‘No problem,’ says our son, ‘you just make another one, that’s all there is to it.’ Well, maybe so, but where does that get you? A new spearhead every other minute! Tell me, whoever heard the likes of that? Why, a good flint spearhead used to last years on end! But what I say is, and you can take my word for it: one of these days they’ll be glad to go back to our honest stone weapons! That’s why I hang on to them wherever I find them: old arrows and hammers and flint knives — And he calls it junk!”

The old man was nearly choking in his grief and rage. In an effort to distract him, Mrs. Janecek spoke up. “You know,” she said, “it’s the same thing with these hides. That girl actually said to me, ‘Ma, what’s the use of all that scraping? It’s not worth the effort. You should try dressing them with ashes sometime; at least they won’t stink.’ Don’t try to teach me anything,” the old lady railed at her absent daughter-in-law. “I know what I know! We’ve always scraped hides, ever since time began, and what hides they were! Of course, if it’s not worth the effort — All they want is to get out of doing any work! That’s why they’re always dreaming up excuses and trying to do things differently — Dressing hides with ash! Whoever heard of such a thing?”

“There you have it.” Old Janecek yawned. “How we do things isn’t good enough for them. And to think they say stone weapons aren’t comfortable to hold. Well, that’s certainly true, we didn’t pay much attention to comfort! But these days — no, no, no, you might get calluses on your poor little hands! I ask you, where’s all this leading to? You take kids today. ‘Lay off them, grampa,” says the daughter-in-law, “they’re only playing. Let them have a good time.’ Sure, but what’s going to become of them?”

“If only they didn’t make such a racket,” the old woman complained. “They’re out of control, that’s what they are!”

“That’s today’s upbringing for you,” lectured old Janecek. “And if now and then I do mention something to our son, he says, ‘Dad, you don’t understand, times are different now, it’s a different era. Why,’ he says, ‘even bone’s no longer the latest word in weapons.’ You know what else he says? ‘One of these days,’ he says, ‘people are going to come up with even better stuff to make weapons out of.’ Now isn’t that the limit? As if anybody ever saw any better material than stone, wood, or bone! Why, even a foolish woman like you must admit that — that — that’s going way too far!”

Mrs. Janecek let her hands fall into her lap. “So tell me,” she said, “where is all this nonsense coming from?”

“From what I hear, it’s the latest fashion,” muttered the toothless old man. “For your information, over in that direction, four days’ journey from here, some new tribe’s moved in without even asking, a pack of foreigners, and supposedly that’s how they do things. That’s where the younger generation’s getting all these crazy ideas — from them. Bone spearheads and everything. And our young people are even — are even buying things from them,” he shouted, getting all worked up again. “Trading our nice warm furs! As if anything good ever came from foreigners! Never, never have any dealings with foreign riffraff! No, do as our forefathers’ experience teaches us to do: when you see a foreigner, strike first and bash his head in, no fuss and no formalities. That’s what we’ve done since time began: no chitchat, just kill him. ‘Come on, Dad,’ says our son, ‘times have changed — we’re setting up an exchange of goods with them — ’ Exchange of goods! If I kill somebody and take what he’s got, then I’ve got his goods and don’t have to give him anything in return — so why trade? ‘Come on, Dad,’ says our son, ‘you’re still paying in human lives, and it’s not worth it.’ So there you have it: they say it’s not worth taking human lives! That’s the modern view,” the old man growled in disgust. “They’re cowards, that’s all they are. Not worth taking human lives! And how, if you please, are so many people going to get enough to eat if they don’t kill each other? There’s damn few elk now as it is! It’s all very well to feel sorry about human lives, but they have no respect for tradition, they have no consideration for their fathers and forefathers — Why, it’s a disaster!” grandpa Janecek burst out vehemently. “Just the other day I spied one of those snot-nose whiners daubing clay on the wall of a cave, in the shape of a bison, if you please. I gave him a clout to the head, but our son says, ‘Let him alone, Dad; why, that bison looks like it’s alive!’ Now that’s really too much! Why waste time on something as useless as that? If you don’t have enough work to do, boy, then polish up a piece of flint, but don’t paint bison on the walls! What do we need that kind of idiocy for?”

Mrs. Janecek pursed her lips tightly. “If it were only bison,” she let drop after a pause.

“What’s this?” asked the old man.

“Nothing, really,” Mrs.