"Cal ... where's Murdoch's Hoard?"
"Nearby, but you're more important than anything that might be in Murdoch's Hoard."
"No, Cal. No."
"Look, Tink, you mean more to me than—"
"I know that, Cal. But don't you see?"
"See what?"
"What could possibly be of value?"
"No. Nothing that I have any knowledge of."
"That's it! Knowledge! All of the advanced work in neurosurgery is there. All in colored, detailed three-dimensional pictures with a running comment by Murdoch himself. Things that we cannot do today. Get it, Cal. It'll tell you how to fix this crushed spinal cord."
Cal knew she was right. Murdoch, in his illegal surgery had advanced a thousand years beyond his fellow surgeons who could legally work on nothing but cadavers or live primates while Murdoch had worked on the delicate nervous system of mankind itself. Murdoch's Hoard was a board of information—invaluable to the finder and completely unique and non-duplicative. At least until it was found.