After about five minutes, the librarian returned, presenting Jock with the three back issues he’d requested—one of Earth and Planetary Science Letters, and two of Nature—which his Web-searching had shown contained follow-ups to the rapid-magnetic-reversal research by Coe, et al.

Jock found an unoccupied study carrel and sat down. The first thing he did was remove his HP CapShare from his briefcase—a battery-powered hand-held document scanner. He ran the device over the pages of the articles he was interested in, capturing them at 200 dpi, adequate for OCRing later. Jock smiled at the portrait of Chester Carlson mounted near where he was sitting—he’d have loved this little unit.

Jock then started reading the actual articles. What was most interesting about the original piece, the one in Earth and Planetary Science Letters, was that the authors freely acknowledged that the results they’d found were at odds with conventional wisdom, which held that magnetic collapses would take thousands of years to occur. That belief though, was apparently based not so much on established facts but rather just a general feeling that the Earth’s magnetic field was a ponderous thing that couldn’t rapidly stand on its head.

But Coe and Prévot had found evidence of extremely rapid collapses. Their studies were based on lava flows at Steens Mountain in southern Oregon, where a volcano had erupted fifty-six separate times during a magnetic-field reversal, providing time-lapse snapshots of the action. Although they couldn’t determine the intervals between the eruptions, they did know how long the lava in each one must have taken to cool to the Curie Point, where the magnetization of the newly formed rocks would be locked in, matching the current orientation and strength of Earth’s magnetic field. The study suggested the field had collapsed in as little as a few weeks, rather than over a period of millennia.

Jock read the follow-up article by Coe and company in Nature, as well as a critique of it by a man named Ronald T. Merrill, which seemed to amount to nothing more than what Merrill himself referred to as “the principle of least astonishment:” a dogmatic statement that it was simpler to believe that Coe and Prévot were flat-out wrong, rather than to have to accept such a remarkable finding, despite being unable to show any flaw in their work.

Jock Krieger leaned back in the study carrel’s chair. It seemed what Ponter had told that Canadian-government geologist, Arnold Moore, was likely correct.

And that, Jock realized, meant there might be no time to waste.

The Paleoanthropology Society met each year, alternately in conjunction with the Association of American Archeology and the American Association of Physical Anthropologists. This year, it happened to be the former, and the venue was the Crowne Plaza at Franklin Square.

The format was simple: a single track of programming, consisting of fifteen-minute presentations. There was only occasionally time for questions; John Yellen, the chair of the society, kept things on schedule with Phileas Fogg precision.

After the first day of papers, many of the paleoanthropologists adjourned to the hotel bar. “I’m sure people would love a chance to get to talk to you informally,” said Mary to Ponter, as they stood in the corridor leading to the bar. “Shall we go in?”

Standing solemnly near them was an FBI agent, one of their shadows throughout this trip.

Ponter flared his nostrils. “There are people smoking in that room.”

Mary nodded. “In a lot of jurisdictions, thank God, bars are the only place people can still smoke—and Ottawa and some other places have even outlawed it in bars.”

Ponter frowned. “It is too bad this meeting could not be in Ottawa.”

“I know. If you can’t stand it, we don’t have to go in.”

Ponter considered. “I have had many little ideas for inventions while I have been here, mostly adapting Gliksin technology. But I suspect the one that would make the biggest contribution would be developing nasal filters so that my people will not be constantly assaulted by smells here.”

Mary nodded. “I don’t like the smell of tobacco smoke, either. Still…”

“We can go in,” said Ponter.

Mary turned to the FBI agent. “Could you use a drink, Carlos?”

“I’m on duty, ma’am,” he said crisply. “But whatever you and Envoy Boddit want to do is fine by me.”

Mary led the way. The room was dark, with wood-paneled walls. A dozen or so scientists were sitting on stools at the bar, and three small groups were clustered around tables. A TV mounted high on one wall was showing a Seinfeld rerun. Mary recognized it at once: the one where Jerry turns out to be a raving anti-dentite. She was about to head farther into the room when she felt Ponter’s hand on her shoulder. “Is that not the symbol of your people?” he said.

Ponter was pointing with his other hand, and Mary looked where he was indicating: an electric sign was mounted on the wall, advertising Molson Canadian. Ponter couldn’t read the words, she knew, but he’d correctly identified the large red maple leaf. “Ah, yes,” said Mary. “That’s what Canada is most famous for down here. Beer. Fermented grain.”

Ponter blinked. “You must be very proud.”

Mary led the way across the room to one of the small groups sitting in bowl-shaped chairs around a circular table. “Carlos, do you mind?” said Mary, turning to the FBI man.

“I’ll just be over there, ma’am,” he said. “I’ve heard quite enough about fossils for one day.” He moved to the bar, and sat on a stool, but facing them, rather than the bartender.

Mary turned to the table. “May we join you?”

The three seated people—two men and a woman—had been engaged in animated conversation, but they all looked up, and immediately recognized Ponter. “My God, yes,” said one of the men. There was one vacant chair already at the table; he quickly grabbed another.

“To what do we owe the pleasure?” said the other man, as Mary and Ponter sat down.

Mary thought about telling part of the truth: no one was smoking at or near this table, and the cluster of chairs was situated in such a way that, even though others might wish to do so, there really wasn’t room for anyone else to join their group—she didn’t want Ponter to be overwhelmed. But she had no intention of telling the other part: that Norman Thierry, the pompous self-styled Neanderthal-DNA expert from UCLA, was sitting across the room. He’d be dying to get at Ponter, but wouldn’t be able to do so.

Instead, Mary simply ignored the question and made introductions. “This is Henry Running Deer,” she said, indicating a Native American man of about forty. “Henry’s at Brown.”

“ Was at Brown,” corrected Henry. “I’ve moved to the University of Chicago.”

“Ah,” said Mary. “And this”—she indicated the woman, who was white and perhaps thirty-five—“is Angela Bromley, from the American Museum of Natural History in New York.”

Angela extended her right hand. “It’s a real pleasure, Dr. Boddit.”

“Ponter,” said Ponter, who had come to understand that in this society one should not use another’s first name until invited to do so.

Angela continued. “And this is my husband, Dieter.”

“Hello,” said Mary and Ponter simultaneously. And, “Are you an anthropologist, too?” asked Mary.

“No, no, no,” said Dieter. “I’m in aluminum siding.”

Ponter tipped his head. “You hide it well.”

The others looked perplexed, but Mary laughed. “You’ll get used to Ponter’s sense of humor,” she said.

Dieter got up. “Let me get you two something to drink. Mary—wine?”

“White wine, yes.”

“And Ponter?”

Ponter frowned, clearly not knowing what to ask for. Mary leaned close to him. “Bars always have Coke,” she said.