Marcus the Dog raised his snout languidly at some interruption to his afternoon nap.

This was the quiet time, when his dependents were out of the house. On some days, they would wrap boxes in heavy paper and carry them in the loud rider to the place with the moving doors. Other times, there would be happy papers waiting in the bread box beside the road. Papers called, "Yeah!" Whenever this happened, Sol and Anna became frisky. They would hurry the papers out to the loud rider without letting Marcus sniff, and take them to the building where ladies waited behind glass.

Today was a "Yeah!" day, and Marcus had the place to himself. Bright squares from the twelve-pane windows warmed the tiled kitchen floor. Whatever had wakened him was already gone, and the only sound remaining was the talking box, which lived high on the counter where Marcus never jumped.

He could jump there, if he wanted. A spirited terrier mix of dishwater gray, Marcus could leap almost as high as when he was young, but he didn't want to. The talking box seldom spoke his name or answered his bark. He settled back onto his comfortable bed of eighteenth-century parchment deeds and gently gnawed a corner, while the box lulled him back to sleep:

"Mr. Slyde, my name is Preston Young, calling from Salt Lake City, Utah. I wonder if you might return my call at your earliest convenience on a matter of some interest. My private 800 number is 788-4280, and I should be here until 6 p.m., which would be 8:00 your time."

Solomon Slyde and his wife Anna might have seemed a strange couple to those who did not know them well. If they appeared mis-matched, each was, in fact, completely dependent upon the other. Anna was a left-over flower child from the sixties, still a bit idealistic and enraptured with life. She was well into her forties, however, and no longer needed a cause. With her graying hair, still long and tied back, there had come a level of comfort and contentment well suited to a life in the woods of New York. Ithaca, five miles down the hill, completed whatever it was she wanted, and she knew they had made the right choice in staying out of the big city which lay at the hub of the world, four hours away.

Sol, on the other hand, was not always so sure. Half a generation beyond Anna, he had escaped the craziness of the drug days and the exuberant demonstrations. At mid-life, he could use a little excitement. Had it not been for Anna's resistance, he might have accepted the offer to work at Sotheby's. He could have dealt with the unsettling metropolis.

In his early fifties, Sol sprouted a graying beard and a gently growing paunch ill-hidden in khaki pants. Shabby-genteel accoutrements masked his relative poverty and intrinsically liberal sympathies. He brushed back flying remnants of hair, replaced the brown felt hat which he never questioned, and stepped out of the decaying Chevy station wagon, wincing at the sound of a dying muffler.

"I'll be right back," he told Anna from the curb in front of the downtown bank.

"Shall I come, too?" she asked through the open window.

"Just be a minute!" Sol replied, knowing full-well what Anna meant. It was a grand irony of their marriage that she, not Sol, dealt best with practical matters like filling out a deposit slip, or knowing how much cash to keep back for grocery shopping. Anna was strangely conservative with money - so much so that her otherwise ethereal mind would probably not comprehend the Treasure Fund, a sly stash which Sol hoarded on the side, in anticipation of some rare discovery which might be waiting just around the corner. Perhaps a Lincoln letter, or the first edition of Gone With the Wind. He had to be ready. Old attics would not wait, once owners decided that it was time to clear, nor could most of his dealer friends (quick to buy and fast to sell at a modest but certain profit) wait for him to find money thirty days in the future.

So Sol reached into the side pocket of his corduroy jacket and extracted a check which Anna had not seen. Twelve hundred dollars to add to the account whose statements the bank mailed to a post office box Sol only checked when his wife wasn't along. Laying his gloves on the marble table, he filled out two slips and waited for a dour, matronly teller who would not be one to make small talk or gossip.

When he first started the Treasure Fund, Sol had felt a bit guilty, as if holding food from a baby. But there were no babies. Their son Mark was graduated and fending for himself; their daughter had died seven years ago, and if things were sometimes a little tight, they were at least static. The house, a deliciously private two-story Cape Cod in the country, was generally cooperative, demanding only occasional repairs and moderate taxes. Anna wanted a new kitchen, and would have liked a jacuzzi, but even if she had known of the Fund, her earthy practicality would have forced Sol to spend it on a dependable car. Better that he keep this money private, where it could open rare doors of serious opportunity.

Sol looked at the separate deposit receipts and noted with satisfaction that the secret account had just topped $30,000. He tucked the appropriate receipt carefully to the back of his wallet, glided lightly past the bank guard, and stepped back into the car with an innocent smile. As he started the engine, he shied a little at the ominous sound, but accepted it as one that would long be with them. The Treasure Fund was safe.

Perhaps to calm his conscience, Sol pulled up to a quaint mall a few blocks from the bank. Ithaca's tree-sheltered streets were moderately busy, but not so crowded that he would have difficulty finding a quick parking space.

"Let's eat at Moosewood," he suggested in his typical, certain tone.

Anna looked over in feigned surprise.

"Daddy Warbucks, is it? Since when did you win the lottery?"

If the restaurant was justly renowned, it was certainly not over-priced. Anna was simply teasing the man who never balked at eating out, though there was always good, frugally-prepared food at home.

"The lottery, and a few other sources," Sol winked brazenly. "How else do you think I fund my secret harem?" He had toyed with the idea of saying, "my secret hoard," but wasn't sure he could pull it off with the right degree of insouciance.

They locked the car and walked past a number of students, the time-warp hippie and a head-shaved adherent of some Eastern persuasion, into the renovated brick building which housed a dozen granola establishments ranging from a health food grocery to the shop of a metal artisan with an ornamental chastity belt in the window. Anna relished the comfortable, unhurried atmosphere. As they turned down the quiet hallway toward the restaurant, she half closed her eyes and took in the marvelous blend of aromas. Suddenly, she stopped without warning to let out a "Damn!"

"I forgot my mother is calling tonight at 6:00!" Anna moaned, with a slightly melodramatic back-rolling of her eyes. "You know how she is. If we're not home when I told her we would be, she'll make the worst of it, or call the police, or . . ."

Sol paused for only a moment. He had long-since learned to accept this particular trial. "If you'll settle for a hamburger today," he suggested in his best Wimpy imitation from the Popeye cartoons, "I'll gladly bring you back to Moosewood tomorrow. For now, we can get take-out at the deli."

Anna looked at her husband curiously. He was a good guy, certainly, but such easy humor was uncharacteristic. Maybe he thought he was getting special favors tonight. They turned and headed for the sandwich shop at the center of the sedate, main hall.

"Instead of a hamburger, how about something healthy?" she responded, flicking an imaginary Groucho cigar. "I'll make it worth your while . . ."

Sol wrapped his arm around Anna's shoulder, and they edged through the door. The delicatessen was clean, quiet, and unassuming, the sort of gracious, welcoming establishment where good diction and careful grammar were heard on both sides of the counter, something likely only in a university town. A handful of customers sat at small tables in front of a large glass window which looked out at the yellow-painted interior of the little mall. Directly across was a rare book and curio shop with a pile of old photographs and vintage postcards on a table outside its door. The owner of that shop was in the deli, and he nodded to the Slydes between bites of his sandwich.

"Greetings, Kirby," Sol returned. "Any new finds for me?"

