Free Search: A Novel of Forbidden History by Judith Reeves-Stevens, Garfield Reeves-Stevens

part in the conversation. Ironwood lived in his own private time zone, and that meant everyone in his employ did as well. No one slept until the top man did.
    “The aliens have a name?” Merrit asked. Who knew?
    “Nommo. ’Course, that’s probably not their real name, but that’s what the Dogon tribe call the amphibious beings who taught them astronomy. See here?” He motioned for Merrit to come closer.
    Merrit took a moment to find the rhythm of the train, then crossed the lounge with a rolling gait. Two or three years ago, someone had told him how much it had cost to rebuild this car. A staggering amount, in the millions. And for what? It was still just an old train car, even if it was clad in gleaming sheets of fluted steel and had an upper deck with an observation dome that looked like something from a World War II bomber. The damn thing still rattled and bucked like a mine train. He dragged a low-slung armchair into position beside the sleek divan.
    Ironwood held up the meteorite to show its engraved map of the solar system. “Just consider the knowledge this image represents.” He shook his head. “It’s got all the planets circling the sun. Jupiter with four moons. Saturn with a ring. Details that folks on this planet shouldn’t be able to know without some sophisticated math and some fine telescopes. But the Dogon knew all of it, and even more, thousands of years ago.
Thousands.
”
    Merrit wouldn’t have cared if the Dogon had known all of it millions of years ago. Besides, he’d already heard this lecture from the MacClary woman.
    “So you’re asking yourself . . . who are the Dogon?” Ironwood gave Merrit a sly grin, knowing full well he couldn’t care less about the Dogon. Not that that stopped him. It never did. “African tribe. Their territory’s a few hundred klicks south of Timbuktu. Real end-of-the-earth sort of place.”
    Merrit suppressed the sudden and overwhelming desire to yawn. “Good place for aliens to land, then. Nobody to spot them.”
    “Oh, I doubt they landed there. It’s more than likely the Dogon’s ancestors started out up to the Mediterranean. That’s where the Nommo—or whatever they really called themselves—landed and seeded the cultures that became Egyptian, Phoenician, Harappan, you name it. Then, when things went south—global flood, pole shift, whatever the heck happenedto knock the stuffing out of the first civilizations—the Dogon migrated down into Africa, set up shop there.” He paused, as if in his enthusiasm he’d said more than he planned to. “Something like that.”
    Merrit nodded as if any of this mattered to him. It didn’t. He did wonder, though, if his employer knew all this, why did no one else? The way Merrit looked at things, either there was evidence or there wasn’t. If the map on the meteorite was as important as Florian MacClary and Ironwood said, then why didn’t either side try to show it to the professors or scientists or whoever it was who decided such things? Merrit knew those weren’t questions to ask Ironwood. All that would get him would be another hour-long lecture on conspiracy theory and the evils of big government.
    Ironwood regarded Merrit with open amusement. “Here’s something I guarantee won’t bore you.”
    Merrit doubted that, but before he could reply, a young steward in a green corporate blazer approached with a black champagne bucket. Inside, packed in ice, was a large bottle of diet cola. She poured a glass for Ironwood, offered to pour another for Merrit. He asked for coffee instead.
    Ironwood waited for the steward to return to the kitchen. He kept his hands on the meteorite still sitting on his ample lap. “You remember the boy from the army lab?”
    Merrit shrugged. “Weir, David. Sure.”
    “I hired him.”
    It took Merrit a few seconds to process that. Weir was already on the payroll, so to speak. He brought Ironwood information from military records, and Ironwood paid him. Or, at least, Merrit