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Authors: Stuart M. Kaminsky
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the base of the hill on which the building stood. Dioramas on each side of the illuminated tunnel depicted the history of the primitive Asian migrants who millennia earlier had settled the western American coast.
At the end of the tunnel stood a man. Behind him was an elevator, its doors open.
“Good evening,” the man said, his voice echoing eerily down the tunnel.
August Blake was around sixty, with white hair. A solid block of a man with a clean-shaven face, he gave us a Santa Claus smile of greeting.
He held out his hand. Gunther and I shook it in turns, and Gunther introduced me.
“Come,” said Blake, stepping back so we could enter the elevator.
The doors closed behind us after we entered, and we faced front. Blake said, “The lower lobby is one hundred and eight feet above us.”
It took about twenty seconds before the elevator stopped and the doors opened.
“The lights are dimmed,” he explained as we stepped out. “Museum’s closed, the blackout, money saved.”
The lobby was a broad room lined with American Indian exhibits. There was something ghostly about the shadows, the musty smell and the faint sounds of creaking.
Blake led the way to a stairway in the center of the room. We walked up to and through a room marked “Plains Indians.” We passed a tepee.
“Blackfeet, Cheyenne, Crow and Arapahoe,” said Blake with pride, his voice and footsteps still echoing. “Clothing and weapons. The weapons are my particular interest.”
He guided us into the south wing of the building and past the closed doors of an auditorium. “Torrance Tower,” he said, opening a door through which we followed him. “My office is this way, past the library.”
About thirty feet farther, we stopped at a door with Blake’s name on it in black letters. Inside the room it was bright, a contrast to the darkness we had just been led through.
There was a large cluttered desk in one corner and an even larger table in the center of the room. On it were bones, bows, arrows, something that looked like a peace pipe, and large, open books. There were also three magnifying glasses and a microscope. The walls were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
Blake led us to the table.
“You have it with you? The dart?”
I removed it from the handkerchief I had wrapped around it. He took it and turned it. Held it up to the light. He picked up a magnifying glass and examined it slowly.
“Blowguns have been around for more than 40,000 years,” he said, looking at the dart. “Popped up all over the world. Serendipity. The hand of God or gods. This dart is made from river cane, Gigantis arundaris , probably the same material the blowgun that shot it is made of.”
“Poisoned?” Gunther asked.
“No. No need. A blowgun three or more feet long with a ten-inch dart in the hands of a Cherokee hunter could be shot accurately enough to pierce the eye of a deer at fifty feet. African tribes and South Sea Islanders used poisons in battle and hunting. But this isn’t a hunting dart.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Too short, suggests a short blowgun, probably two feet. Could still be deadly accurate from twenty feet or even more. Person who made this dart knew what he—”
“—or she,” I said.
“Never heard of a woman using a blowgun,” Blake said with a smile. “But why not? Good lungs, steady hands, a hard blow. Person who made this ground the point the way it’s supposed to be. Amateurs whittle. This purple fluff on the end—”
He held it out for us to look at.
“It’s called fletching. This one is cotton, light, fluffy, fills the hole so there’s something to blow against.”
“What do you know about crossbows?” I asked.
He handed me the dart, and I rewrapped it and returned it to my pocket.
“Ancient and primitive weapons of all manner are my passion,” he said. “Along with chocolate ice cream. What would you like to know?”
“First,” I said, “how accurate are they?”
“Remarkably in skilled
At the end of the tunnel stood a man. Behind him was an elevator, its doors open.
“Good evening,” the man said, his voice echoing eerily down the tunnel.
August Blake was around sixty, with white hair. A solid block of a man with a clean-shaven face, he gave us a Santa Claus smile of greeting.
He held out his hand. Gunther and I shook it in turns, and Gunther introduced me.
“Come,” said Blake, stepping back so we could enter the elevator.
The doors closed behind us after we entered, and we faced front. Blake said, “The lower lobby is one hundred and eight feet above us.”
It took about twenty seconds before the elevator stopped and the doors opened.
“The lights are dimmed,” he explained as we stepped out. “Museum’s closed, the blackout, money saved.”
The lobby was a broad room lined with American Indian exhibits. There was something ghostly about the shadows, the musty smell and the faint sounds of creaking.
Blake led the way to a stairway in the center of the room. We walked up to and through a room marked “Plains Indians.” We passed a tepee.
“Blackfeet, Cheyenne, Crow and Arapahoe,” said Blake with pride, his voice and footsteps still echoing. “Clothing and weapons. The weapons are my particular interest.”
He guided us into the south wing of the building and past the closed doors of an auditorium. “Torrance Tower,” he said, opening a door through which we followed him. “My office is this way, past the library.”
About thirty feet farther, we stopped at a door with Blake’s name on it in black letters. Inside the room it was bright, a contrast to the darkness we had just been led through.
There was a large cluttered desk in one corner and an even larger table in the center of the room. On it were bones, bows, arrows, something that looked like a peace pipe, and large, open books. There were also three magnifying glasses and a microscope. The walls were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
Blake led us to the table.
“You have it with you? The dart?”
I removed it from the handkerchief I had wrapped around it. He took it and turned it. Held it up to the light. He picked up a magnifying glass and examined it slowly.
“Blowguns have been around for more than 40,000 years,” he said, looking at the dart. “Popped up all over the world. Serendipity. The hand of God or gods. This dart is made from river cane, Gigantis arundaris , probably the same material the blowgun that shot it is made of.”
“Poisoned?” Gunther asked.
“No. No need. A blowgun three or more feet long with a ten-inch dart in the hands of a Cherokee hunter could be shot accurately enough to pierce the eye of a deer at fifty feet. African tribes and South Sea Islanders used poisons in battle and hunting. But this isn’t a hunting dart.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Too short, suggests a short blowgun, probably two feet. Could still be deadly accurate from twenty feet or even more. Person who made this dart knew what he—”
“—or she,” I said.
“Never heard of a woman using a blowgun,” Blake said with a smile. “But why not? Good lungs, steady hands, a hard blow. Person who made this ground the point the way it’s supposed to be. Amateurs whittle. This purple fluff on the end—”
He held it out for us to look at.
“It’s called fletching. This one is cotton, light, fluffy, fills the hole so there’s something to blow against.”
“What do you know about crossbows?” I asked.
He handed me the dart, and I rewrapped it and returned it to my pocket.
“Ancient and primitive weapons of all manner are my passion,” he said. “Along with chocolate ice cream. What would you like to know?”
“First,” I said, “how accurate are they?”
“Remarkably in skilled
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