Ancient Shores by Jack McDevitt

not the sort to be carried away by passion or gulled by ambition. Nevertheless, she would have liked a second opinion, some confirmation from one of the experts in the field. But the stakes were so high that she knew where premature disclosure might lead: The heavyweights would move in and Cannon would be pushed aside.
    She needed someone to talk to. The Laskers, sitting on what might turn out to be the discovery of the ages, seemed to look on the entire business with a degree of complacency that irritated her. They were interested, the possibilities intrigued them, and yet they lacked fire. It was her impression that had Tom Lasker been informed there was a crashed UFO on his land, he’d go look at it, but only after feeding the horses.
    Max was different. And during this difficult period, he became her sole support.
    They tended to approach the more electrifying possibilities obliquely: They joked about the effects they would have on their personal lives. April conjured up an image of Max on the cover of Time , stepping down from the cockpit of the Lightning, his flying jacket rakishly open. Man of the Year.
    And he speculated about a Nobel for the woman who had given the world the lifetime automobile guarantee.
    Meantime, the days passed without tangible result from the ground-radar unit, and Max’s conviction returned that it was all just too good to be true. April pointed out that the search was a long shot, but even if they found nothing else, they already possessed an artifact of incalculable value. “Nothing is ever going to be the same,” she said, adding that she had written a paper revealing her findings. “Which I will not publishuntil we can be reasonably sure there’s nothing else out there. We don’t want to start a treasure hunt.”
    “I agree,” said Max. They were sitting in a food court in the mall at the intersection of the two interstates in Fargo, splitting a pepperoni pizza. “If there really is something out there, what would you think our chances are of finding it?”
    Her eyes fluttered shut. “Almost nil. There’s too much lake bottom.” She stirred a packet of artificial sweetener into her coffee. “We’re talking about substantial pieces of the U.S. and Canada. For that matter, there could be something here .” She indicated the floor. “The Fargo area was underwater, too, for a while. Who knows?”
    Max looked down at the tiles. “I wonder what the yacht is worth?”
    “If it is what we think it is, Max, you couldn’t put a price on it.” She watched a mother trying to balance a squalling child and an armload of packages. “I hope we can actually get some answers to the questions. Truth is, I have a bad feeling that we’re likely to be faced with a mystery no one will ever solve.”
    “It would be nice,” he said, “to find something that would help pin down who owned the boat.”
    “ Remains ,” she said. “What we need are remains.” Her manner was so intent that two kids trooping past with balloons turned to stare. “Look. They left the boat. That suggests something unexpected might have happened. A storm. Maybe they were attacked by natives.”
    “Or,” suggested Max, “maybe they just never came back for it.”
    “It’s a nice boat,” said April. “I’d sure take it with me when I left. I wouldn’t just leave it somewhere. No, I think there’s a good chance something went wrong.” Her voice softened, became very distant. “Oh, Max, I don’t know. I hate to speculate about this thing.” She took a bite of pizza and chewed very deliberately before continuing. “If something did go wrong, there’s adecent chance their means of transportation is still here.”
     
    Max should have been feeling good. The Vickers Museum in South Bend was expected to get a substantial grant, an award that opened serious possibilities for the company. In addition, there had been two good offers for a Catalina flying boat on which Max had an option, and Popular Aviation