Skeleton Dance

At odds with them on almost every point was the smaller pro-Neanderthal contingent, comprised, as before, of Jacques Beaupierre, the affable, constitutionally absent-minded director; and the gruff, bearlike Michel Montfort, distinguished Paleolithic archaeologist, diplomate of the French Academie des Sciences, and generally acknowledged to be the institute's most distinguished scholar if not its most diplomatic member. As befitting his status, he had been offered the directorship several times, offered it on a silver platter, but having no interest in or patience with administrative matters he had consistently declined—to the relief of all concerned.

Although outnumbered three to two and on the less generally accepted side of the argument, Beaupierre and Montfort more than managed to hold their own, thanks mostly to Montfort's imposing persona and acknowledged preeminence.

It was amazing, really, that they never got tired of haranguing each other, or that they'd never physically attacked one another in sheer frustration. (Or maybe they had, who knew?) Probably, the answer lay in the fact that they were out of each others’ sight for seven months out of every twelve. According to the terms of its charter, the institute was in session only five months a year, from late June to the end of November, typically allowing them a three-month digging season followed by a two month “data consolidation” period. Except for Jacques Beaupierre, whose administrative duties were year-round, and Pru McGinnis, who held no outside faculty position, the staff members spent the rest the year away from the institute and each other on half-or three-quarter-time appointments at their home universities.

But whatever the reason, their endless debate had never been in danger of growing stale. “Ridiculous!” Montfort was declaring in his blunt Alsatian French at the moment. “Do you really think that if we could take a typical Neanderthal, give him a shave, dress him up in a jogging suit, and sit him down in a New York subway train, that any of the other passengers would even look twice at him?'

Pru received this with a hearty laugh. “You're absolutely right, and you want to know why? Because people who ride the New York subways know better than to notice anybody. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about here.'

Watching from the doorway, Gideon smiled. It was nice to see that Pru was still Pru.

'As to the New York subway,” said Emile Grize dryly, the egrets bobbing under his chin, “that is a subject on which, happily, I am unable to speak with conviction. However, as a trained paleopathologist—” As Gideon remembered, Emile began a lot of sentences with “As a trained paleopathologist'; in his own mind he was the one real scientist in this band of rock-hunters. “—as a trained paleopathologist I can assure you that a Neanderthal would not pass unnoticed in the Paris Metro, however well-shaven.'

He sounded positively offended at the idea, as if, were poor Charlie Caveperson to shamble unassumingly aboard at the Etoile metro station, he, Emile Grize, would personally boot him off at the next stop.

'Be that as it may,” said Audrey Godwin-Pope in her usual no-nonsense manner, “I would think we might agree that the outward appearance of these beings is beside the point.'

'Does this interminable discussion actually have a point?” Montfort asked. “It continues to elude me.'

'It was my impression,” Audrey said, standing up to him (no surprise there), “that it was their social organization that was under discussion, and there even you, Michel, have to admit the evidence is unambiguous. They had none—at least not on a human level. Everything we know about Neanderthal society tells us that it was on a par with that of a wandering troop of mountain gorillas, nothing more.'

'Is that so?” Montfort snorted, leaning combatively forward. “Suppose you tell me then: when was the last time you encountered a wandering troop of mountain gorillas that made a practice of burying their grandfathers?'

Touche, Gideon thought. Montfort was on the wrong side of the argument, but touche all the same.

'I saw a study recently,” Jacques Beaupierre piped up, “that suggests there is now good reason to believe that the morphological differences between Neanderthal Man—'

'Neanderthals,” said Audrey with the stoic demeanor of someone who was making the same correction for the thousandth time and had no hope that it was going to take this time any more than it had before. Nice to see that she hadn't changed either. “Or Neanderthalers, if you prefer.'

'Differences between Neanderthals,” said Beaupierre without missing a beat—-he was used to it too—'and modern humans are not evolutionary at all, but nothing more than the result of an iodine-deficient diet, due to their distance from the seacoast.'

'Iodine deficiency is well-known to result in thyroid dysfunction and eventually, if severe and protracted enough, in cretinism,” Emile observed in his surgical but long-winded fashion. “Are we therefore to assume that the position of this study that the Neanderthal population is not a separate race or species at all, but simply an assemblage of cretins?'

Beaupierre's brow furrowed. “Ah . . . well, yes, I suppose that would follow, yes.'

It was enough to make people sigh, and shake their heads, and glance around the room, finally becoming aware of Gideon. Pru at once jumped up and strode to the door to welcome him, her hand outstretched and her lively gray eyes almost on a level with his own. He smiled, equally glad to see her, although he could have done without her bonecracking gorilla-handshake, which he saw coming but couldn't in decency avoid. Audrey, more restrained, merely said, “Hello, Gideon, it's nice to see you again,” but her stern mouth softened and even curved upward a little at the corners. These, fellow-Americans, were the two people he knew best and liked most. Montfort, whom he knew less well, was his usual crusty self but went so far as to rise halfway, grunt, and shake hands somewhat absently (a relief after Pru's knuckle-grinder). Only Emile Grize limited himself to no more than a frugal nod, which Gideon accepted as a cordial welcome, considering the source.

Audrey and Pru made room for him between them, a cafe creme was brought for him, and the business part of the meeting was attended to. With the institute in its annual data-consolidation mode, archaeological digs had been suspended while members concentrated on interpreting the season's findings. Thus, the discussion concerned little more than the publication schedules of various institute proceedings and monographs, and these were quickly, almost cursorily, dealt with. The language of discussion was then mercifully switched to English as a kindness to the newcomer, and Beaupierre turned the floor over to “our old friend, Gideon Oliver, the Skeleton Detective of America.'

Ignoring the raised hairs on the nape of his neck that this hated phrase invariably produced, Gideon began: “As you all know, I'm here in connection with the book I'm doing on errors and fallacies in the social sciences; anthropology in particular. The Old Man of Tayac—'