh ideas had rekindled his passion.
But his career there was over now: the visionaries who had recruited him had gone, swept away by men like Underwood and Kovacs, who had more in common with accountants than with explorers. And he had no illusions that other companies in the industry would be any different in embracing anything new.
On the short taxi drive home from the station, Ross contemplated his future. He tried not to think about whether he had made the right decision, or what his wife would say. As the driver pulled into the kerb he saw his ancient Mercedes convertible parked next to Lauren's economical Prius. He had acquired the so-called classic car after he'd joined Xplore. Back then it had seemed to symbolize his success. Now, like his career, its lustre had faded and it looked what it was – an old car covered with bird shit. A third car, small and boxy, was parked alongside. Ross groaned: he was in no mood for visitors. His work took him all over the world, but when he came home he wanted to be alone with his wife. He enjoyed nothing better than a bottle of Pinot Noir, pizza, making love and squabbling over the TV remote – he'd never understand why someone as smart as Lauren preferred reality makeover shows to classic comedies, a good movie or anything by David Attenborough on the Discovery channel. He paid the man, got out and crunched across the gravel to the white clapperboard house he had mortgaged himself to the hilt to buy.
The front door opened and Lauren appeared. In the early-afternoon light, her honey-blonde bob gleamed, her soft green eyes sparkled