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“A city in another world, no doubt?” said the Dean, with contempt in his voice.
Lord Asriel ignored him. There was a stir of excitement among some of the Scholars, as if, having written treatises on the existence of the unicorn without ever having seen one, they'd been presented with a living example newly captured. “Is this the Barnard-Stokes business?” said the Palmerian Professor. “It is, isn't it?”
“That's what I want to find out,” said Lord Asriel. He stood to one side of the illuminated screen. Lyra could see his dark eyes searching among the Scholars as they peered up at the slide of the Aurora, and the green glow of his daemon's eyes beside him. All the venerable heads were craning forward, their spectacles glinting; only the Master and the Librarian leaned back in their chairs, with their heads close together.
The Chaplain was saying, “You said you were searching for news of the Grumman expedition, Lord Asriel.
Was Dr. Grumman investigating this phenomenon too?”
“I believe he was, and I believe he had a good deal of information about it. But he won't be able to tell us what it was, because he's dead.”
“No!” said the Chaplain.
“I'm afraid so, and I have the proof here.”
A ripple of excited apprehension ran round the Retiring Room as, under Lord Asriel's direction, two or three of the younger Scholars carried the wooden box to the front of the room. Lord Asriel took out the last slide but left the lantern on, and in the dramatic glare of the circle of light he bent to lever open the box. Lyra heard the screech of nails coming out of damp wood. The Master stood up to look, blocking Lyra's view. Her uncle spoke again:
“If you remember, Grumman's expedition vanished eighteen months ago. The German Academy sent him up there to go as far north as the magnetic pole and make various celestial observations. It was in the course of that journey that he observed the curious phenomenon we've already seen. Shortly after that, he vanished. It's been assumed that he had an accident and that his body's been lying in a crevasse all this time. In fact, there was no accident.”
“What have you got there?” said the Dean. “Is that a vacuum container?”
Lord Asriel didn't answer at first. Lyra heard the snap of metal clips and a hiss as air rushed into a vessel, and then there was a silence. But the silence didn't last long. After a moment or two Lyra heard a confused babble break out: cries of horror, loud protests, voices raised in anger and fear.
“But what—”
“—hardly human—”
“—it's been—”
“—what's happened to it?”
The Master's voice cut through them all.
“Lord Asriel, what in God's name have you got there?”
“This is the head of Stanislaus Grumman,” said Lord Asriel's voice.
Over the jumble of voices Lyra heard someone stumble to the door and out, making incoherent sounds of distress. She wished she could see what they were seeing.
Lord Asriel said, “I found his body preserved in the ice off Svalbard. The head was treated in this way by his killers. You'll notice the characteristic scalping pattern. I think you might be familiar with it, Sub-Rector.”
The old man's voice was steady as he said, “I have seen the Tartars do this. It's a technique you find among the aboriginals of Siberia and the Tungusk. From there, of course, it spread into the lands of the Skraelings, though I understand that it is now banned in New Denmark. May I examine it more closely, Lord Asriel?”
After a short silence he spoke again.
“My eyes are not very clear, and the ice is dirty, but it seems to me that there is a hole in the top of the skull. Am I right?”
“You are.”
“Trepanning?”
“Exactly.”
That caused a murmur of excitement. The Master moved out of the way and Lyra could see again. The old Sub-Rector, in the circle of light thrown by the lantern, was holding a heavy block of ice up close to his eyes, and Lyra could see the object inside it: a bloody lump barely recognizable as a human head. Pantalaimon fluttered around Lyra, his distress affecting her.
“Hush,” she whispered. “Listen.”
“Dr. Grumman was once a Scholar of this College,” said the Dean hotly.
"To fall into the hands of the Tartars—" "But that far north?"
"They must have penetrated further than anyone imagined!"
"Did I hear you say you found it near Svalbard?" said the Dean.
"That's right."
"Are we to understand that the panserbj0rne had anything to do with this?"
Lyra didn't recognize that word, but clearly the Scholars did.
"Impossible," said the Cassington Scholar firmly. "They'd never behave in that manner."
"Then you don't know lofur Raknison," said the Palmerian Professor, who had made several expeditions himself to the arctic regions. "It wouldn't surprise me at all to learn that he had taken to scalping people in the Tartar fashion."
Lyra looked again at her uncle, who was watching the Scholars with a glitter of sardonic amusement, and saying nothing.
"Who is lofur Raknison?" said someone. "The king of Svalbard," said the Palmerian Professor. "Yes, that's right, one of the panserb)0me. He's a usurper, of sorts; tricked his way onto the throne, or so I understand; but a powerful figure, by no means a fool, in spite of his ludicrous affectations—having a palace built of imported marble—setting up what he calls a university—"
"For whom? For the bears?" said someone else, and every-one laughed.
But the Palmerian Professor went on: "For all that, I tell you that lofur Raknison would be capable of doing this to Grumman. At the same time, he could be flattered into behaving quite differently, if the need arose."
"And you know how, do you, Trelawney?" said the Dean sneeringly.
"Indeed I do. Do you know what he wants above all else? Even more than an honorary degree? He wants a daemon! Find a way to give him a daemon, and he'd do anything for you."
The Scholars laughed heartily.
Lyra was following this with puzzlement; what the Palmerian Professor said made no sense at all. Besides, she was impatient to hear more about scalping and the Northern Lights and that mysterious Dust. But she was disappointed, for Lord Asriel had finished showing his relics and pictures, and the talk soon turned into a College wrangle about whether or not they should give him some money to fit out another expedition. Back and forth the arguments ranged, and Lyra felt her eyes closing. Soon she was fast asleep, with Pantalaimon curled around her neck in his favorite sleeping form as an ermine.
She woke up with a start when someone shook her shoulder.
"Quiet," said her uncle. The wardrobe door was open, and he was crouched there against the light. "They've all gone, but there are still some servants around. Go to your bedroom now, and take care that you say nothing about this."
"Did they vote to give you the money?" she said sleepily.
"Yes."
"What's Dust?" she said, struggling to stand up after having been cramped for so long.
"Nothing to do with you."
"It is to do with me," she said. "If you wanted me to be a spy in the wardrobe, you ought to tell me what I'm spying about. Can I see the man's head?"
Pantalaimon's white ermine fur bristled: she felt it tickling her neck. Lord Asriel laughed shortly.
“Don't be disgusting,” he said, and began to pack his slides and specimen box. “Did you watch the Master?”
“Yes, and he looked for the wine before he did anything else.”
“Good. But I've scotched him for now. Do as you're told and go to bed.”
“But where are you going?”
“Back to the North. I'm leaving in ten minutes.”
“Can I come?”
He stopped what he was doing, and looked at her as if for the first time. His daemon turned her great tawny leopard eyes on her too, and under the concentrated gaze of both of them, Lyra blushed. But she gazed back fiercely.
“Your place is here,” said her uncle finally.
“But why? Why is my place here? Why can't I come to the North with you? I want to see the Northern Lights and bears and icebergs and everything. I want to know about Dust. And that city in the air. Is it another world?”
“You're not coming, child. Put it out of your head; the times are too dangerous. Do as you're told and go to bed, and if you're a good girl, I'll bring you back a walrus tusk with some Eskimo carving on it. Don't argue anymore or I shall be angry.”
