p&c.icelimit-第3节

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en。
　〃We　have　an　estimate　on　this　lot　of　twelve　million　dollars；　and　an　opening　price　of　five　million。〃　The　chairman　tapped　his　gavel。
　There　was　a　faint　smattering　of　calls；　nods；　and　genteelly　raised　paddles。
　〃I　have　five　million。　Six　million。　Thank　you；　I　have　seven　million。〃　The　spotters　craned　their　necks；　catching　the　bids；　relaying　them　to　the　chairman。　The　sotto　voce　hubbub　in　the　hall　gradually　increased。
　〃I　have　eight　million。〃
　A　scattering　of　applause　erupted　as　the　record　price　for　a　dinosaur　fossil　was　broken。
　〃Ten　million。　Eleven　million。　Twelve。　Thank　you；　I　have　thirteen。　I　have　fourteen。　Fifteen。〃
　The　show　of　paddles　had　dwindled　considerably；　but　several　telephone　bidders　were　still　active；　along　with　half　a　dozen　in　the　audience。　The　dollar　display　to　the　chairman's　right　rose　rapidly；　with　the　English　and　Euro　equivalents　beneath　following　in　lockstep。
　〃Eighteen　million。　I　have　eighteen　million。　Nineteen。〃
　The　murmuring　became　a　groundswell　and　the　chairman　gave　a　cautionary　rap　with　his　gavel。　The　bidding　continued；　quietly　but　furiously。　〃Twenty…five　million。　I　have　twenty…six。　Twenty…seven　to　the　gentleman　on　the　right。〃
　The　murmuring　rose　once　again；　and　this　time　the　chairman　did　not　quell　it。
　〃I　have　thirty…two　million。　Thirty…two　and　a　half　on　the　phone。　Thirty…three。　Thank　you；　I　have　thirty…three　and　a　half。　Thirty…four　to　the　lady　in　the　front。〃
　An　electricity　was　building　in　the　sale　room：　the　price　was　mounting　far　higher　than　even　the　wildest　predictions。　
　〃Thirty…five　on　the　phone。　Thirty…five　and　a　half　to　the　lady。　Thirty…six。〃
　Then　there　was　a　small　stir　in　the　crowd；　a　rustle；　a　shifting　of　attention。　A　number　of　eyes　turned　toward　the　door　leading　out　into　the　main　gallery。　Standing　on　the　crescent…moon　steps　was　a　remarkable…looking　man　of　about　sixty；　a　massive；　even　overwhelming　presence。　He　had　a　shaved　head　and　a　dark　Vandyke　beard。　A　Valentino　suit　of　dark　blue　silk　was　draped　over　his　imposing　frame；　shimmering　slightly　in　the　light　when　he　moved。　A　Turnbull　&　Asser　shirt；　unpromisingly　white；　lay　open　at　the　neck。　Over　it　was　a　string　tie；　held　in　place　by　a　fist…size　piece　of　amber；　containing　the　only　Archaeopteryx　feather　ever　found。
　〃Thirty…six　million；〃　the　chairman　repeated。　But　his　eyes；　like　everyone　else's；　had　strayed　toward　the　new　arrival。　The　man　stood　on　the　steps；　his　blue　eyes　sparkling　with　vitality　and　some　private　amusement。　He　slowly　raised　his　paddle。　A　hush　fell。　On　the　remote　chance　anybody　in　the　crowd　had　not　recognized　the　man；　the　paddle　was　a　give…away：　it　was　numbered　001；　the　only　number　Christie's　had　ever　allowed　to　be　given　permanently　to　a　client。
　The　chairman　looked　at　him；　expectantly。
　〃One　hundred；〃　the　man　said　at　last；　softly　but　precisely。　
　　The　hush　deepened　〃I　beg　your　pardon？〃　The　chairman's　voice　was　dry。
　〃One　hundred　million　dollars；〃　the　man　said。　His　teeth　were　very　large；　very　straight；　and　very　white。
　Again　the　silence　was　absolute。