"Always, always," came the breezy reply, half spoken through alfalfa sprouts and freshly-sliced mushrooms. "Why don't we step over, and I'll see what I have." The bookman took his paper plate in his hand and started to get up, wiping some of the crumbs from his over-bushy moustache.

"One more step, Mister, and it's coitains," Anna spoke up. She was still in an easy mood, and used it to squelch what might otherwise turn into a two-hour browsing spree, time which they did not have available that afternoon.

Sol was tempted to sneak across for a few minutes while Anna ordered the sandwiches, but decided against it.

"Sorry, Kirby, but Anna's mother is calling in less than an hour. She isn't well, and we really have to run."

They were both feeling content at the same time, for a change, and Sol didn't want to blow it. Besides, he knew that no matter what the bookstore owner might have for him, it would be held behind the desk until Sol could come by. It was this trusting rapport in an otherwise uncertain world of rarities and collectibles that compensated for the many downsides of working for oneself: no regular paycheck, no free benefits or paid sick days, little conception of a non-working vacation.

Anna paid for the sandwiches and glanced at her watch. It was 5:35, leaving just enough time to get home with a few moments to start eating before her mother called. They walked the block and a half to the car, negotiated what traffic Ithaca had to offer, and roared the tired car up South Hill - all in five minutes' time.

Here was the other compensation of Sol & Anna's self-employed, antiquarian existence: a private life in the woods. At the top of the steep rise, a bit beyond Ithaca College, the highway opened up and countryside began to take over. They turned at Buttermilk Road, slowed for a tight corner through a narrow gorge, then back up and onto a high plain overlooking Cayuga Lake on the right, a forest of hardwoods on the left. Bucolic paradise, ten minutes from Cornell University.

As they pulled into their long driveway, the sky was practically clear. Yet the place seemed surprisingly dark for so early in the evening, due primarily to the thick foliage and tall trees. October would soon transform their property into a palette of soothing colors, and Solomon Slyde acknowledged to himself privately that, given available options, he and his wife had chosen the best of all possible worlds.

The Slyde household was generally clean, but always in disarray from countless antiquarian books and letters that emerged from every shelf and cranny. The smell of paper older than the Constitution mingled with kitchen-window herbs and honey-cured tobacco to make sure that you knew you were home.

While Anna coddled the dog, Sol hung their coats on original Shaker pegs behind the door, then reached into one of the white paper bags from the deli. Marcus would be offended if they forgot to bring something for him, but jumped in glee when he was handed a bagel - plain: no garlic or onion. He took the prize back to his comfortable bed in the corner of the kitchen and began to chew contentedly, drooling only a little upon the centuries-old land documents from Pennsylvania. It was indeed the best of all possible worlds.

"Honey, have you been working in the kitchen again?" Anna asked distractedly, eyeing the scene as she reached to the cupboard for some plates and napkins. The counter was cluttered as usual. Even the space beside the telephone was taken up with ornate forms written on crisp, yellowing vellum with bright red and green ribbons emerging from wax seals.

"Uh, guess so. The phone rang yesterday when I came in for coffee. Some woman with an old Bible wouldn't get off the line, and I had a bunch of . . ."

Sol spotted the thick pile of old deeds which he had sorted onto the floor, now occupied by Marcus the Dog, whom he picked up gently, long enough to extract the merchandise.

". . . a bunch of stuff from the papers of William Penn. Looks like we've had some calls."

The telephone answering machine, also on the counter, was flashing patiently. Sol looked about hopelessly for a place to set the pile of parchment. He finally stood the stiff documents on their side at a slight angle, once more upon the floor, but leaning against a lower cupboard door. Before he sat down at the kitchen table, he washed his hands in the kitchen sink, hit the replay button on the phone machine, and gave Anna a peck on the back of the neck - all in two breaths.

Smoked turkey & Swiss on wheat bread with lettuce, tomato and thin slices of home-tasting dill pickle; heavy on the mayo with a hint of country Dijon mustard. Anna brought two glasses of diet soda and joined him at the table.

"Sol! It's Kirby Jones. The minute you left the deli, I remembered what I had for you. Did you know that there was a school primer done in Ithaca earlier than the one Jim Fife keeps bragging about? I'd sell it to him myself, but . . ."

"Sol, Marcus Weaver in Palmyra. Just got a call from a guy in Utah who got my name from Directory Assistance. I told him to call you, hope you don't mind. Something he's chasing down. Let me know next time you're coming through and we'll have lunch at the diner."

Marcus the dog, with half-eaten bagel firmly in his teeth, walked about distractedly in search of the right place to lie down. His corner seemed cold and uninviting, so he settled for the place closest to his comfortable parchment, presently angled lightly against the cabinet. As he resumed his munching, the two-hundred-year-old documents tipped smoothly as dominoes, one by one over his back like a familiar blanket. A particularly large example slid by his head when he stretched for the final bite of bagel, until a red ribbon with wax seal hung jauntily over one eye.

"Hello. This is Mildred Evans, calling from Trumansburg. I found your name in the yellow pages and wonder if you can tell me about some old books I have. I'm moving in with my daughter and her husband in Buffalo, and . . ."

Sol knew the type. Nice but boring, with piles of Reader's Digest and recent National Geographics, perhaps a few crumbling sheep-bound textbooks thrown in from the 1800s, generally worthless. He dug into the bag for one of the deli's sinful fudge cookies with macadamia nuts.

"Mr. Slyde, my name is Preston Young, calling from Salt Lake City, Utah. I wonder if you might return my call at your earliest convenience on a matter of some interest. My private 800 number is 788-4280, and I should be here until 6 p.m., which would be 8:00 your time."

Sol glanced at the clock over the sink. A black cat's eyes tick-tocked back and forth in rhythm with its tail. It was nearly six o'clock. Sol got up to get a banana for desert, and debated whether to answer this last message now, or wait until after his mother-in-law's call. At that moment the telephone rang.

"I-i-i-i-i-i-I-I-T's MOther!," he announced with microphone in hand as Anna reached for the phone. She looked at him askance, and Sol softened his expression of mock delight, settling back into the chair with a boyish grin. He knew it would be a good hour until he had the line, so he peeled the microphone, took a bite, and mused upon whom he should call first, Marcus Weaver or the unfamiliar, portentous-sounding voice in the West.

Anna's conversation undulated soothingly as she echoed the tones at the other end of the line. Lots of concern, occasional laughter, a little indignation. She had realized at age twelve that there would never be communication of intellectual substance with her parents - not really. So she learned to be, progressively, the angry little firebrand, the tolerant thirty-something offspring, and at last the lovingly patient, supportive daughter of a widow who needed her more and more.

Sol identified most comfortably with the merely-tolerant approach, but was only too grateful that Anna could intercede so effectively between him and his mother-in-law. Besides, the mature Anna who could calm her crotchety parent was the same wife who suffered his own idiosyncrasies so well. Her able management of so much in their lives freed him to pursue what he did best. The even lilt of Anna's dutiful telephone performance in the background lent perfect impetus as Sol pondered the messages on the answering machine - how he should respond, what he would need to know in advance, whom he should call.

