“Which recent events are those?"
“Religious events to some folks’ view. Political to others.” Gavin waved his hand. “More than just scientific egos are at stake with this find."
They drove north, descending into the valley and sloughing off the last pretense of civilization. “You're afraid somebody will kidnap the bones?” Paul asked.
“Yeah, that's one of the things I'm afraid of."
“One?"
“It's easy to pretend that it's just theories we're playing with—ideas dreamed up in some ivory tower between warring factions of scientists. Like it's all some intellectual exercise.” Gavin looked at him, his dark eyes grave. “But then you see the actual bones; you feel their weight in your hands, and sometimes theories die between your fingers."
The track down to the valley floor was all broken zig-zags and occasional, rounding turns. For long stretches, overhanging branches made a tunnel of the roadway—the jungle a damp cloth slapping at the windshield. But here and there that damp cloth was yanked aside, and out over the edge of the drop you could see a valley that Hollywood would love, an archetype to represent all valleys, jungle floor visible through jungle haze. In those stretches of muddy road, a sharp left pull on the steering wheel would have gotten them there quicker, deader.
“Liange Bua,” Gavin called their destination. “The Cold Cave.” And Gavin explained that was how they thought it happened—the scenario. This steamy jungle all around, so two or three of them went inside to get cool, to sleep. Or maybe it was raining, and they went in the cave to get dry—only the rain didn't stop, and the river flooded, as it sometimes still did, and they were trapped inside the cave by the rising waters, their drowned bodies buried in mud and sediment.
The men rode in silence for a while before Gavin said it, a third option Paul felt coming. “Or they were eaten there."
“Eaten by what?"
“Homo homini lupus est.” Gavin said. “Man is wolf to man."
They crossed a swollen river, water rising to the bottom of the doors. For a moment Paul felt the current grab the Jeep, pull, and it was a close thing, Gavin cursing and white-knuckled on the wheel, trying to keep them to the shallows. When they were past it he said, “You've got to keep it to the north; if you slide a few feet off straight, the whole bugger'll go tumbling downriver."
Paul didn't ask him how he knew.
Beyond the river was the camp. Researchers in wide-brimmed hats or bandanas. Young and old. Two or three shirtless. A dark-haired woman in a white shirt sat on a log outside her tent. The one feature unifying them all, good boots.
Every head followed the Jeep, and when the Jeep pulled to a stop, a small crowd gathered to help unpack. Gavin introduced him around. Eight researchers, plus two laborers still in the cave. Australian mostly. Indonesian. One American.
“Herpetology, mate,” one of them said when he shook Paul's hand. Small, stocky, red-bearded; he couldn't have been more than twenty-two. Paul forgot his name the moment he heard it, but the introduction, “Herpetology, mate,” stuck with him. “That's my specialty,” the small man continued. “I got mixed up in this because of Professor McMaster here. University of New England, Australia.” His smile was two feet wide under a sharp nose that pointed at his own chin. Paul liked him instantly.
When they'd finished unpacking the Jeep, Gavin turned to Paul. “Now I think it's time we made the most important introductions,” he said.
It was a short walk to the cave. Jag-toothed limestone jutted from the jungle, an overhang of vine, and beneath that, a dark mouth. The stone was the brown-white of old ivory. Cool air enveloped him, and entering Liange Bua was a distinct process of stepping down. Once inside, it took Paul's eyes a moment to adjust. The chamber was thirty meters wide, open to the jungle in a wide crescent—mud floor, low-domed ceiling. There was not much to see at first. In the far corner, two sticks angled from the mud, and when he looked closer, Paul saw the hole.
“Is that it?"
“That's it."
Paul took off his backpack and stripped the white paper suit out of its plastic wrapper. “Who else has touched it?"
“Talford, Margaret, me."
“I'll need blood samples from everybody for comparison assays."
“DNA contamination?"
“Yeah."
“We stopped the dig when we realized the significance."
“Still. I'll need blood samples from anybody who has dug here, anybody who came anywhere near the bones. I'll take the samples myself tomorrow."
“I understand. Is there anything else you need?"
“Solitude.” Paul smiled. “I don't want anybody in the cave for this part."
Gavin nodded and left. Paul broke out his tarps and hooks. It was best if the sampler was the person who dug the fossils out of the ground—or better yet, if the DNA samples were taken when the bones were still in the ground. Less contamination that way. And there was always contamination. No matter what precautions were taken, no matter how many tarps, or how few people worked at the site, there was still always contamination.
Paul slid down into the hole, flashlight strapped to his forehead, white paper suit slick on the moist earth. From his perspective, he couldn't tell what the bones were—only that they were bones, half buried in earth. From his perspective, that's all that mattered. The material was soft, un-fossilized; he'd have to be careful.
It took nearly seven hours. He snapped two dozen photographs, careful to keep track of which samples came from which specimens. Whoever these things were, they were small. He sealed the DNA samples into small, sterile lozenges for transport.
It was night when he climbed from under the tarp.
Outside the cave, Gavin was the first to find him in the firelight. “Are you finished?"
