Free Frameshift by Robert J. Sawyer Page A

getting a complete set.”
    The old man himself had moved nearer — and for once there was a smile on his broad, liver-spotted face. “That’s right,” he said, his voice cold and dry. He glanced sideways at a chubby man Pierre recognized as a UCB paleontologist. “Now that we have Neanderthal DNA, we can do some real science about human origins, instead of just making wild guesses.”
    “That’s wonderful,” replied Pierre above the din of people milling about the small office. “How old was the bone?”
    “Sixty-two thousand years,” said Klimus triumphantly.
    “But surely the DNA would have degraded over all that time,” said Pierre.
    “That’s the beauty of the site where Hapless Hannah was found,” said Klimus. “She died in a cave-in that completely sealed her in — she was an actual, honest-to-goodness cave-woman. Aerobic bacteria in the cave used up all the oxygen, so she’d spent the last sixty thousand years in an oxygen-free environment, meaning her pyrimidines didn’t oxidize. We’ve recovered all twenty-three pairs of chromosomes.”
    “What a lucky break,” said Pierre.
    “It sure is,” said Donna Yamashita, who had suddenly appeared again at Pierre’s elbow. “Hannah will answer a lot of questions, including the big one about whether Neanderthal was a separate species —
Homo
n
eanderthalensis
 — or just a subspecies of modern humanity —
Homo
s
apiens neanderthalensis
, and—”
    Klimus spoke over top of her. “And we should be able to tell whether Neanderthals died out without leaving any descendants, or whether they crossbred with Cro-Magnon, and therefore mixed their genes with ours.”
    “That’s terrific,” said Pierre.
    “Of course,” said Klimus, “there’ll still be many questions unanswered about Neanderthals — fine details of physical appearance, culture, and so on. But, still, this is a remarkable day.” He turned his back on Pierre, and in an unexpected display of exuberance, tapped the side of his champagne glass with his Mont Blanc pen. “Everybody — everybody! Your attention, please! I’d like to propose a toast — to Hapless Hannah! Soon to become the best-known Neanderthal in history!”

Chapter 9
    Pierre’s lab looked like just about every other lab he’d ever seen: a poster of the periodic table on one wall; a well-used copy of the
Rubber Bible
lying open on a desk; lots of glass labware set up on retort stands; a small centrifuge; a UNIX workstation with Post-it notes stuck to the bezel around the monitor; an emergency shower station, in case of chemical spills; a glass-enclosed work area under a fume hood. The walls were that sickly yellow-beige that seems so common in university environments. The lighting was fluorescent; the floor, tiled.
    Pierre was working at one of the counters that lined all four walls of the room, staring at DNA autorads positioned over an illuminated panel built into the countertop. He was wearing a stained white lab coat, but it wasn’t buttoned up, so his Quebec Winter Carnival T-shirt was visible underneath. He’d never been more shocked than when an American student had mistaken the Bonhomme on the shirt for the giant Stay-Puft marshmallow man from
Ghostbusters
 — something akin to confusing Uncle Sam with Colonel Sanders.
    Burian Klimus appeared in the doorway, looking most put out.
    Standing next to the old man was an attractive Asian-American woman with black hair that had been teased into a frizzy halo around her face.
    “That’s him,” said Klimus.
    “Mr. Tardivel,” said the woman. “I’m Tiffany Feng, from Condor Health Insurance.”
    Pierre nodded at Klimus. “Thanks for bringing her up, sir,” he said. The ancient geneticist scowled, then shambled away.
    Tiffany was in her late twenties. She was carrying a black attache case, and was dressed in a blue jacket and matching pants. Her white blouse was open more than one might expect at the top. Pierre was amused; he suspected Tiffany