Skeleton Dance

it, and the bones hadn't been cleaned yet, and if it had been a slight case he might easily have missed it. In the morgue, with good lighting and cleaned bones, it would be different.

'No, I don't think so,” she said uncertainly. “The other kind, that affects the lungs.'

'Pulmonary tuberculosis,” Emile said professorially. “Consumption, in the vernacular. That will be no help to you, Gideon. As a trained paleopathologist I'm well aware—as I'm sure you are—that it leaves no evidence whatever on the bones.'

'Actually it does sometimes,” Gideon said. He knew he was stepping on Emile's ultra-sensitive toes, but science was science. “It turns out there are some characteristic skeletal lesions that show up about half the time. It's a new finding. There was a paper in the AJPA a few years ago. You might have missed it.'

'Apparently I did,” Emile said, tight-mouthed. “And what sort of lesions would these be?'

'Extremely subtle ones,” Gideon said diplomatically. “That's why no one's noticed them until now. What you find is this diffuse periostitis on the internal aspects of some of the ribs—generally four through eight, on the left side. They're faint, but they can be seen if you know to look for them.'

'Is that so?” said Emile, growing interested. He might not like being taught anything by the younger Gideon, but he was a paleopathologist (a trained paleopathologist)—one of the best there was, Gideon was ready to admit—and this was new data. “And this would presumably be a byproduct of chronic pulmonary tubercular infection of the subjacent pleural tissue?'

'Exactly. The—'

'Chronic pulmonary tubercular infection of the subjacent pleural tissue,” said Beaupierre. “My, my, the waters are growing deep for us mere archaeologists. Well, well, Gideon, it's been most interesting, but I think we ought to conclude now. It's almost noon, and I'm sure we all have some final preparations to make for the symposium.'

'One thing more,” Montfort said, re-emerging from the solitary, superior plane to which he'd retreated again. “In regard to your book, Dr. Oliver: I don't want—I'm sure none of us want—to see Professor Carpenter made to look ridiculous.'

There were murmurs of assent around the table; heartfelt, as far as Gideon could tell. Carpenter had been a popular and—until the debacle that had ended his career—a respected director.

'I won't make him look ridiculous,” Gideon said.

'Nor his scholarship either,” added Beaupierre.

But that was a trickier proposition. “I'm not trying to make anything look ridiculous, Jacques, but I don't see how I can get around the fact that his scholarship is suspect. How else could he have been—'

Montfort interrupted. “Dr. Beaupierre refers not to the unfortunate episode of the Old Man of Tayac, but to the entire body of Professor Carpenter's work, the total thrust of his research. And mine,” he added with unmistakable emphasis. “As unfortunate as his lapse of judgment in this case was, I hope you will make it clear that it has no bearing on the fact that other Neanderthals in other places do demonstrate beyond any possible doubt the existence of artistic proclivities.'

'They do, do they?” said Audrey, her hackles rising. “Beyond any possible doubt?'

'Better duck,” Pru breathed in Gideon's ear. “We're off again.'

She was right. Montfort rounded on Audrey, his eyes glittering with the zeal of battle. “Doctor, I am at a loss to understand how you can continue to dispute the existence of art, legitimate art, in the Middle Paleolithic. We now have evidence of pigment traces—yellow, red, black, brown—applied to stone at well over two dozen Neanderthal sites. Are you seriously suggesting that this was all unintentional, the result of some kind of repeated accident?'

'Of course not,” said Audrey, taking up the challenge, “but I hope you're not suggesting that the application of coloring materials to a surface is necessarily an artistic act.'

'Not an artistic act?” put in Beaupierre. “But . . . but of course it's an artistic act. What else would you call it?'

'Any one of a hundred things: simple curiosity, or a primitive enjoyment of novel effects, or an instinct for play. In all these sites you mention, can you point to a single application of color that could be called a pattern, a meaningful design?'

'Oh . . . pouf,” said Beaupierre weakly.

'Go ahead and pouf all you like, Jacques,” Emile said, “but Audrey is clearly in the right. All these pigment traces of yours are no more than smears or formless dabs. Oh, at best I suppose they might represent a naive form of aesthetic appreciation on the part of Neanderthal Man—'

'Neanderthals,” Audrey said automatically.

'On the part of Neanderthals, but nothing to be confused with artistic intent as we use the term.'

'Oh, yes?” said Montfort, warming to the debate, “and just how do you propose to separate the two? Is there really so obvious a difference between artistic appreciation and aesthetic appreciation—even ‘naive’ aesthetic appreciation, as you choose to call it?'

'That's right,” said Beaupierre. “Yes, very true. We all know, mm, ah . . .'

'Oh, come on, people, give me a break,” Pru said. “Babies play with crayons. Give a chimp some finger paints and he's happy for hours. So what? Does that make him an artist?'

'But what about the incised stone, the worked bone?” said Montfort. “Do chimpanzees carve crosses in stone?'

Several voice responded, but Audrey's was the most penetrating. “For heaven's sake, Michel, are you back on that nummulite fossil from Hungary? One of the lines on that “cross” is a natural crack, you know that as well as I do.'