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said Tom. “I don’t guess it would.”
    “Have you heard from anyone? I mean, has anybody put in a claim for the boat?”
    “No. Nobody.”
    “Have you exhausted reasonable means to establish ownership?”
    “Is that my responsibility?”
    “Who else’s? Listen, for all we know it could be stolen. The thieves hid it in your ground. For whatever reason. In that case, it would belong to the original owner.” Ev was a careful man, a model of caution. He took pride in not committing to a view until all the facts were in. Which meant, of course, that he was never quite on board. Or in opposition. “The question here, as I see it, is one of intent. Was the property abandoned? If so, then I think your claim to ownership would be valid. And I believe that claim would be substantiated in court, if need be. If someone challenged it.”
    “Who would challenge it?”
    “Oh, hard to say. A relative might claim the owner was not competent when he, or she, abandoned the boat. Burying it might constitute a sound argument in that direction.”
    “So how do I establish ownership?”
    “Let me research it, Tom. Meantime, it would help if we could find out how it came to be where it was.”

5
    Antiquities are remnants of history which have casually escaped the shipwrecks of time .
    —Francis Bacon, The Advancement of Learning, II
    Stell pursued her mission for three days. No one could identify a manufacturer. There were two more or less similar models of yachts, but nothing identical. Max asked her to keep at it.
    Morley Clark had no idea whatever about the symbols on the hull. In fact, Max found it impossible to convince him he was serious. “These characters,” Clark told Max, “are not part of any language of any industrialized society.” There were eleven of them, presumably the name of the craft. They were cursive, rendering it difficult to be sure of the exact shape of an individual character. Max recognized an O but nothing else.
    They were sitting in Clark’s office on the campus of Moorhead State. Outside, the sun was shining, and the temperature was a balmy forty degrees. “That can’t be right, Morley,” he said. “You must have missed something.”
    Clark smiled tolerantly. He was lanky, broad-shouldered, athletic. A softball nut. “I agree, Max. But I can’t see where. Maybe the data banks aren’t as complete as they’re supposed to be. But as a practical matter, I think we have damned near everything. Yourstuff won’t make a match. Well, a couple of the symbols do. One’s Hindustani, another’s Cyrillic. Which means it’s pure coincidence. You put a few lines and loops together and you have to come up with something.” He looked down at the photo on his desk. “Max, it’s a joke.”
    Max thanked Clark and drove back to Chellis Field wondering who was the joker and who the jokee. He was by turns mystified and irritated. It had to be some kind of gang thing. Had to be.
    He was up on I—29 when Stell reached him on his cellular phone. “You got a call from Colson Laboratories. Can you take it?”
    Already? It was only two days. “Okay,” he said. “Put them through.”
    “Roger. And Max?”
    “Yes?”
    “They sound excited.”
    The phone clicked. “Mr. Collingwood?” A woman’s voice. And Stell was right: She sounded as if she’d just run up two flights of stairs.
    “Yes, this is Max Collingwood. Can I help you?”
    “My name’s Cannon. I’m calling for Colson Labs. About the samples you left the other day.”
    “Okay.”
    “I assume you’re not at your office now?”
    “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” said Max. “What have you got?”
    “Can I meet you there?” she asked.
     
    She was black, slender, in her mid-thirties. Her business card indicated she was a lab director for Colson. Good smile, high cheekbones, and an aura of barely-suppressed excitement. She wore a navy blue business suit and carried a leather briefcase. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Collingwood,” she