This was nothing dramatic or particularly new. Sol received letters nearly every day from someone in search of the Holy Grail, or from one who had it for sale. Bringing owner and buyer together was what it was all about. He was more than a middle man, of course. Years of experience had qualified him to see the hidden value in a book or an old manuscript which others might miss. Decades of hunting had taught him how to entice, to wait, occasionally to hoard. One man's junk is another's dream, and Sol had insight enough to share with all.

The voice from Salt Lake City suggested money and some purpose - as yet unclear, but compelling. In order to return the call, Sol would have to prepare himself with some mystique, some inkling of how to be indispensable to Mr. Preston Young. The man had already explored far enough to find Marcus Weaver, which was a bit unsettling. Marcus was a very decent fellow, knowledgeable as an antique dealer, and something of a local book scout. But so far as anyone in the West would know, Marcus represented just one among hundreds of modest antiquarian businesses in the area. The only thing that should single him out to a curious collector in Utah was that he lived in Palmyra, New York, where Mormonism began. If the serious-sounding caller had already ferreted out a source so obscure as Marcus Weaver, what edge did Sol have? And how long would his advantage last?

All this passed through Sol's mind in a moment and a half, as it had done uncounted times each year for decades. A successful scout is always prepared, be he a boy foraging in the woods or a middle-aged dealer whiffing the scent of the philosopher's stone. Before he responded to Preston Young, Sol would have to make a few other calls.

Margie Johansen tried the key in the lock of her apartment door, this time inserting it right-side-up. She was not exactly tipsy, but she had had enough wine at the museum festival to make her glad that Phil had offered to drive her home. The diffident curator seemed almost relieved when the door opened and Margie was safely inside; he turned instantly and headed down the stairs.

"It was really good for me too," she called out after him, loud enough to reach every neighbor in the stairwell. "I'll have that shirt laundered and back to you by the end of the week." She knew Phil's face would be beet-red. He was probably three flights down already, running toward the car.

It wasn't the alcohol; Ms. Johansen was raucous whenever she felt like it, and tonight was one of those times. She had abided three hours of stuffiness at the fund raiser, and now it was time to be herself. Known to her friends as "Joh," Margie actually liked the well-heeled matrons of Rochester, New York, where she lived, and the whole antiquarian scene. It was just that she didn't fit in - in the usual sense. Joh had experienced enough tradition and conservatism in her first twenty years to irritate her for a lifetime.

She had grown up in Ogden, Utah, the daughter of a Mormon bishop. In her early years, she bought into the entire system, attending church faithfully, paying a ten-percent tithe of her allowance and baby-sitting money, and generally espousing all the principles and beliefs which a good "LDS" - Latter-day Saint - girl was expected to follow. And just as importantly, she had been formed by her culture to see, to speak, to react as a Mormon sees, to think in a Mormon way.

At thirty-seven, however, Joh was now reputed to be a non-believer, perhaps even a feminist. When she left "Zion" to live not only "in the world," but "of the world," (as her mother still put it, shaking her head sadly each Sunday morning), Margie Johansen discovered that there were places where she could meet strangers and converse for hours on end, yet never face the ultimate question: "Are you a member of the Church?" There were places where one encountered no critical stares when emerging from a restaurant on the Sabbath, where one could confront, ask and criticize without necessarily being branded as rebellious, disobedient, and out of place. By the time she was thirty, Margie had realized that such places were in the majority, that Mormonism was something of an island, or series of islands where her citizenship was in serious question.

Ironically, when Joh became more questioning and confident, she lost little of what she had once called her "spirituality." If anything, she learned tolerance of others and how to like herself as she continued to change. She was still blond, if somewhat darkened over the years, and her build was a little more medium than before, though not entirely unsexy. But her real transition was inside. Had anyone told her in the 1960s that little Margie Johansen would become a "wicked city woman" one day, unmarried and enjoying her own business in the East, she would not have comprehended the idea. The plan had been to find a dreamy husband - or else serve a short mission for the Church in some exotic land, then come home to find the dreamy husband and live happily for all eternity. If she was a good girl, the Lord would bless her with everything she desired in righteousness.

As it turned out, she was not so very good as her family had hoped, and the mini-sermons she had once recited as little "talks" in Sunday School now found their way into critical write-ups of rare books and papers which she sold to Mormons and their friends throughout the nation. If it had started innocently enough, the Margie of former years had become a regular Joh of the trade, more at home with history than with faith. Still, she had her roots and her background, and she genuinely loved the physical fragments of Mormonism, be they printed, artifact or written by hands long-since dissolved into dust.

Six years ago, Margie had settled in Rochester - only a short drive from Palmyra - and things had begun to appear which she might never have hoped to find. Her first major discovery was an original edition of the Mormon book of Doctrine and Covenants, a compilation of Joseph Smith's early "revelations" or prophetic statements, published in Ohio in 1835. What made this little volume exciting, besides its rarity and intriguing content, was a hand-written inscription on the title page from Joseph Smith himself to "Elder Jonathan Childs," Margie's great, great grandfather. There had been a time when no amount of money could have torn such an heirloom from Margie's grasp, but in her present life, $30,000 was quite enough (thank you), to dispel any hint of regret at letting go.

Then there had been what she would only refer to as, "the letter." What it said and who wrote it, she had agreed not to say, because the party who purchased it preferred that "the world" not know of its existence. She had stumbled upon the item in a second-hand junk shop, in a pile of papers from a local estate. All she was willing to tell was that it was written in late 1830, and was surprising even to her. The amount the man in Utah paid for it was enough to buy groceries for two years, plus a couple of car repairs. She had to think in such terms, since she operated on a shoestring. The big finds came only occasionally, and there were plenty of expenses and mistakes to pay when conducting a business on one's own.

Margie's apartment was accordingly sparse, a two-bedroom walk-up with just enough space for a half-dozen bookcases, a desk, and the indispensable computer, fax and copy machines. To print and send a single catalog to a hundred Mormon customers could run hundreds of dollars, counting postage, and there were countless other costs in selling which kept personal luxuries to a minimum.

As she tumbled into her couch and switched on the news, Margie let the wine and cheese lull her to sleep, the curtains still unpulled and the television offering more and more of the only light in the room. She dreamt for awhile of books, and paper, and some hopeful discovery which might be waiting around the next corner of her future.

It was 7:20 p.m. when Sol finally regained custody of the telephone. Anna's mother had been worse than usual, and it took awhile to calm her fears. She lived in Connecticut, alone but for a niece who looked in once a week. Anna could only hope that her own frequent calls offered some solace as the woman's health and morale slowly gave way. The long conversation had given Sol ample time to consider his next move, and he quickly dialed the familiar number in Palmyra.

"Weaver Antiques!" Marcus was apparently not puttering around the shop, where it could take him several rings to answer. At this time of the evening, he might be sitting close to the telephone in his living room, watching quiz programs at which he excelled above most of the contestants.

"Marcus? Sol! So what is the capitol of China?" It was Sol's standard opening line whenever he called Weaver after work.

"Get this," Marcus came back. "Some guy just guessed Louis XVI as the most famous seventeenth-century monarch to lose his head! I guess that means we're now living in the nineteenth century: can't people count?"

Normally, the two men would exchange stories at such a time, but it was getting late, and Sol needed information quickly.

"Marcus, thanks for your message. What was the guy in Utah looking for?"

