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the test you did be able to identify every Neanderthal? Could it reliably tell if any given person was a Neanderthal or a human?”
    “Neanderthals
are
human,” said Mary. “We’re congeners; we all belong to the genus
Homo
.
Homo habilis, Homo erectus, Homo antecessor
—if you believe that’s a legitimate species—
Homo heidelbergensis, Homo neanderthalensis, Homo sapiens
. We’re all humans.”
    “I concede the point,” said Krieger, with a nod. “What should we call ourselves to distinguish us from them?”
    “Homo sapiens sapiens,”
said Mary.
    “Not very catchy, is it?” replied Krieger. “Didn’t I hear someone call us Cro-Magnons? That’s got a pleasant ring to it.”
    “Technically, that term refers to a specific population of anatomically modern humans from the Upper Paleolithic of southern France.”
    “Then I ask again: what should we call ourselves to distinguish us from the Neanderthals?”
    “Well, Ponter’s people had a term for fossil humans from their world that looked like us. They called them
Gliksins
. It would be an appropriate parity: we call them by a name that really refers to their fossil ancestors, and they call us by a name that really refers to our fossil ancestors.”
    “Gliksins? Is that what you said?” Krieger frowned. “All right, I guess that will do. Can your DNA technique reliably distinguish between
any
Neanderthal and
any
Gliksin?”
    Mary frowned. “I doubt it. There’s a lot of variation within species, and—”
    “But if Neanderthals and we Gliksins are different species, surely there are genes that only they have, or only we have. The genes that give them those browridges, for instance.”
    “Oh, lots of us Gliksins have browridges. They’re very common among males from Eastern Europe, for instance. Of course, the doubly arched Neanderthal one is quite distinctive, but…”
    “Well, what about those triangular projections into their nasal cavities?” asked Krieger. “I’ve heard that they are truly diagnostic of a Neanderthal.”
    “Yes, that’s right,” said Mary. “I suppose if you wanted to look up each person’s nose…”
    Krieger did not sound amused. “I was thinking you might be able to find the gene responsible for that.”
    “Oh, possibly, although they themselves may already know. Ponter implied that they long ago undertook the equivalent of our Human Genome Project. But, sure, I suppose I could search for a diagnostic marker.”
    “Can you do it? How fast can you do it?”
    “Take it easy,” said Mary. “We only have DNA from four prehistoric Neanderthals and one contemporary one. I’d really rather have a much larger sample base.”
    “But can you do it?”
    “Possibly, but why?”
    “How long would it take?”
    “With my current facilities? And if I did nothing else? A few months, perhaps.”
    “What if we gave you all the equipment and all the support staff you could possibly need? What then? Money is no object, Professor Vaughan.”
    Mary felt her heart pounding. As a Canadian academic, she had
never
heard those words before. She’d had friends at university who had gone on to do postgraduate work in the States; they’d often reported back about big five-and six-figure research grants and state-of-the-art equipment. Mary’s own first research grant had been for a paltry $3,200—and Canadian dollars, at that.
    “Well, with, ah, with unlimited resources, I suppose I could do it fairly quickly. A matter of weeks, if we’re lucky.”
    “Good. Good. Do so.”
    “Umm, with all due respect, Dr. Krieger, I’m a Canadian citizen; you can’t tell me what to do.”
    Krieger was immediately contrite. “Of course not, Professor Vaughan. My apologies. My enthusiasm for the project got the better of me. What I meant to say was, would you please undertake this project? As I said, we will provide whatever equipment and staff you need, and a sizable consultancy fee.”
    Mary’s head was swimming. “But why? Why is this so