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On Oct. 2, 1991, an Austro-Italian surveying team determined that the find was 92.6 m (101 yds.) inside Italian soil, namely the autonomous region of South Tyrol. The result has been a custody battle every bit as absurd as the bungled recovery effort. "Rome was ready to demand the body back immediately," explains a South Tyrolean scientist. "It was then that we in South Tyrol pointed out that this province has authority over its own culture and patrimony." Innsbruck, of course, wanted to keep the celebrated corpse.
Last February a deal was struck requiring the University of Innsbruck to return the Iceman to South Tyrol no later than Sept. 19, 1994 -- three years from the discovery date. In an act of goodwill, the Innsbruck team last month marked the first anniversary of the discovery with a motorcade that carried the first edition of Der Mann im Eis, a 464-page scientific tome, to Bolzano, South Tyrol's capital.
With less than two years to go, Innsbruck scientists are hoping to conduct as much research as possible, while struggling with the costs of the Iceman's upkeep -- $10,000 a month. To help cover these expenses, they are charging high fees for photo opportunities and using profits from book sales and lecture tours. Rome hasn't made the research effort any easier. Authorities there, furious over the Iceman's mismanaged recovery, declared that the mummy is the archaeological equivalent of "a Leonardo" and warned that it should not be damaged "in any way." When Innsbruck sent out the snippets of flesh "no larger than a sweetening tablet" for carbon dating by experts at Oxford and in Zurich, the Italian government threatened legal action.
The bickering has seriously delayed examination of the Iceman's internal organs and analysis of his DNA, tests that could shed light on his diet, immune system and cause of death, and even help identify his closest living descendants. Innsbruck University anatomist Werner Platzer feels frustrated and bewildered: "The Italian ministry has told us that we are not allowed to destroy a bit of the body," he complains. On the other hand, "they say that if no research is carried out, the body must go to Rome for research purposes." As head of the anatomical-research project, Platzer has decided to ignore Rome's objection. This month he will begin doling out minuscule bits of the Iceman for analysis by experts in many nations. "This find is for scientists all over the world," he argues. "It is ridiculous to say this is an Italian or an Austrian matter."
The Iceman's appeal is universal. Austrians have fondly nicknamed him "Oetzi" (after the Oetztaler Alps). Thousands of people worldwide have written to express their interest or profess kinship. Some claim to have communicated with him, while several women, unaware of the Iceman's castration, have volunteered to be impregnated with his sperm. In South Tyrol, a small tourist industry, replete with T shirts, pamphlets and escorted hikes to the recovery site, is already flourishing. And proud provincial officials are planning to build a museum around the Iceman and display him in some sort of refrigerated showcase.