The Bronze Age brings your willy-nilly mass, five-thousand years and mummified in Alpine snow. The earth was different then, and some think you were different, too. Experts probe you in an antiseptic lab, holding their prototypes before them like a sacred lamp. You died in your sleep, they say, or fell into the ravine as the ice took to its efficient work. But then comes the Discovery—an arrowhead under the skin. There must have been much pain, extensive bleeding. Sneak attack? Enemies surrounding you in battle? Rival aggressors in the Pleistocene? Ah, multidimensional imaging does the trick. A telltale spot between the rib cage and the shoulder blade—the clue of ages. Why, you're one of us, you shriveled sneak of a lump: the eyeballs preserved behind the glacial lids, the rubbery, pliant pores, a stomach full of plums and goat meat—and a wicked wound. Dear Iceman, they've got you on a table for display near the tourist traps of Bolzano . You're the Icon of History. Memento of what it's all about—long before the pyramids.