Beyond the Ice Limit

19

THE SEEDILY DRESSED man wheeled his cheap roller bag down Santa Fe’s West San Francisco Street. He passed a Starbucks and hesitated, craving a venti macchiato—or even a single shot of espresso—but realized he didn’t have the money. Turning down Galisteo Street, he stopped at a shopfront with a sign identifying it as PROFESSOR EXOTICA. It sported a window stuffed with bizarre and fantastical rocks, minerals, gems, and fossils. There was a cave bear skull, mounted; a dinosaur egg; a mummified crocodile; a spectacular azurite geode; a four-inch tourmaline; and a large, sectioned meteorite with its etched face displaying a riot of Widmanstätten lines.

The man paused at the window. He hadn’t called ahead to make an appointment, but the proprietor, a guy named Joe Culp, was almost always there. Besides, an appointment hadn’t seemed like a good idea—the last one hadn’t gone all that well, and he’d been afraid of being turned away before he even got in the door.

He collapsed the handle of the roller bag, then picked it up. Jesus, it was heavy—maybe eighty, ninety pounds—but that weight was what was going to buy his dinner and a place to spend the night. He pushed through the door, bells tinkling, and lugged the bag down the staircase into the basement shop, crammed floor-to-ceiling with natural wonders.

“Hey, hey, Sam McFarlane!” Joe Culp came around from behind the counter, arms spread wide, and gave the man a big embrace. McFarlane didn’t like to be hugged, but it seemed prudent not to object. “What you got for me? Where you been? Teaching?”

“I was teaching. Didn’t work out. So I headed to Russia.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Primorye.”

At this, he saw Culp’s face take on a faint look of disappointment. He glanced at the suitcase. “These are Sikhote-Alin specimens?”

“Yeah.”

“All of them?”

“Trust me, these are good ones. The best. Shrapnel, thumbprints, oriented—all unique. One with a hole in it.”

“Let’s take a look,” said Culp with what McFarlane sensed was slightly forced, artificial cheer.

McFarlane unzipped the roller bag to reveal a row of shoe boxes of sorted specimens, each labeled with a Sharpie.

“Let’s take a look at the ones with regmagylpts,” said Culp.

McFarlane pulled out a box and laid it on the counter. He opened it up. Inside he had wrapped the specimens in paper towels. He sorted through them and picked out a few of the biggest, then unwrapped them. Culp brought out a velvet-covered board and placed it on the counter to keep the meteorites from scratching the glass.

“How about that?” said McFarlane, laying his best specimen on the velvet. “Thumbprints on one side, fusion crust. Totally unique.”

Culp grunted and picked it up, examining it. “How’d you get these?”

“There’s a lot of guys in Primorye with metal detectors that go out there, sweep the area. There’s still tons of shit out there.”

Culp turned the piece around in his hand and finally put it down. “What else?”

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s not that I don’t like it. It’s just that we specialize in unique stuff. This…well, there are pieces like it selling on eBay. Let’s see the one with the hole in it.”

McFarlane searched through the box until he found it, unwrapped it, and laid it on the velvet.

Again he saw disappointment in Culp’s face, which annoyed him. When Culp didn’t pick it up right away, McFarlane took it in hand. “See?” He peered through the hole. “This is pretty unique.”

“It’s also pretty small. I might be able to sell it, though. How much you want for it?”

“Twelve hundred.”

“Whoa! No way can I get twelve hundred. Or even six. Sam, you know I’d be lucky to get two.”

McFarlane felt his irritation grow. “Bullshit. It cost me three thousand bucks to get to Primorye. Who’s going to pay for that? And I had to pay the guy who found it two hundred!”

“Then I would say you overpaid.”

“Come on, Joe. How many Sikhote-Alin specimens have thumbprints and a hole?”

“The market’s awash with Sikhote-Alin. Just go on eBay and look.”

“The hell with eBay. This is way better than eBay.” McFarlane reached into the box and pulled out another. “Look at this—wicked good piece of shrapnel, two hundred grams. All twisted up. And this—” He unwrapped another, then another, with increasing rapidity. “And how about this? Beautifully oriented with flow lines and fusion crust.”

Culp spread his hands. “Sam, I just don’t need them. I’ve got meteorites, unique meteorites, selling for ninety, a hundred grand. This is not the kind of stuff I handle. Now, if you had a really good pallasite, say, I would definitely be interested. Like that incredible Acomita pallasite you brought me five years ago—if you could get me another slice like that, I could sell it tomorrow.”

“I told you, I just got back from Russia. I spent my last nickel on these meteorites. Surely you need some less expensive stuff in this shop—I mean, who can afford hundred-grand meteorites?”

“That’s my clientele.”

McFarlane hesitated. “I’ll sell you the whole collection for six grand. Take them all. Forty kilos of iron—that’s only fifteen cents a gram!”

“Honestly, Sam, your best option is eBay. There’s no shame in that. And then you wouldn’t have to absorb the dealer’s cut.”

“So after all the great stuff I’ve brought you, all the money you’ve made off me—you want to shuffle me off to eBay?”

“I didn’t mean it that way. I’m just offering advice—you do what you want.”

McFarlane felt the disappointment and rage building. “eBay,” he said, shaking his head.

“Sam, you haven’t brought me anything I could use in years. Not since that…that expedition to wherever it was. Bring me something good and I’ll pay you well, really well—”

“I told you never to mention that expedition!” McFarlane said, rage finally breaking through the dam. He swept the box off the counter to the floor, the meteorites flying and rattling everywhere.

Culp rose. “I’m sorry, Sam, but I think you should leave now.”

“With pleasure. And you can go ahead and keep that shit on the floor, I don’t want it. Give it away to your rich fucking clients or use it for fucking paperweights. Jesus, what a ripoff artist!”

McFarlane seized his suitcase and climbed the stairs in a fury, emerging onto the street. But the sudden bright light dazed him, and already he felt his fury subsiding. Son of a bitch, he needed those meteorites he’d left scattered on the floor—those were his best. He didn’t even have enough money to buy a cup of coffee. He felt a sudden overwhelming shame for his outburst. The guy wasn’t in the charity business. And McFarlane knew, underneath it all, that Joe was right: the meteorites he had were run-of-the-mill specimens. The trip to Russia had been a bust—other meteorite hunters had already cleaned out the good stuff, and he was left buying the shit everyone else had rejected. Joe had helped him before, advanced him money, financed his trips…He owed the guy five thousand dollars and Joe hadn’t even brought it up.

After a long, burning hesitation, McFarlane turned and headed back down into the shop. Joe was just putting the last of the meteorites back into the shoe box. He silently handed it to McFarlane.

“Joe, I’m really sorry, I don’t know what got into me—”

“Sam, I’m your friend. I think you need to get some help.”

“I know. I’m a mess.”

“You need a place to stay tonight?”

“No, I’m good, don’t worry about it.” McFarlane put the shoe box back into his roller bag, zipped it up, and manhandled it back up the stairs, mumbling a good-bye. Back in the street he wondered where he was going to get the money for a meal and a place to spend the night. Maybe he could get away with sleeping in Cathedral Park again.

He felt a vibration and realized his cell phone was ringing. He pulled it out, wondering who was calling him. He hadn’t had a call in days.

The caller ID said DEARBORNE PARK. Where the hell was that?

“Hello?”

“Is this Dr. Samuel McFarlane?” came the voice on the other end.

“Yes.”

“Please hold the line a moment. There’s someone here who’d like to speak with you.”