And then there was the fact that it had been a year and a half since his last dig. A year and a half without the renewing process of hands-on anthropology, a year and a half spent in classroom and office. And no prospect of fieldwork in sight. He felt, he explained to Julie, as if his career were standing still.

"Let me remind you,” she said crisply, “that in that year and a half you've started here at a new school, you've gotten your full professorship, you've solidified your formidable reputation as ‘the Skeleton Detective of America'-"

"Watch out now, don't push your luck."

"-and you've published three papers."

"Four. I know, Julie, that's all true. I guess I need to do some real work, not just paperwork. And I don't mean identifying dismembered skeletons for the FBI."

"Well, couldn't you get in touch with some of your archaeologist friends? Wouldn't they be glad to have you on a dig?"

"If there were some human bones involved, sure. And if some other physical anthropologist wasn't already part of the team.” He shrugged. “I guess that's what I'll do.” And then he'd wait months, years maybe, before anything came to pass. Popular accounts notwithstanding, human skeletal remains didn't turn up on digs very often.

"Fine. Good. Anything else bothering you?"

"Julie, do you know how old Rupert Armstrong LeMoyne is?"

"Ah, now we're getting to it. Who's Rupert Armstrong LeMoyne?"

"The dean of faculty. He's thirty-nine years old. Two years younger than I am."

"Gideon, would you want to be the dean of faculty?"

"Of course not. That's not the point."

"Would you like to be soft, and white, and self-satisfied like Rupert Armstrong LeMoyne?” She pushed him back into his chair, dropped into his lap, and put her arms around his neck.

Gideon submitted happily. Married two years and still his skin tingled when she touched him. “How do you know he's soft, white, and self-satisfied?"