Murder in the Queen's Armes

so that they lay like an offering to the gods on an eight-inch pedestal of earth. Gideon knelt to look briefly at them, then straightened up.

'What makes you so sure they couldn't be human, Leon?'

His lips pursed, Leon studied the bones with professional nonchalance. Absently, he took a roll of mints from the pocket of his windbreaker and pushed one into his mouth with his thumb. “It's the shape. It's hard to put into words, but they just don't look human.'

'But they're the right size,” Barry put in. “Too small for a cow, too big for a dog.'

'No, Leon's right,” Gideon said. “They're not human; not enough curvature. If you made a cross section of a human body and looked down on the ribs from above, the rib cage would be kind of heart-shaped, sort of like a big, fat apple, with the stem at the back, where the spine is. But a quadruped's rib cage—a deer, say, which I think this is— would be shaped more like a... oh, like an elongated egg—like a bucket, really.'

'Gee,” Barry said, “they sure look human to me.'

'No, human ribs are more curved, like arcs of a circle. You can see these are much more flattened.'

'Yes, it's caused by evolution,” Leon said easily. “In a four-footed animal, gravity would make the weight of the internal organs bear on the front of the rib cage, so it would naturally be shaped like a bucket to hold them in. But a human stands on his hind feet, so to speak, so his organs aren't supported by his ribs, and they spread out into a nice, roomy circle instead.'

He is quick, Gideon thought; no doubt about that. By comparison, Barry's glazed eyes showed that he'd been left far behind.

'That's right,” Gideon said, “except that it isn't caused by evolution. Evolution isn't the cause of anything, strictly speaking; it's a set of responses, of adaptations—'

'Well, yes,” Leon said, “that's one way of looking at it—” He stopped, seeing that the older man had returned.

'Golly, Dr. Oliver,” the man said in mournful apology, “I must have been out to lunch when you said who you were. Nate's talked about you lots of times.” His liquid eyes shone with abashed sincerity. The man really does look like a basset, Gideon thought. Even his ears were baggy.

He shook hands with Gideon, a sincere, confidential two-handed shake, the left hand gripping Gideon's elbow. “I'm Jack Frawley, Nate's assistant. I'm an associate prof at Gelden.” He smiled weakly. “It's a genuine pleasure to meet you.'

Although he'd never met him, Gideon knew who Frawley was. At one time he'd been a promising scholar, and he'd achieved his associate professorship by the time he was twenty-five. Two decades ago, however, he had published a paper in American Antiquity in which he'd made a string of elementary statistical errors. Published responses had been scathing and brutal, after the time-honored fashion of learned societies, and Frawley had never dared to publish again, as far as Gideon knew.

In the world of academia, that had meant a dead stop to his career, and for more than twenty years he had remained an associate professor at Gelden. When old Blassie had retired two years ago as head of the department, Frawley, the senior member of the faculty, hadn't even been considered as a replacement, and the younger Nate Marcus had been brought in from Case Western Reserve.

'Well, well, come on back,” Frawley said with oily hospitality that failed to convince. “I'm sure you want to see Nate.'

Gideon turned to Leon. “Sorry, I hope we can finish this another time.'

'Anytime, Gideon,” Leon said. “Always glad to hear your views.'

Gideon?...Hear your views? What the hell kind of way was that for a grad student to talk to a professor he'd just met? But then, why shouldn't he be sure of himself? And why should he, Gideon, be ruffled by informality from someone not much more than ten years younger? Was he already looking jealously over his shoulder at the next generation of bright young anthropologists? Now there was a tendency to be watched.

As they walked toward the corrugated-metal shed, Frawley clasped Gideon's forearm and moved closer. There was stale pipe tobacco on his breath. “Now, Gideon,” he said confidentially, “—may I call you Gideon?—I'd like to share some thoughts with you in all candor.'

Gideon's vague unease defined itself more sharply. People eager to “share” things with him put him off— particularly after a one-minute acquaintance. So did people who squeezed his arm—men, anyway—conspiratorially or otherwise, and leveled shiny-eyed, straight-shooting gazes on him. And he'd never been much of a fan of the double handshake.

'Damn!” Frawley unexpectedly exclaimed. Not looking where he was going, he had stumbled over the corner of a narrow trench not far from the shed.

'What is it?” Gideon asked. “A test pit?” With a little luck, Frawley might forget about his candid thoughts.

'A test pit, yes. Nate thought there might be a barrow here, or some buildings, with their surface features obliterated.'

Gideon could see no reason to think so, but then no one had believed there was anything at the site of the main dig either, except for Nate. “You didn't find anything?'

'Nothing. A foot and a half below the surface we hit glacial till. I mean the Riss glaciation—Middle Pleistocene. We certainly weren't going to find anything interesting under that; it'd be two hundred thousand years old, at least.'

Gideon smiled to himself. Two hundred thousand years. That was about where things began to get interesting, as far as he was concerned.

But not as far as Frawley was concerned. The older man urged him on—with a hand at his elbow—and then, as they approached the door to the shed, he squeezed Gideon's forearm once more. Whatever it was he wanted to tell Gideon in all candor, it looked like Gideon was going to have to hear it.

'Yes?” he said.