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.