"He was real cagey, but I think he was excited and trying to hide it. A sermon or something in the handwriting of Joseph Smith, the Mormon."

"Why did he call you?"

"Don't know. Maybe it's something from the early period when the Mormons were here. I guess Mr. Young is a collector, and he's heard through the grapevine that someone has the item for sale."

"Sounds fishy to me," Sol responded. "If he knows that much, why wouldn't he get a Mormon dealer to follow through and find it for him?"

"Maybe he hopes to get a bargain, and doesn't want to tip off anyone who knows what such a thing would be worth. It's funny how many people in the West think that no one here has a clue. I must get at least one call a month from some new collector who finds my number, asking if I have any old books on religion, like, for example, the first edition of the Book of Mormon, and what do I think it would cost to get one!"

"If wishes were fishes," Sol mused, "and if money grew on trees . . . Have you called Joh?"

"No, just you. Remember me if anything comes of this!"

"Thanks, Marcus, I will. Guess I'll call her, then, before I get back to the guy. He said to call by 8:00 our time, so I'll run for now. Appreciate it!"

"No sweat. Hope you make a bundle!"

"Hey, every little thousand helps."

If only life were so blithe and so simple.

Sol dialed Margie's number in Rochester from memory. Any time he found an interesting Mormon item, he offered it to her first. Now he needed some free advice.

"This is Margie Johansen . . ."

"Joh! I'm glad you're home. Listen, I . . ."

"I can't come to the phone right now, but if you'll leave a message at the sound of the tone . . ."

"Hello?" Margie's live voice echoed over the recording. "Hold on 'till it finishes."

". . . I promise to get back to you as soon as I can."

"Hello?"

"Joh, you sound groggy."

"Sol? Yeah, I went to the museum festival today, and spent three hours sipping wine. I was hoping to meet a few new customers, but I'm not sure if . . ."

"Listen," Sol cut in, "I only have a minute. But speaking of new customers, what can you tell me about Preston Young in Salt Lake City?"

Momentary silence at the other end of the line.

"You bastard!" Joh did not sound happy, but Sol knew this was her way, and didn't take her exclamation too seriously.

"What's wrong? Unrequited love?"

"What . . . did you talk to him?"

"He called me."

More silence. Then, almost sputtering, Margie demanded, "How did he get your number? I wonder if he . . ."

"Marcus gave it to him."

"Marcus! How would he know Marcus? Is everyone around here advertising in the Deseret News?"

"The desert what?"

"Never mind. Just tell me what happened."

Sol obliged, but quickly. It was now 7:30, and he had only half an hour, if that long. He summarized the situation as briefly as he could, from the phone message to the rumor of Joseph Smith's manuscript sermon.

Margie was not happy. "Preston Young is the wealthiest collector of Mormon books anywhere. For fifteen years, I've been mailing him catalogs. I've sent him letters, tried to call, but never gotten further than his secretary. He has never given me the time of day. And now he goes looking for non-Mormon dealers in my own back yard!"

"There's no figuring," Sol sympathized.

"Oh, I have him figured, all right," Margie exclaimed. "I am not among the washed, the spiritually anointed of Mormon dealers. I lack the gospel sheen. Men like Preston Young will buy from Harry Hyde, who positively wreaks with righteousness, but not from me, even though my prices are lower."

"Harry Hyde?" Sol laughed incredulously. Who is that?"

"He prefers Harrison, but I'll be damned before I'll give in to that pretentious son of a . . ."

"But why would this Preston Young be calling Marcus and me," Sol insisted, "if he only trusts Saints?"

Margie became more calm, lowered her tone, and switched into business mode.

"Sol," she declared seriously, "the man has money. Lots of money. He's the Bill Gates of Utah. Obviously, he thinks he's onto something, although I've never heard of a hand-written sermon by Joseph Smith. Young must be calling dealers like you because he doesn't want Harry or me - or anyone else who knows Mormonism - to hear about it."

Margie paused, then added quietly, "One more thing. Preston Young has an amazing collection of Mormon books and printed items. But he never collects hand-written material. Ever. That much I know for sure. Something's up."

Sol felt puzzled and intrigued. Evidently, Young was after something interesting enough to draw him to manuscripts. Yet he wouldn't pursue the matter through standard Mormon suppliers. Instead, he was trusting himself to dealers in New York State whom he had never met.

"So how do I approach him?" Sol asked Margie.

"I don't know," she answered, still a little jealous. "One thing for sure, don't swear, don't say 'God,' even in tones of respect, and don't mention coffee, booze, or smoking. Oh, and try not to say the word 'Mormon'!"

"What?"

"You heard me. Say, 'Latter-day Saint,' or 'LDS,' or 'members of your church.' That should get you through. Speak slowly, deliberately, don't laugh too loud. Try to sound reverent."

"You're kidding!"

"Not if you want to make a sale to Preston Young."

Sol thanked Margie for the advice, hung up the phone, and stared blankly for a moment at the tick-tocking tail of the cat on the wall. It was fifteen minutes to six, Utah time.

"Mr. Young? This is Solomon Slyde in Ithaca, New York, returning your call. How are you this evening?"

"Very well, thank you." The voice sounded a bit stiff and formal, like someone pretending to be cordial. "I had about given up hearing back from you before 6:00. But no matter. I understand you buy and sell old paper?"

"Yes, and rare books, pamphlets, an occasional artifact. I guess Marcus Weaver in Palmyra told you about me?"

Preston Young hesitated a moment longer than necessary, then continued. "It's true that I called him as well. I'm rather new at this, and have to be careful that I'm paying a fair price."

He would be a tricky customer: aggressive at the game but skittish, acting the part of a novice. Clearly, Sol would have to be discreet. No more mentioning other dealers, for one thing. And it sounded like Joh's advice might be in order.

"No one likes to pay more than they should," Sol conceded. "Would you like me to take down your address and send you my next catalog of Americana material which I have for sale?"

"I . . . tend to be a bit specialized." Young paused again. "I have built up a fairly substantial collection of material regarding the Latter-day Saints: Mormon books and pamphlets. I'm always ready to acquire more . . ."

This was not the first collector to speak from both sides of his mouth. Clearly, however, the man had no problem using the term, "Mormon" - at least when dealing with a Gentile - and perhaps Sol would have an easier time with Mr. Young than Margie had thought.

". . . so long as I am accorded the traditional dealer discount."

And then again, perhaps not. "You're a full-time bookseller yourself?," Sol challenged.

Young was not accustomed to being quizzed. He mumbled something about letting some of his duplicate items go to auction from time to time, then manipulated the conversation back to his own control.

"I do not traditionally work with non-Mormon dealers," he began, then added quickly, "-that is to say, with dealers who do not specialize in early LDS material."

Sol suspected the first meaning was closer to the truth.

"I am on a bit of a quest;" Young continued, in an unctuous tone, "something I'm pursuing based on some very old accounts, and a recent lead which has been shared with me at some risk, in the most discrete confidence."

Sol suppressed a snicker as he formed a mental image of the conservative businessman in tailored suit, straddling a wild horse, a whip in one hand and the 1830 Book of Mormon in the other.

