“No, no,” said poor Angela. “Of course not. But…”
“Europeans had that sort of technology purely by the luck of the draw. Collectible ores right on the surface; flints for making stone tools. You ever tried chipping granite, which is mostly what we’ve got here? It makes lousy arrowheads.”
Mary hoped Angela would just let it go, but she didn’t. “It wasn’t just tools that the Europeans had. They also were clever enough to domesticate animals—beasts of burden to work for them. Native Americans never domesticated any of the animals here.”
“They didn’t domesticate them because they couldn’t,” said Henry. “There are just fourteen large domesticable herbivores on this entire planet, and only one of those—the reindeer—is naturally found in North America, and it only in the far north. The five major domesticates are all Eurasian in origin: sheep, goats, cattle, horses, and pigs. The other nine are minor players, like camels—geographically isolated. You can’t domesticate the North American megafauna—moose or bear or deer or bison or mountain lion. They simply aren’t temperamentally suited to it. Oh, you can perhaps capture them in the wild, but you can’t rear them, and they won’t take riders no matter how hard you try to break them.” Henry’s voice grew cold as he went on. “It wasn’t superior intelligence that led to Europeans having what they did. In fact, you could argue that we Natives here in North America showed more brains by surviving and thriving in the absence of metals and domesticable herbivores.”
“But there were some Indians—I’m sorry, some Natives—who farmed,” said Angela.
“Sure. But what did they farm? Corn, mostly—because that was what was here. And corn is very low in protein, compared to the cereal grains that all came from Eurasia.”
Angela looked now at Ponter. “But—but Neanderthals: they originated in Europe, not North America.”
Henry nodded. “And they had great stone tools: the Mousterian Industry.”
“But they didn’t domesticate animals, even though you said there were plenty in Europe that could have been. And they didn’t farm.”
“Hello!” said Henry. “Earth to Angela! No one domesticated animals when the Neanderthals lived on this Earth. And no one farmed then—not Ponter’s ancestors, and not yours or mine. Farming began in the Fertile Crescent 10,500 years ago. That was long after the Neanderthals had died out—at least, in this time line. Who knows what they would have done had they survived?”
“I do,” said Ponter, simply.
Mary laughed.
“All right,” said Henry. “Then tell us. Your people never developed agriculture, right?”
“That is right,” said Ponter.
Henry nodded. “You’re probably better off without farming, anyway. A lot of bad stuff goes along with agriculture.”
“Like what?” said Mary, being careful, now that Henry had apparently calmed down a bit, to have her voice convey curiosity rather than a challenge.
“Well,” said Henry, “I already alluded to overpopulation. And the effect on the land is obvious: forests are chopped down to make farmland. Plus, of course, there are the diseases that come from domesticated animals.”
Mary saw that Ponter was nodding. Reuben Montego had explained that to them back in Sudbury.
Dieter—who turned out to be pretty sharp for an aluminum siding guy—nodded. “And there’s more to it than just physical diseases; there are cultural diseases. Slavery, for instance: that’s a direct product of agriculture’s need for labor.”
Mary looked at Ponter, feeling uncomfortable. That was the second reference to slavery Ponter had heard here in Washington. Mary knew she had some ’splaining to d o…
“That’s right,” said Henry. “Most slaves were plantation workers. And even when you don’t have literal slavery, agriculture gives rise to what amounts to the same thing: share cropping, peonage, and so on. Not to mention the class-based society, feudalism, landowners, and all that; they’re all directly a product of agriculture.”
Angela shifted in her chair. “But even when it came to hunting, the archeological record showed our ancestors were much better at it than were the Neanderthals,” she said.
Ponter had looked lost during the discussion of agriculture and feudalism. But he had clearly understood Angela’s last statement. “In what way?” he asked.
“Well,” said Angela, “we don’t see any evidence of efficiency in your ancestors’ approach to hunting.”
Ponter frowned. “How do you mean?”
“Neanderthals only killed animals one at a time.” As soon as the words were out, Angela clearly realized she’d made a mistake.
Ponter’s eyebrow went up. “How did your ancestors hunt?”
Angela looked uncomfortable. “Well, um…what we used to do, was, well, we used to drive whole herds of animals off cliffs, killing hundreds at once.”
Ponter’s golden eyes were wide. “But—but that is so…so profligate,” he said. “Surely even your large populations could not make use of all that meat. And, besides, it seems cowardly to kill like that.”
“I—I don’t know that I’d put it that way,” said Angela, reddening. “I mean, we think of it as foolhardy to put yourself at unnecessary risk, so—”
“You jump out of airplanes,” said Ponter. “You dive off cliffs. You turn punching and hitting into an organized sport. I have seen this all on television.”
“We don’t all do those things,” said Mary, gently.
“All right, then,” said Ponter. “But in addition to hazardous sports, I have seen other behaviors that are common. He gestured toward the bar. “Smoking tobacco, drinking alcohol, both of which I am given to understand are dangerous, and”—he nodded at Henry—“both of which, incidentally, are products of agriculture. Surely those activities qualify as ‘unnecessary risks.’ How can you kill animals in such a cowardly fashion, but then take such risks as—oh, oh, wait. I see. I think I see.”
“What?” said Mary.
“Yes, what?” asked Henry.
“Give me a moment,” said Ponter, clearly pursuing an elusive thought. A few seconds later, he nodded, having captured what he was after. “You Gliksins drink alcohol, smoke, and engage in hazardous sports to demonstrate your residual capacity. You are saying to those around you, see, here, during flush times, I can run myself down substantially, and still function well, thereby proving to prospective mates that I am not currently operating at the peak of my abilities. Therefore, in lean times, I will obviously have the excess strength and endurance to still be a good provider.”
“Really?” said Mary. “What a fascinating notion!”
“I understand it, because my kind does the same thing—but in other ways. When we hunt—”
Mary got it in a flash. “When hunting,” she said, “you don’t take the easy way out. You don’t drive animals off cliffs, or throw spears at them from a safe distance—something my ancestors did, but yours did not, at least on this version of Earth. No, here your people engaged in close-quarters attacks on prey animals, fighting them one-on-one, and thrusting spears into them by hand. I guess it is the same thing as smoking and drinking: look, honey, I can bring down supper with my bare hands, so if things get tough, and I have to hunt in safer ways, you can be sure I’ll still bring home the bacon.”
“Exactly,” said Ponter.
Mary nodded. “It makes sense.” She gestured at a thin man sitting on the opposite side of the bar. “Erik Trinkaus, there, found that many Neanderthal fossils showed the same sort of upper-body injuries we find in modern rodeo riders, as if they’d been bucked by animals, presumably while in close combat with them.”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” said Ponter. “I have been thrown by a mammoth now and again, and—”
“You’ve what?” said Henry.