“For tonight. I have six different samples from at least two different individuals. Shouldn't take more than a few days."
McMaster handed him a bottle of whiskey.
“Isn't it a little early to celebrate?"
“Celebrate? You've been working in a grave all night. In America, don't they drink after funerals?"
* * * *
That night over the campfire, Paul listened to the jungle sounds and to the voices of scientists, feeling history congeal around him.
“Suppose it isn't.” Jack was saying. Jack was thin and American and very drunk. “Suppose it isn't in the same lineage with us, then what would that mean?"
The red-bearded herpetologist groaned. His name was James. “Not more of that doctrine of descent bullshit,” he said.
“Then what is it?” someone added.
They passed the drink around, eyes occasionally drifting to Paul as if he were a priest come to grant absolution—his sample kit just an artifact of his priestcraft. Paul swigged the bottle when it came his way. They'd finished off the whiskey long ago; this was some local brew brought by laborers, distilled from rice. Paul swallowed fire.
Yellow-haired man saying, “It's the truth,” but Paul had missed part of the conversation, and for the first time he realized how drunk they all were; and James laughed at something, and the woman with the white shirt turned and said, “Some people have nicknamed it the ‘hobbit.’”
“What?"
“Flores Man—the hobbit. Little people three feet tall."
“Tolkien would be proud,” a voice contributed.
“A mandible, a fairly complete cranium, parts of a right leg and left inominate."
“But what is it?"
“Hey, are you staying on?"
The question was out there for two beats before Paul realized it was aimed at him. The woman's eyes were brown and searching across the fire. “Yeah,” he said. “A few more days."
Then the voice again, “But what is it?"
Paul took another swallow—trying to cool the voice of panic in his head.
* * * *
Paul learned about her during the next couple of days, the girl with the white shirt. Her name was Marg
aret. She was twenty-eight. Australian. Some fraction aborigine on her mother's side, but you could only see it for sure in her mouth. The rest of her could have been Dutch, English, whatever. But that full mouth: teeth like Ruteng children, teeth like dentists might dream. She tied her brown hair back from her face, so it didn't hang in her eyes while she worked in the hole. This was her sixth dig, she told him. “This is the one.” She sat on the stool while Paul took her blood, a delicate index finger extended, red pearl rising to spill her secrets. “Most archaeologists go a whole lifetime without a big find,” she said. “Maybe you get one. Probably none. But this is the one I get to be a part of."
“What about the Leakeys?” Paul asked, dabbing her finger with cotton.
“Bah.” She waved at him in mock disgust. “They get extra. Bloody Kennedys of archaeology."
Despite himself, Paul laughed.
This brings us to the so-called doctrine of common descent, whereby each species is seen as a unique and individual creation. Therefore all men, living and dead, are descended from a common one-time creational event. To be outside of this lineage, no matter how similar in appearance, is to be other than Man.
—Journal of Heredity
* * * *
That evening, Paul helped Gavin pack the Jeep for a trek back up to Ruteng. “I'm driving our laborers back to town,” Gavin told him. “They work one week on, one off. You want me to take your samples with me?"
Paul shook his head. “Can't. There are stringent protocols for chain of possession."
“Where are they now?"
Paul patted the cargo pocket of his pant leg.
“So when you get those samples back, what happens next?"
“I'll hand them over to an evaluation team."
“You don't test them yourself ?"
“I'll assist, but there are strict rules. I test animal DNA all the time, and the equipment is all the same. But genus Homo requires a license and oversight."
“All right, mate, then I'll be back tomorrow evening to pick you up.” Gavin went to the Jeep and handed Paul the sat phone. “In case anything happens while I'm gone."
“Do you think something will?"
“No,” Gavin said. Then, “I don't know."
Paul fingered the sat phone, a dark block of plastic the size of a shoe. “What are you worried about?"
“To be honest, bringing you here has brought attention we weren't ready for. I received a troubling call today. So far, we've shuffled under the radar, but now ... now we've flown in an outside tech, and people want to know why."
“What people?"
“Official people. Indonesia is suddenly very interested."
“Are you worried they'll shut down the dig?"
Gavin smiled. “Have you studied theology?
“Why?"
“I've long been fascinated by the figure of Abraham. Are you familiar with Abraham?"
“Of course,” Paul said, unsure where this was going.
“From this one sheepherder stems the entire natural history of monotheism. He's at the very foundation of all three Abrahamic faiths—Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. When Jews, Christians, and Muslims get on their knees for their One True God, it is to Abraham's God they pray.” Gavin closed his eyes. “And still there is such fighting over steeples."
“What does this have to do with the dig?"
“The word ‘prophet’ comes from the Greek, prophetes. In Hebrew, the word is nabi. I think Abraham Heschel said it best when he wrote ‘the prophet is the man who feels fiercely.’ What do you think, Paul? Do you think prophets feel fiercely?"
“Why are you asking me this?"
“Oh, never mind.” Gavin smiled again and shook his head. “It's just the rambling of an old man."
“You never answered whether you thought they'd shut down the dig."
