fangs of the skull with a whisk broom, but the incessant breeze blew it right back, filling the crevices between them. In a quavering, nervous voice, the young blonde man said, “Well, it’s generally believed that predatory theropods like the Troodon had developed fully functional binocular vision that controlled the coordination between running, hand movement and visual information about moving objects.”
The twenty-one year old graduate student from Muncie, Indiana glanced up at Honoré.
He blew grit away from a partially exposed vertebra, then sneezed explosively. Honoré managed to keep from laughing, although she wasn’t able to repress a grin. Turning toward the cameraman, she said dryly, “I believe that calls for a cut.”
Byerson, the director stepped forward, his bearded face locked in a frown. “I believe that's my call, Doc.”
“And that’s my student,” Honoré replied, nodding toward the young man. “I’d prefer his respiratory distress not be televised.”
Aaron smiled up at her gratefully, then sneezed again.
“Go blow your nose,” Honoré directed.
As the young man climbed out of the shallow, square-cut pit, Honoré brushed dirt particles from the long red-blond hair that spilled in a wind-tangled cascade from beneath her hat. Thin to the point of being gaunt, with lean muscles curving down from her shoulders to her forearms, Dr. Honoré Roxton fought back a sneeze herself. Wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, old jeans and scuffed hiking boots, she knew she presented a decidedly unglamorous image of a female paleontologist.
She wore wire-rimmed glasses over her leaf-green eyes, even though Byerson had begged her to wear contacts instead, claiming that the intense color of her eyes was her best feature. However, she knew her eyes would quickly become wet and red when particles of grit worked themselves beneath the lenses. Already she felt chafed and sticky from the sand that had crept through her shirt, into her bra and clung to her skin.
Byerson glanced at the sky lowering over the snow-capped Andes. “We might have time for one more setup before we call it a day.”
“For example?” Honoré inquired.
“How about you holding up a leg bone or something and talking about it?” the cameraman asked. Like Byerson, he was an American, but he seemed to be the product of a distinctly lower-end education.
“Like I’m the host of a Home Shopping Network program?” Honoré demanded. “You do understand that fossils are imitations of the bones, not the real thing?
Various minerals form a mold around the original material, but it’s not always perfect. For example, pterosaur bones are very thin and rarely escape crushing during fossilization.”
“Great,” replied the man, peering through the viewfinder of his shoulder-mounted camera. “Grab a bone out of the ground and say the same thing while I’m rolling.”
Byerson rolled his eyes in good-natured exasperation. “Shut up, Bill. Doc, how about we get some scenes of you sketching the skull? I understand you’re a superb scientific artist.”
Honoré smiled self-consciously. “Nowadays, a detailed record of a dig is maintained by digital cameras.”
“Yeah, but it’s an old tried and true technique dating back to Victorian-era paleontologists, right? I think our viewers would get a kick out of seeing how you guys used to do it.”
Honoré’s smile vanished. “Just how old do you think I am, Mr. Byerson?”
A chill gust of wind threw a pinch of dust into Byerson’s face and he grimaced. “To be honest, Doc, filling an hour of air time with one scene after another of college students digging in the dirt doesn’t make for good TV, not even on the Discovery Channel. But you’ve got a great speaking voice and you’d be majorly telegenic if you took off those damn glasses and put on some lipstick.”
“Would you like me to flash some cleavage, as well?” Honoré asked coldly. “I could borrow a pair
The twenty-one year old graduate student from Muncie, Indiana glanced up at Honoré.
He blew grit away from a partially exposed vertebra, then sneezed explosively. Honoré managed to keep from laughing, although she wasn’t able to repress a grin. Turning toward the cameraman, she said dryly, “I believe that calls for a cut.”
Byerson, the director stepped forward, his bearded face locked in a frown. “I believe that's my call, Doc.”
“And that’s my student,” Honoré replied, nodding toward the young man. “I’d prefer his respiratory distress not be televised.”
Aaron smiled up at her gratefully, then sneezed again.
“Go blow your nose,” Honoré directed.
As the young man climbed out of the shallow, square-cut pit, Honoré brushed dirt particles from the long red-blond hair that spilled in a wind-tangled cascade from beneath her hat. Thin to the point of being gaunt, with lean muscles curving down from her shoulders to her forearms, Dr. Honoré Roxton fought back a sneeze herself. Wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, old jeans and scuffed hiking boots, she knew she presented a decidedly unglamorous image of a female paleontologist.
She wore wire-rimmed glasses over her leaf-green eyes, even though Byerson had begged her to wear contacts instead, claiming that the intense color of her eyes was her best feature. However, she knew her eyes would quickly become wet and red when particles of grit worked themselves beneath the lenses. Already she felt chafed and sticky from the sand that had crept through her shirt, into her bra and clung to her skin.
Byerson glanced at the sky lowering over the snow-capped Andes. “We might have time for one more setup before we call it a day.”
“For example?” Honoré inquired.
“How about you holding up a leg bone or something and talking about it?” the cameraman asked. Like Byerson, he was an American, but he seemed to be the product of a distinctly lower-end education.
“Like I’m the host of a Home Shopping Network program?” Honoré demanded. “You do understand that fossils are imitations of the bones, not the real thing?
Various minerals form a mold around the original material, but it’s not always perfect. For example, pterosaur bones are very thin and rarely escape crushing during fossilization.”
“Great,” replied the man, peering through the viewfinder of his shoulder-mounted camera. “Grab a bone out of the ground and say the same thing while I’m rolling.”
Byerson rolled his eyes in good-natured exasperation. “Shut up, Bill. Doc, how about we get some scenes of you sketching the skull? I understand you’re a superb scientific artist.”
Honoré smiled self-consciously. “Nowadays, a detailed record of a dig is maintained by digital cameras.”
“Yeah, but it’s an old tried and true technique dating back to Victorian-era paleontologists, right? I think our viewers would get a kick out of seeing how you guys used to do it.”
Honoré’s smile vanished. “Just how old do you think I am, Mr. Byerson?”
A chill gust of wind threw a pinch of dust into Byerson’s face and he grimaced. “To be honest, Doc, filling an hour of air time with one scene after another of college students digging in the dirt doesn’t make for good TV, not even on the Discovery Channel. But you’ve got a great speaking voice and you’d be majorly telegenic if you took off those damn glasses and put on some lipstick.”
“Would you like me to flash some cleavage, as well?” Honoré asked coldly. “I could borrow a pair
Similar Books
