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the tumbled ruin of an old moss-grown stone tower hard beside the farmhouse spoke of generations of continual habitation.
    “Well,” said Simon, “this is the place.” He had slowed the car to a crawl upon our approach and now stopped on the shoulder of the road. A large gray stone house and outbuildings stood at the end of a long, tree-lined drive. A black-painted wooden gate separated the drive from the road. A tin mailbox bore the name Grant in bold white letters.
    “So?” I wondered. “Are we just going to sit out here, or are we going in?”
    “We go in.”
    He switched off the engine and took the keys. We got out and walked to the gate. “It’s cold out here,” I said, shivering. My poncho was in the car. Simon tried the gate; it wasn’t locked and swung open easily.
    A great floppy dog met us halfway up the drive. The animal did not bark, but ran to greet us, wagging its tail happily. It licked both my hands before I could stuff them in my pockets. Simon whistled the accommodating animal to him. “Hey, Pooch, is your master at home?”
    “He’s home,” I said. “And here he comes.”
    From around the corner of the barn approached a man in a shapeless brown tweed hat, a black overcoat, and green wellies. He carried a long stick in one hand and looked as if he knew how to use it.
    “Good morning, sir,” Simon called, turning on the Rawnson charm. “Nice place you’ve got here.”
    “Mornin’.” The farmer did not smile, but neither did he hit us with the stick. I took this as a good sign.
    “We’ve come up from Oxford,” Simon volunteered, as if this should explain everything.
    “All that way?” The farmer gave a slight shake of his head. Apparently Oxford could not easily be compassed in his geography. “You’ll be wanting to see the beastie, then.”
    I thought he meant the dog and was about to point out that we had already enjoyed that pleasure, when Simon said, “That’s right. If it’s no trouble, of course. I wouldn’t want to put you out.”
    If it’s no trouble! We’ve driven day and night to get here expressly to see this aurochs creature, and he wouldn’t want to put anybody out. Give me a break!
    “Oh, it wouldn’t put me out,” the farmer replied agreeably. “I’ll take you now.”
    He led us out behind the barn to a small field. The frosted grass crunched underfoot with a sound like eggshells. I scanned the field for any sign of the unfortunate ice-age relic but saw nothing.
    Presently we stopped and the farmer thrust the end of his stick at the ground before us. “T’was here he fell,” he said. “You can see the way he bent the grass.”
    I could see no such thing. I could see nothing at all, in fact. “Where is it?” I asked. Disappointment made my voice sharp. That, or desperation.
    The farmer gazed placidly at me—much, I suppose, as one might regard the village idiot—pity and amusement mingled in equal parts. “But it’s no here, is it?”
    “I can see it’s no here—not here. Where has it gone?” I didn’t mean to be short with the man. But no one else seemed to think it mattered that we had driven eight zillion miles for the express purpose of looking at a bare patch in an empty field.
    “They came and took it away yesterday afternoon,” the farmer answered.
    Simon crouched down and put his hand on the flattened straw. “Who took it?” he asked idly. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
    “Ah dinna mind,” the farmer replied. “The men from the university.”
    “Which university?” I demanded, feeling more of a dope with each passing second.
    “Edinburgh,” the farmer answered—as if there were only one possible institution of higher learning on the entire planet, and it was a wonder I should even ask. “Archaeologists they were. Had a wee van and trailer and everything.”
    Simon steered the inquiry back on course. “Yesterday afternoon, you say? About what time?”
    “Quarter past four, it was. I was just going in for my tea