"Well, Mr. Young, you have no need for concern. Whatever degree of success I may have enjoyed in my work thus far," Sol suggested, "is in large measure owed to a deep commitment to history, and a respect for its sources, including the names of those who buy and sell." Not quite worthy of Conan Doyle, perhaps, but certainly a workable line! Sol watched Anna roll her eyes in the background, clasping both hands dramatically over her mouth in an exaggerated effort to contain whatever wanted to come forth.

But it seemed to work. The man softened measurably. "Please," he condescended, "call me Preston."

Margie would like that! Ten minutes, and Sol was on a first-name basis with the unapproachable customer. Sol was good that way. But he had to play it soft, and he had to play it dumb:

"Well thank you, Preston. Now, what is it that I may help you find?"

Sol really knew very little about Mormonism. It was only one of a dozen provincial religious traditions whose collectors approached him from time to time. Whenever he found something great, he simply called Margie Johansen and split the profit with her. She could take the item directly to the top, to a Mormon buyer who would pay the best price. Lesser books and papers, Sol usually set aside in a pile until Margie could come by, or until he was in Rochester. She would pick through his group, keep most of what Sol offered, and quickly scrawl out a check for a few hundred dollars. For someone like Sol, who handled large quantities of historical books and documents of a general nature, this was the most cost-effective approach to selling such esoteric material. Now, however, he was faced with a situation where he was better advised to handle the matter himself. Preston Young would not deal with Margie anyway, and had approached Sol directly - evidently with ample funds in reserve to excuse his eccentricities.

The telephone conversation plodded through social amenities, the theories of collecting, and finally down to the real point at hand.

"How much," Young finally asked, "did Mr. Weaver in Palmyra explain to you about what I am looking for?"

"He was vague," Sol admitted, "but he said something about an early sermon in the hand of Joseph Smith. Is this something you've heard on good authority? If such a manuscript existed, it could be quite valuable."

Obvious, and understated, just to let Young know that Sol wasn't a total fool in such matters.

"It exists," Young stated flatly, "or existed at one time. The only question is whether you can get anywhere with the lead I've been given, and whether I'll want the thing if it is actually found."

"You'll want it, you oily sonofabitch," Sol wanted to say, "-else why would you be playing this game with a virtual stranger who's never even read the Book of Mormon?"

"It sounds intriguing," Sol actually said. "So tell me, Preston, what is it that you are looking for, exactly, and what information do you have?"

It had better be good; this was starting to become work.

"It is a rather long story," Young replied, "but very interesting. I don't suppose you have read the LDS book of Doctrine and Covenants?"

Although Sol rarely had time to read the books he handled, he did remember the title as one he had sold to Margie some time back. He knew better than to mention this to Young, however, and merely stated that he had heard of the book, but did not have any edition in stock.

"Do you have a fax machine?"

Sol confessed that he did.

"Perhaps the best thing would be for me to send you a few pages this evening. You'll need to see them anyway, and this may give you the most appropriate introduction to the situation."

Sol had once bought and sold a Revolutionary War letter of George Washington with less fanfare than this, but the mystique was infectious, and he had a little time to spend. Perhaps he actually would make a thousand dollars on this deal (as he had kidded to Marcus), although it was beginning to sound like he would have to earn it. He thanked "Preston" for his interest, and promised to watch for the fax later later that evening.

He wondered what this was all about, why the man couldn't just spit it out sweet and direct. One would almost think that Mr. Young of Salt Lake City had something to hide.

The telephone rang at twenty minutes past ten. Anna had started to watch a late movie, but dozed off in her overstuffed rocker with Marcus the Dog curled against her feet. She awoke easily, accustomed to late-night calls from insomniac collectors and dealers, and reached for the receiver, clearing her throat.

"Hello?"

She winced at the shrill insult of a fax tone, and grumbled her way toward the office at the back of the house to push the "receive" button on the machine. Sol received so few faxes that it hardly made sense to pay for a separate line. By the time she got to the office, Anna heard Sol coming downstairs from his work area, the proverbial "back room" such as every dealer uses to sort material not yet ready for sale - a reminder to customers that there is always some newly-discovered treasure in the offing, soon to be proffered to the right person, for the right price. He had apparently been listening for the phone, and stepped to the fax machine just as the first page rolled out.

The copy was crooked, and there was no cover sheet, but the 801 area code imprinted at the top of the page confirmed that this was the fax from Utah. Not very professional. Under more normal circumstances, Mr. Young probably relied on a secretary for such tasks. There was no letter of explanation, no title page; nothing. The text had been photocopied from a book, evidently "Doctrine and Covenants," according to the header at the top of the text, and began at page 5. It looked something like the Bible, with references to Elijah and the priesthood. Sol stared for a moment, uncomprehendingly, and wondered if he was dealing with a high-class kook. In the upper portion of the page, a new chapter began, and as Sol read on, he got his first real exposure to the peculiar nature of the Latter-day Saints . . .

SECTION 3

However arcane the setting, the mention of a lost manuscript was something Sol understood. He appreciated the pagination information, and could readily imagine what such a manuscript would look like. Sturdy, off-white paper, about eight by twelve and a half inches (give or take a little): fifty-eight leaves closely written front and back in black ink now turned a bit brown. The first two or three leaves would probably be worn and soiled; the same true for a leaf or two at the end. The pages would be numbered, and one or two leaves (at least) would likely have been lost from the pile by now. He had seen so much paper from the era and region in question that he could already envision it in his mind's eye. The only question remaining was the spelling and handwriting: would it be clear and readable, or a shambles of bad spelling in a messy hand?

Were there a lot of Mormon papers lost in the early period, Sol wondered? He certainly lived in the right part of the country to find them, but in a quarter century doing business, very little had come his way. As he read the rest of the fax, he cringed at the transparency of Joseph Smith's refusal to attempt a re-dictation of the missing material . . .

9 Therefore, you have delivered them up, yea, that which was sacred, unto wickedness.

10 And, behold, Satan hath put it into their hearts to alter the words which you have caused to be written, or which you have translated, which have gone out of your hands.

11 And behold, I say unto you, that because they have altered the words, they read contrary from that which you translated and caused to be written;

12 And, on this wise, the devil has sought to lay a cunning plan, that he may destroy this work;

13 For he hath put into their hearts to do this, that by lying they may say they have caught you in the words which you have pretended to translate.

14 Verily, I say unto you, that I will not suffer that Satan shall accomplish his evil design in this thing.

15 For behold, he has put it into their hearts to get thee to tempt the Lord thy God, in asking to translate it over again.

16 And then, behold, they say and think in their hearts-We will see if God has given him power to translate; if so, he will also give him power again;

17 And if God giveth him power again, or if he translates again, or, in other words, if he bringeth forth the same words, behold, we have the same with us, and we have altered them;

18 Therefore they will not agree, and we will say he has lied in his words, and that he has no gift, and that he has no power;

Preston Young had sent several pages, and this was from the last two, photocopied from "SECTION 10. Revelation given to Joseph Smith the Prophet . . . in the summer of 1828." Sol suddenly realized that this awkwardly-composed text was a spiritual message which Smith was claiming as the words of Jesus, speaking about the missing manuscript. He began to fashion a reasonable excuse which he could offer to Young, some graceful way to let the matter drop and be done with such nonsense.

The phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Solomon? This is Preston. Did you get my fax?"