　〃I　have　a　bid　of　one　hundred　million；〃　said　the　chairman；　a　little　shakily。
　Time　seemed　to　have　been　suspended。　A　telephone　rang　somewhere　in　the　building；　at　the　edge　of　audibility；　and　the　sound　of　a　car　horn　filtered　up　from　the　avenue。
　Then　the　spell　was　broken　with　a　smart　rap　of　the　gavel。　〃Lot　number　one；　for　one　hundred　million　dollars；　sold　to　Palmer　Lloyd！〃
　The　room　erupted。　In　a　flash　everyone　was　on　their　feet。　There　was　exuberant　clapping；　cheers；　a　call　of　〃bravo〃　as　if　a　great　tenor　had　just　concluded　the　performance　of　his　career。　Others　were　not　as　pleased；　and　the　cheering　and　clapping　was　interlaced　with　hisses　of　disapproval；　catcalls；　low　boos。　Christie's　had　never　witnessed　a　crowd　so　close　to　hysteria：　all　the　participants；　pro　and　con；　were　well　aware　that　history　had　just　been　made。　But　the　man　who　had　caused　it　all　was　gone；　out　through　the　main　gallery；　down　the　green　carpet　past　the　cashier　…　and　the　multitude　found　themselves　addressing　an　empty　doorway。
　
　Kalahari　Desert；
　June　1；　6：45　P。M。
　
　SAM　MCFARLANE　sat　cross…legged　in　the　dust。　The　evening　fire；　built　of　twigs　on　bare　ground；　cast　a　trembling　net　of　shadows　over　the　thorn　scrub　surrounding　the　camp。　The　nearest　settlement　lay　one　hundred　miles　behind　his　back。
　He　looked　around　at　the　wizened　figures　squatting　on　their　heels　around　the　fire；　naked　except　for　dusty　breech…clouts；　their　alert　eyes　gleaming。　San　Bushmen。　It　took　a　long　time　to　gain　their　trust；　but　once　gained；　it　was　unshakable。　Very　different；　McFarlane　thought；　from　back　home。
　In　front　of　each　San　lay　a　battered　secondhand　metal　detector。　The　San　remained　immobile　as　McFarlane　rose　to　his　feet。　He　spoke　slowly；　awkwardly；　in　their　strange　click　language。　At　first　there　were　some　snickers　as　he　struggled　with　the　words；　but　McFarlane　had　a　natural　affinity　for　languages；　and　as　he　continued　the　men　fell　back　into　respectful　silence。
　At　the　conclusion　of　his　speech；　McFarlane　smoothed　out　a　patch　of　sand。　Using　a　stick；　he　began　to　draw　a　map。　The　San　squatted　on　their　heels；　craning　their　necks　to　look　at　the　drawing。　Slowly　the　map　took　shape；　and　the　San　nodded　their　understanding　as　McFarlane　pointed　out　the　various　landmarks。　It　was　the　Makgadikgadi　Pans　that　lay　north　of　the　camp：　a　thousand　square　miles　of　dry　lakebeds；　sand　hills；　and　alkali　flats；　desolate　and　uninhabited。　In　the　deep　interior　of　the　Pans；　he　drew　a　small　circle　with　his　stick。　Then　he　stabbed　the　stick　in　the　center　of　the　circle　and　looked　up　with　a　broad　smile。
　There　was　a　moment　of　silence；　punctuated　by　the　lonely　sound　of　a　ruoru　bird　calling　across　the　distant　flats。　The　San　began　talking　among　themselves　in　low　voices；　the　clicks　and　clucks　of　their　language　like　the　rattling　of　pebbles　in　a　stream。　A　gnarled　old　figure；　the　headman　of　the　band；　pointed　at　the　map。　McFarlane　leaned　forward；　straining　to　understand　the　rapid　speech。　Yes；　they　knew　the　area；　the　old　man　said。　He　began　to　describe　trails；　known　only　to　the　San；　that　crossed　the　remote　area。　With　a　twig　and　some　pebbles；　the　headman　began　marking　where　the　seeps　were；　where　the　game　was；　where　edible　roots　and　plants　could　be　found。　McFarlane　waited　patiently。