“We come onto their land, their territory; we come into this place and we find bones that contradict their beliefs; what do you think might happen? Anything."
“Contradict their beliefs?” Paul said. “What do you believe about these bones? You've never said."
“I don't know. They could be pathological."
“That's what they said about the first Neanderthal bones. Except they kept finding them."
“It could be microcephaly."
“What kind of microcephaly makes you three feet tall?"
“The odd skull shape and small body-size could be unrelated. Pygmies aren't unknown to these islands."
“There are no pygmies this small."
“But perhaps the two things together ... perhaps the bones are a microcephalic representation of...” his voice trailed off. Gavin sighed. He looked suddenly defeated.
“That's not what you believe, is it?” Paul said.
“These are the smallest bones discovered that look anything like us. Could they just be pathological humans? I don't know. Maybe. Pathology could happen anywhere, so we can't rule it out when we've only got a few specimens to work with. But what my mind keeps coming back to is that these bones weren't found just anywhere."
“What do you mean?"
“These bones weren't found in Africa, or Asia. These tiny bones were found on a tiny island. Near the bones of dwarf elephants. And that's a coincidence? They hunted dwarf elephants, for God's sake."
“So if not pathological, what do you believe they were? You still haven't said."
“That's the powerful thing about genetics, my friend. One does not have to believe. One can know. And that's precisely what is so dangerous."
* * * *
“Strange things happen on islands.” Margaret's white shirt was gone. She sat slick-armed in overalls. Skin like a fine coat of gloss. The firelight beat the night back, lighting candles in their eyes. It was nearly midnight, and the researchers sat in a circle, listening to the crackle of the fire. Listening to the jungle.
“Like the Galápagos,” she said. “The finches."
“Oh come on,” James said. “The skulls we found are small, with brains the size of chimps. Island dwarfing of genus Homo; is that what you're proposing? Some sort of local adaptation over the last five thousand years?"
“It's the best we have."
“Those bones are too different. They're not of our line."
“But they're younger than the other archaics. It's not like erectus, some branch cut down at the dawn of time. These things survived here for a long time. The bones aren't even fossilized."
“It doesn't matter, they're still not us. Either they share common descent from Man, or they were a separate creation at the beginning. There is no in-between. And they're only a meter tall, don't forget."
“That's just an estimate."
“A good estimate."
“Achondroplasia—"
“Those skulls are as achondroplastic as I am. I'd say the sloped frontal bone is anti-achondroplastic."
“Some kind of growth hormone deficiency would—"
“No,” Paul said, speaking for the first time. Every face turned toward him.
“No, what?"
“Pygmies have normal growth hormone levels,” Paul said. “Every population studied—the negritos, the Andaman, the Congolese. All normal."
The faces stared. “It's the circulating domain of their receptors that are different,” Paul continued. “Pygmies are pygmies because of their GH receptors, not the growth hormone itself. If you inject a pygmy child with growth hormone, you still get a pygmy."
“Well still,” Margaret said. “I don't see how that impacts whether these bones share common descent or not."
James turned to the circle of faces. “So are they on our line? Are they us, or other?"
“Other."
“Other."
“Other."
Softly, the girl whispered in disbelief, “But they had stone tools."
The faces turned to Paul, but he only watched the fire and said nothing.
* * * *
The next morning started with a downpour. The di
g team huddled in tents, or under the tarped lean-to near the fire pit. Only James braved the rain, stomping off into the jungle. He was back in an hour, smiling ear to ear.
“Well, will you look at that,” James said, holding something out for Paul to see.
“What is it?"
“Partially eaten monitor. A species only found here."
Paul saw now that it was a taloned foot that James held. “That's a big lizard."
“Oh, no. This was just a juvenile. Mother nature is odd this side of the Wallace line. Not only are most of the species on this side not found anywhere else. A lot of them aren't even vaguely related to anything else. It's like God started from scratch to fill all the niches."
“How'd you get interested in herpetology?” Paul asked.
“By His creations shall ye know God."
“McMaster mentioned a dwarf elephant."
“Yeah, stegadon. They're extinct now, though."
“What killed them off ?"
“Same thing that killed off a lot of the ancient fauna on the island. Classic catastophism, a volcanic eruption. We found the ash layer just above the youngest bones."
* * * *
Once, lying in bed with a woman, Paul had watched the moon through the window. The woman traced his scars with her finger.
“Your father was brutal."
“No,” Paul had said. “He was broken, that's all."
“There's a difference?"
“Yeah."
“What?"
“He was always sorry afterward."
“That mattered?"
“Every single time."
* * * *
A: Incidences of local adaptation have occurred, sure. Populations adapt to changing conditions all the time.
Q: Through what process?
A: Differential reproductive success. Given genetic variability, it almost has to happen. It's just math and genes. Fifty-eight hundred years is a long time.
Q: Can you give an example?
A: Most dogs would fall into this category, having been bred by man to suit his needs. While physically different from each other, when you study their genes, they're all one species—though admittedly divided into several distinct clades.
Q: So you're saying God created the original dog, but Man bred the different varieties?
Asimov's SF, September 2007 Page 11