"Nice and clear," Sol replied. "I just finished reading it. I take it that the manuscript it discusses is the thing you are looking for?"

"It . . . its loss has been regretted for a very long time," Young began tentatively. "The young Prophet learned a hard lesson when he let those pages go, especially when the Lord forbade him to fall into the trap of translating the stolen scripture a second time."

Sol had met his share of odd-balls. When he first began buying and selling rare books and paper, he had tolerated every potential owner and customer who came his way, no matter how tedious or hard to endure. After countless boring conversations and lost efforts, however, he had eventually learned to offend certain people up front and to be rid of them. This was clearly such a situation, and he would speak his mind politely, but without equivocating.

"Even allowing for the eccentricities of religion," Sol began abruptly, "I have to confess, Preston, that portions of what you sent me are troublesome, to say the least."

"I know what you mean," Young replied. "Who actually stole the manuscript, for instance, and who had custody of it at the time the Lord . . ."

Young wasn't getting the point. Sol would have to be even more blunt.

"Obviously," Sol cut in, "you understand that your belief system is your own, but forms no part of mine. I'm forced to ask logical questions, such as whether Joseph Smith was even capable of dictating 116 pages a second time, with any close similarity to the missing original. The excuse he gives in his 'revelation' for not re-translating makes no sense - at least to me - and that forces questions about other aspects of the story as well."

That should have gotten rid of Preston Young quickly enough, but the man was too interested in his quest to be put off. He simply asked a question:

"Even if you do not believe Joseph Smith's account, Solomon, why would that matter in a simple business transaction?"

Cool. Very cool and determined.

"Please, just call me 'Sol.' Clearly, Preston, you do believe in this, and I would hate to see you taken advantage of by some unscrupulous person. Joseph Smith claimed that those missing pages were part of the Book of Mormon. Yet, he said 'the Lord' would not let him re-dictate them because thieves had the original, and had altered the words."

"Yes, exactly," Young agreed enthusiastically. "In fact, the Lord knew in ancient times that the theft would take place. It was foreseen indirectly by a prophet who lived in the fourth century A.D."

For a brief moment, Sol felt the "Twilight Zone" theme ringing at the back of his brain, and had to remind himself to act serious.

"Where was this premonition recorded?" he asked, blankly.

"In the Book of Mormon!" Young's answer, far from apologetic, sounded triumphant. Sol decided that questions wouldn't work with the man; he would try pontificating.

"I have to tell you, Preston, that beyond the obvious self-substantiating character of your argument, the story has some clear problems. Let me confine myself to an area in which I have some expertise. Smith's 'revelation' warns that if he re-dictates the missing material, the people who stole the original manuscript will produce it - with their alterations - as an unfavorable comparison to the second attempt. Is that right so far?"

"Why yes," Young rejoined, somehow jubilant. "I must say, Sol, you phrase it almost more concisely than the Lord himself!"

Sol's brain was reeling, but he kept his composure and continued.

"But this argument bears no comparison to the reality of the situation. I have worked with papers from this period for more than a quarter of a century. Thousands and thousands of them. There is no way anyone could have altered Joseph Smith's manuscript substantially without the changes being obvious. You cannot erase the ink they used without leaving a serious blemish in the paper. People wrote deliberately, and left no room to insert words which would not be perfectly evident as later additions. It doesn't take an expert to see when someone has substantially changed or added to a manuscript of this period, or most any other manuscript, for that matter."

Young paused, then continued, unflappable. "They could simply have re-written the whole thing on fresh paper, using Joseph's translation as a basis for their altered text."

"In which case," Sol persisted, leaving aside the obvious issue of handwriting, "they would naturally have destroyed the true original immediately afterward to protect themselves, leaving nothing for me to locate for you now."

"But they didn't," Young answered, strangely unaffected by any weakness to the story. "No re-translation was done, so no altered version was put forth. Whoever stole the 116 pages in 1828 would have kept them, since the Lord revealed to the Prophet that the thieves had a definite intention to use them against the Church."

This all sounded so bizarre that Sol was having a difficult time keeping up with Young's logic.

"But if a second dictation was never attempted," Sol continued, "then . . . once the Book of Mormon was published without the missing portion, what would have been the purpose of preserving the stolen manuscript - possible evidence to convict the conspirators of theft?"

"Ah, but now we come full circle to the point of my call," Young exulted quietly. He paused for dramatic effect:

"I have information suggesting that the 116 pages have been found."

Margie Johanson sat at the table in a breakfast nook of her apartment from where she could see the falls of the Genesee River. This view was the one luxurious aspect of her digs, and she took time to relish it every day. The morning had opened grey, but now showed promise of warmth and at least a few rays of sunshine to illuminate leaves which were already starting to turn. A transitory beam struck the flat outcropping of rock which protruded from the top of the falls like a round table on a pillar emerging from the mist. The historian in her saw that platform in 1829, when the famous leaper Sam Patch jumped one time too many to amuse the local crowd. There were times in her dreams when she pictured herself wearing the same white flowing pantaloons and blowsy shirt, colorful streamers, attached to her ankles and wrists, flying wildly upward as she cascaded to uncertain demise in the froth a hundred feet below. Sam Patch had been a drinker, too, and Margie made a mental note to imbibe a little less the next time she socialized.

Between her cereal and the welcome cup of coffee lay the latest issue of a book collector magazine. As usual, she took but a moment to scan the articles, then headed for the lengthy classified section at the end, where the real treasures might wait to be found. Some dealers like to travel, half their lives spent dashing from town to town, dealer to dealer, junk store to antique shop, in almost frenzied pursuit of anything they can buy and sell at a profit. Margie had nothing against such endeavors. She had spent her share of blissful afternoons driving through calendar-like scenes on her way to isolated repositories of old paper in quiet country homes and over-stuffed book barns to find the gems from which she gleaned her living. But to sell something so specialized as Mormonism required that Margie also depend heavily upon trusted friends and booksellers who were willing to look out for her interests (for a profit) and find scattered remnants of Joseph Smith & Co. wherever they might still exist. To help herself, Margie attended countless book fairs, and made contact with dealers in every hamlet of the region. She advertised widely, and became friends on the phone with people whom she might never see face to face, but who remembered her ready checkbook.

Margie made sure that she was on the catalog list of anyone who might find something she could use, and she was always quick to respond. Like any good customer, she knew to put off breakfast or bathroom if a catalog arrived in the mail at an odd moment. This was such a time, and her cold cereal became increasingly soggy as she put to use her impressive scanning abilities, honed nearly to perfection over the years. Margie's eye could spot the word, "Mormon," on a printed page in half a second, and was just as quick to see necessary buzz-words like "Smith, Young," or even "religion." That word alone, as a heading to various catalog entries, had taken her to things which sellers had not recognized for their Mormon content, but which Margie had earned the right to enjoy through countless errors, false starts, and, at last, blissful discoveries, acquisitions and lucrative sales. It was on the third page of the classifieds that she saw it:

(Religion) BAUDER, Peter. THE KINGDOM AND GOSPEL OF JESUS CHRIST: CONTRASTED WITH THAT OF ANTI-CHRIST . . . Canajoharie, N.Y., 1834. Pamphlet, 40 pp. Not in American Imprints. Rather poorly printed. Some wear and soiling. $25

Margie glanced up from the page and stared at the waterfall a quarter of a mile away. She had to catch her breath for a moment before grabbing at the phone. This is how it happened, time and again. Amid hundreds of nondescript ads for books which would do her little good, Margie occasionally came upon that pearl of great price which made all the difference in what she did. This was the discovery waiting around the next corner which kept her going when there was scarcely enough to pay even the credit card bills for cash advances which had carried her through lean months. No bang, no whimper, just a silent entry on a page, and she felt like Sherlock Holmes, on the chase once more.