　At　last；　quiet　again　settled　on　the　group。　The　headman　spoke　to　McFarlane；　more　slowly　this　time。　Yes；　they　were　willing　to　do　what　the　white　man　wanted。　But　they　were　afraid　of　the　white　man's　machines；　and　they　also　did　not　understand　this　thing　the　white　man　was　looking　for。
　McFarlane　rose　again；　pulled　the　stick　out　of　the　map。　Then　he　took　a　small；　dark　lump　of　iron　from　his　pocket；　no　bigger　than　a　marble；　and　placed　it　in　the　hole　left　by　the　stick。　He　pushed　it　down　and　concealed　it　with　sand。　Then　he　stood；　picked　up　his　metal　detector；　and　snapped　it　on。　There　was　a　brief；　high…pitched　whine。　Everyone　watched　in　nervous　silence。　He　took　two　steps　away　from　the　map；　turned；　and　began　walking　forward；　making　low　sweeps　over　the　ground　with　the　detector。　As　it　swept　over　the　buried　lump　of　iron；　there　was　a　squawk。　The　San　jumped　backward　in　alarm　and　there　was　a　burst　of　rapid　talk。　McFarlane　smiled；　spoke　a　few　words；　and　the　San　crept　back　into　their　seating　places。　He　turned　off　the　metal　detector　and　held　it　toward　the　headman；　who　took　it　reluctantly。　McFarlane　showed　him　how　to　turn　it　on；　and　then　guided　him；　in　sweeping　motions；　over　the　circle。　A　second　squawk　sounded。　The　headman　flinched　but　then　smiled。　He　tried　it　again；　and　again；　his　smile　growing　broader；　his　face　breaking　into　a　mass　of　wrinkles。　〃Sun'a　ai；　Ma！gad'i！gadi　！iaad'mi；〃　he　said；　gesturing　to　his　band。
　With　McFarlane's　patient　help；　each　San　Bushman　in　turn　picked　up　a　machine　and　tested　it　on　the　hidden　iron　nugget。　Slowly；　the　apprehension　was　replaced　by　laughter　and　speculative　discussion。　Eventually　McFarlane　raised　his　hands；　and　all　sat　down　again；　each　with　his　machine　in　his　lap。　They　were　ready　to　begin　the　search。
　McFarlane　took　a　leather　bag　from　his　pocket；　opened　it；　inverted　it。　A　dozen　gold　Krugerrands　fell　into　his　outstretched　palm。　The　ruoru　bird　began　its　mournful　call　again　as　the　last　light　died　from　the　sky。　Slowly　and　with　ceremony；　he　gave　a　gold　coin　to　each　man　in　turn。　They　took　them　reverently；　with　paired　hands；　bowing　their　heads。
　The　headman　spoke　again　to　McFarlane。　Tomorrow；　they　would　move　camp　and　begin　the　journey　into　the　heart　of　the　Makgadikgadi　Pans　with　the　white　man's　machines。　They　would　look　for　this　big　thing　the　white　man　wanted。　When　they　found　it；　they　would　return。　They　would　tell　the　white　man　where　it　was。。。
　The　old　man　suddenly　darted　his　eyes　to　the　sky　in　alarm。　The　others　did　the　same　as　McFarlane　watched；　his　brow　creasing　in　puzzlement。　Then　he　heard　it　himself：　a　faint；　rhythmic　throbbing。　He　followed　their　gaze　to　the　dark　horizon。　Already　the　Bushmen　were　on　their　feet；　birdlike；　apprehensive。　There　was　rapid；　urgent　talk。　A　cluster　of　lights；　faint　but　growing　brighter；　rose　in　the　distant　sky。　The　throbbing　sound　grew　stronger。　The　pencil…like　beam　of　a　spotlight　stabbed　downward　into　the　scrub。
　With　a　soft　cry　of　alarm；　the　old　man　dropped　his　Krugerrand　and　disappeared　into　the　darkness。　The　rest　foll