Bones of the Earth by Michael Swanwick

going to be vertebrate paleontologists?”
    â€œWhat did you expect? They’re most of them from the 2040s, after all.”
    â€œWhat’s that they’re watching?”
    â€œNobody told you? Today’s July 17, 2034.”
    If there was an Independence Day for paleontologists, it was today. This was when Salley held her famous press conference, announcing—as if it were her right—the existence of time travel. After today, paleontologists could publish their work, talk about it in public, show footage of a juvenile triceratops being mobbed by dromaeosaurs, sign movie contracts, make public appeals for funding, become media stars. Today was when a quiet and rather dry science, whose practitioners had once been slandered by a physicist as “less scientists than stamp collectors,” went Hollywood.
    Before Leyster could react to the news, two of the group’s lecturers saw him and hurried forward with outstretched arms. He faded into their handshakes. Molly turned her back on him, hit her mark, and begin working the room.
    â€œHi. I’m Dick Leyster’s niece, Molly Gerhard.”
    â€œI’m Tamara. He’s Caligula.” The girl pulled a dead rat out of a paper bag and dangled it over the archie. With a shriek, the little horror leaped for it. “You one of our merry little crew?”
    â€œNo, I don’t have the educational background, I’m afraid. Though sometimes I think maybe I’d like to get a job with you guys. If something turns up.”
    â€œIf you’re Leyster’s niece, I guess it will. Hey, Jamal! Say hello to Leyster’s niece.”
    Jamal sat precariously balanced in a stuffed chair with one broken leg. “Hello to Leyster’s niece.” He leaned forward, hand extended, and the chair overtoppled forward, to be stopped by an agile little hop of his foot and a grin that was equal parts cocky and shy. “So the prim in the ugly clothes is Leyster? Go figure.”
    â€œJamal has an MBA in dinosaur merchandising. We’re pretty sure he’s the first.”
    â€œIs there money in dino merchandising?”
    â€œYou’d be surprised. Let’s say you’ve got a new critter—something glam, a giant European carnivore, let’s say. You’ve got three resources you can sell. First the name. Euroraptor westinghousei for a modest sponsorship, Exxonraptor europensis for the big bucks. Then there’s the copyrightable likeness, including film, photos, and little plastic toys. Finally and most valuable of the lot, there’s the public focus on your beastie—all that interest and attention which can be used to subtly rub the sponsor’s name in the public’s face. But you’ve got to move fast. You want to have the package on the corporate desk before word hits the street. That rush of media attention is extremely ephemeral.”
    â€œJamal’s going to be a billionaire.”
    â€œYou bet I am. You just watch me, girl.”
    â€œWho else is here?” Molly Gerhard asked Tamara. “Introduce me around.”
    â€œWell, I don’t know most of them. But, lessee, there’s Manuel. Sylvia. The tall, weedy one is Nils. Gillian Harrowsmith. Lai-tsz. Over there in the corner is Robo Boy.”
    â€œRobo Boy?”
    â€œRaymond Bois. If you knew him, you’d understand. Jason, with his back to us. Allis—”
    â€œShhh!” Jamal said. “It’s coming on.”
    There was a fast round of shushings, while on the screen a camera focused on the empty lobby of the Geographic building. Molly Gerhard recalled hearing that Salley had chosen the site because she knew an administrator there who’d let her have it on short notice. She hadn’t told him how big an event it would be, of course. A narrator was saying something, but there was still too much chatter to hear.
    â€œHere she comes!” somebody shouted.
    â€œGod, this takes me