As she sat upright in her chair and began to dial the number at the top of the ad, Margie nearly spilled her coffee. She took a deep breath to sound calm, and hoped that the line was not busy with some other caller beating her to the punch by a few seconds which could deprive her of as many hundreds of dollars. Margie knew the dealer. Even though he lived in Ithaca, she had no fear that he would have offered the item to Sol. It was too generic - too much religion, too little special interest - except to someone who knew.

"Kirby Collectibles," came the cheery answer on the telephone.

"Kirby! This is Joh in Rochester. Have you found me a Book of Mormon yet?" 

"None today," came the laughing reply. "Perhaps tomorrow, or next week, certainly."

"Well," Margie replied with an air of mock resignation, "I guess you'll have to sell me something cheap, instead. Do you still have that Canajoharie imprint from your ad in the latest magazine?"

"You mean the little pamphlet by the Pennsylvania Dutch minister? Hold on, Joh, let me check."

This was the maddening part. Thirty seconds for a dealer to check his list or go to his shelves to see if an item had been sold. Such half-minutes could last for hours when the answer had such an impact on one's checkbook.

"Yes, it's here. Shall I mail it to you, or will you come pick it up and let me buy dinner for the woman of my dreams?"

The dealer was happily married, actually, and would use the same banter in front of his wife. Had he been single, he still was not the stuff Margie wanted. But for this fleeting moment, she was hopelessly in love.

"Kirby Jones, you're a doll. I have a customer who will be very happy to get that item."

"Well, great. I'm sorry I can only give you a ten per-cent discount, because it's listed, but I hope it will still leave you some margin for profit."

"Oh, I'll manage somehow." Margie laughed, hoping not to sound positively giddy over the 10,000% mark-up which would be in order. From twenty-five dollars (less $2.50 discount) to $2,500! About right for a hard morning's work.

"Why don't you hold the pamphlet there," she said, almost as an after-thought, "and I'll see if Sol can pick it up before he comes here next time; save me a little postage."

Margie's real motive was to find an excuse to call Sol in order to see how his conversation had gone with Preston Young. Too, it would not take much more than this pamphlet to put Sol in a mood to come by her place in Rochester with whatever else he had gathered up for her during the past month. Perhaps in his latest cache he would have something of his own that was just as great.

"By the way, my customer is a little eccentric, and constantly asks me where things come from. Is this something private, or are you at liberty to tell me who sold the pamphlet to you?" Margie knew that this was a great item, and quintessentially rare. She wanted to be prepared for suspicious Mormon customers who didn't really understand the quantities of old paper waiting to be found in the Northeast, or the artistry, sophistication, time, expense and labor which would be required of a dishonest person to forge such a pamphlet convincingly from whole cloth: text, type and all.

"Let's see." Jones hesitated. "That was in a pile of stuff I picked up from a lady in Trumansburg last month who's getting ready to move out. I'll look through my checkbook, and jot her name on the back of the pamphlet."

Relieved that the information would be forthcoming, Margie nevertheless shuddered at the thought of Kirby scrawling the former owner's name in possibly hard-lead pencil in some blank margin of the final leaf, leaving a biting impression in the paper.

"No, just write it on an index card, if you will, Kirby, and slip it inside. Much obliged. Talk to you soon?"

"Anytime. Always," came the sultry reply, followed by a smirking sound and the click of the phone.

Margie forgot the cereal, picked up her coffee and looked out the window as she sipped. She set the cup down and began to pace the floor - something she did whenever she was excited. From the furthest corner of her bedroom back to the corner view window, Margie left tracks in the carpet to betray her unspoken thrill.

Only one other copy of that religious tract was known to exist. Alone, this would not have made it particularly valuable, except to one or two institutions interested in regional printing or the development of religious thought in America. What was special about Peter Bauder and his pamphlet, however, was that on pages 36-7, Bauder described an incidental visit to a farmhouse in western New York State in 1830. His hosts were the Whitmers, and he had stayed overnight at their cabin, conversing for hours with Joseph Smith himself. This early account discussed Smith telling of an angel and a "secret treasure" of engraved plates resembling gold. It also betrayed the fact that, when asked if he had had any confirming spirtual "Christian experience," the Mormon prophet offered none, and apparently made no mention of the First Vision - something which he would not record until 1832.

The endless implications of such a pamphlet naturally fascinated Margie. But in her ongoing financial straits, such considerations were almost eclipsed by the simple dollars-and-cents reality that this was something valuable which she must not under-sell. Perhaps $2,500 was not enough. How much should one pay for the fonts of history when they affect the lives and faith of millions of people? Or at least those few hundred who study the origins of Mormonism in uncompromising detail. Four thousand dollars? Five? $7,500? What is such an item worth in a crazy time when the first edition of the Book of Mormon can sell for five times as much without providing any more information than has already been seen in numerous examples and facsimile reprints?

Aware that she was still pacing, Margie chuckled to herself, washed out her coffee cup, and threw the sodden cereal down the garbage disposal. It was time to call Sol in Ithaca and ask him to pick up the pamphlet for her. Then, she would manipulate the conversation to the subject of the evening before.

Marcus the Dog lapped uncertainly at the edges of a bowl of chilled soup which Anna had set down for him as she collapsed into a patio chair in the back yard. The morning clouds had dissipated completely by mid-afternoon, in time for Anna's first moment of relaxation in an unexpectedly flurried day. Marcus accepted the yogurt-based concoction without undue surprise, but deferred when he came to the thin slices of cucumber marinated in vinegar & dill.

Anna could have been a nudist with no one the wiser, so private was the Slyde property, tucked neatly back in the woods away from the road. Samuel Squirrel (or his cousin - she could never tell them apart) nibbled calmly in company with a wild hare at a few nuts and crackers mixed with lettuce which Anna had tossed just beyond the patio wall. She liked to see everyone get along, and had even broken Marcus of the tendency to growl at her woodland friends.

When they first got Marcus five years earlier, he had been uncontrollably nervous and jumpy, and barked continually. The veterinarian had put him on phenobarbital for a few weeks, as a sort of doggy Prozac. But with kind handling, good food and a sedate life in the forest, Marcus became the ideal pet, placid and seemingly intelligent to boot. He continued to slurp his way around the cucumber bits until suddenly, raising his ears and threatening to bark, he let out little yapping sounds and started about apprehensively.

"What is it, Marcus?" Anna knew his behavior intimately, and looked for whatever the dog had heard. Almost immediately she sensed feet rustling across the lawn at the side of the house. This far into the country, Sol and Anna expected few visitors without an appointment, and such situations always made her feel a little vulnerable. Marcus, however, let out a yelp of delight and bounded to the corner of the house in knowing expectation.

"Hi, boy! Hi, boy! Ooom, ooom, ooom, I haven't seen you in sooo long!"

Whoever was gushing over the dog was obviously a friend.

"Do you have any books for me, Marcus! Huh? Huh? Any rare toys for Aunt Joh?"

"We had a Book of Commandments on the coffee table," Anna called around the corner, happy at the unexpected company, "but Marcus got hungry and couldn't resist it." Anna wasn't really into Mormon collectibles, but she knew a few catchwords for conversation, and got up from her chair to give Margie a hug.

"What brings you to Ithaca?" Anna asked delightedly.

"An old pamphlet I had to pick up at Kirby Jones'."

"Two hours of driving for one pamphlet? Sol could have gotten it for you sometime."

"I was going to call," Margie admitted, "but then decided it couldn't wait. After I got done in town, I headed back to the highway, but the car turned up South Hill like a horse toward a watering hole, and here I am! Actually," she continued, "I want to ask Sol about a customer he was going to call last night out in Utah. And I would much rather do it here at your charming estate in the woods than over the phone, since I'm here for the afternoon anyway."

"Wonderful!" Anna replied, genuinely pleased to see a friend. "You've come at the perfect time. I was just sitting down to take a breather. Let's go to the kitchen and find you something. Did you get lunch?"

"Oh, yes," Margie smirked. "Kirby couldn't wait to treat me to my favorite dessert at the deli there in his little mall. Why don't we just sit here and enjoy your paradise for awhile? Maybe you can summon the houseboy to bring me some juice or soda."

"Sol is upstairs packing," Anna explained. "It has been an astonishing day, and I'm sure he'll want to tell you all the details."

Margie and the Slydes were easy friends, despite the distance which separated them. If anything of interest took place in their lives, they were quick to share it with each another.

"Packing?"

Anna answered Margie with her classic rolling of the eyes for which she was known.

"You would not believe what we have been through since 9:00 this morning."

"Sol is getting ready to go somewhere? Not right now?"

Anna looked back at Margie with a hint of confusion and concern. She lowered her voice just a touch:

"Idaho," she answered. "Tonight."

To imagine Sol Slyde travelling to Idaho was something like picturing the Queen of England in New Guinea. Such events happen, but they seem surprising and incongruous. Margie tensed up a bit; this could not be unrelated to the events of the evening before.

"Does this have something to do with Preston Young?" she asked. She somehow felt a little resentful, in a dubious, uncertain sort of way.

"It has everything to do with Preston Young," Anna replied. "I hope it's alright. Sol usually acts so cautious and experienced. But I've seen him like this before. Something comes over him, and he's as wide-eyed as a little kid."

"Wide-eyed and bushy-tailed!" Sol spoke through the back screen door of the house. "How are you, Joh? I heard you drive in."

Margie stared at him. He was not much to look at, in the physical sense. Nothing to betray the surprising abilities and connections he possessed. Considered superficially, Sol seemed to attract both rarities and customers without really trying. It was as if these things came to him in the most casual ways. Margie wondered if she tried too hard, sometimes jinxing good fortune away.

"Margie, would you like something to drink?" Anna asked. "Sol can take a break for a few minutes and bring it out to us."

"Soda?" Saul asked. "Bloody Mary?"

Feeling like she could use the hard stuff, Margie replied simply, "Some diet soda would be nice. Anything cold." It was at times like this that she had to remind herself of the good things which happened in her own business. She was not losing, just observing a friend and colleague get the best potential customer she might have hoped to meet in her own specialty field. She felt like a ship losing wind, settling down to rock unproductively in an uncertain sea. Peter Bauder's Kingdom and Gospel of Jesus Christ, in the glove compartment of her car, suddenly seemed like a second-rate acquisition, appropriate for a pedantic bookseller who couldn't quite make the cut.

Sol brought her an icy glass of soda, and moved a chair up to join the women.

"Congratulations," Margie lied. "Anna says you're moving West to make your fortune."

Sol looked a little tired, despite his apparent enthusiasm, and simply stared at Marcus, who was curled up at Anna's feet.

"How much has she told you?"

"Just that you are going to Idaho tonight."

"Utah, first. My flight leaves at 7:35 tonight, our time, and arrives via Syracuse and Chicago in Salt Lake City just before midnight there."

"You mean you're taking a commuter from here instead of driving to Syracuse?"

"Hey, if Preston Young is paying for it, why not?"

"Wasn't it expensive getting last-minute tickets?" Margie asked, incredulously.

"I'm sure it was," Sol sighed. I checked with the Ithaca airport an hour ago, and the tickets are waiting for me to pick up when I leave, courtesy of Mr. Young."

Anna spoke up. "Tell her what it's all about. I think this Young is crazy as a loon."

"Very possibly," Sol agreed. "Crazy and rich. I tried to get rid of him last night when he faxed me prophecies by Joseph Smith."

"What!" Margie was becoming more confused than resentful at Sol's bizarre turn of fate. "He tried to convert you?"

"He doesn't seem to care what I believe," Sol answered, just as mystified. "He sent me pages from your Doctrine and Covenant, then called with a wild story about knowing where to find the lost manuscript."

"Covenants," Margie corrected. "What lost manuscript?"

"The original manuscript of the Book of Mormon."

"That's not lost." Margie looked at Sol almost pityingly. "Most of it, anyway, is in Missouri or Salt Lake City, depending on whether you want the printer's copy or the first draft."

"I'm talking about the part that was never printed," Sol went on.

"The sealed portion?" Margie laughed. "That was never even translated - if you want to believe in the golden plates at all."

"No," Saul finished, "he didn't say anything about a sealed text. He's after the first attempt at translation, which Smith gave to his friend Harris from Palmyra."

Margie looked almost indignant. "You DON'T mean the 116 pages."

"Funny," Sol countered, "that's what Young kept calling them. 'The hundred-and-sixteen-pages,' as if there were something magical in the number."

"Magical?" Margie stared at Sol with more intensity than he had seen in her for some time. "'Magic' is hardly the word. They are the Golden Fleece of Mormonism, and they almost certainly do not exist."

"Preston Young believes they do," Sol answered calmly. "To the tune of $10,000. Which," he added, unable to resist a hint of drama, "is the precise amount he wired to my bank account this morning as a retainer to find them. I went into town at lunch time and confirmed that the money is already there."

"I think I'm in a weird dream," Margie stated, flatly. "This is too unreal."

She looked back and forth from Sol to Anna and back again, finally contemplating the cucumber chips in Marcus' bowl.

"I can't explain how significant this would be," Margie resumed. "Imagine if the Ark of the Covenant could actually be found, and in it, an older version of the Bible than anyone has seen before. Suppose George Washington's love letters turned up somewhere, and they were not written to Martha. Hell, let's have a flying saucer land in Washington, and actually stay around long enough for an interview and press photos. The hundred and sixteen pages are the ultimate quest of any historian of Mormon origins, and we have to presume they were destroyed long ago. But if you can actually turn them up - and convince us they are real - your $10,000 won't be enough to buy a single page from the pile."

Sol took a deep breath, let it out in spurts as he was wont to do on such occasions, and patted Marcus on the head.

"Let's all go to Moosewood for an early dinner. Maybe it will be my Last Supper."

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