Humans np-2 Page 20

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Mary and Ponter never had bothered to close the heavy drapes in the hotel room, and so when the sun came up, Mary found herself awake, and she could see that Ponter was awake, too. “’Morning,” she said, looking at him. But he had apparently been conscious for some time, and when he turned his head to face her, tears rolled out of the deep wells that contained his eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Mary, gently wiping away the moisture with the back of her hand.

  “Nothing,” said Ponter.

  Mary made a show of frowning. “Nothing my foot,” she said. “What is it?”

  “I am sorry,” said Ponter. “Last night…”

  Mary felt her heart sink. She’d thought it had been wonderful. Hadn’t he shared that opinion? “What about it?”

  “I am sorry,” he said again. “It was the first time I had been with a woman since…”

  Mary’s eyebrows shot up, getting it. “Since Klast died,” she finished softly.

  Ponter nodded. “I miss her very much,” he said.

  Mary laid an arm across his chest, feeling it rise and fall with his every breath. “I’m sorry I never got to meet her,” she said.

  “Forgive me,” said Ponter. “You are here; Klast is not. I should not be…”

  “No, no, no,” said Mary, softly. “It’s all right. It’s fine. I love…” She stopped herself short. “I love that you have such deep feelings.”

  She drew her arm tighter about his chest, pulling herself closer to him. She couldn’t blame him for thinking of his late wife; after all, it hadn’t been that long since she’d died, and—

  And suddenly Mary thought of the one thing that hadn’t come to mind since Ponter took her in his arms out in the corridor, the one faceless presence from her past that hadn’t invaded their time together. But she found she could quickly dismiss that thought, and, with her arm on Ponter, and one of his, now, resting along her naked back, she fell asleep again, absolutely at peace.

  “So you and this female Gliksin had intimate relations?” said Selgan, apparently trying to control his surprise.

  Ponter nodded.

  “But…”

  “What?” demanded Ponter.

  “But she…she is a Gliksin.” Selgan paused, then lifted his shoulders. “She is of a different species.”

  “She is human,” said Ponter firmly.

  “But…”

  “I will hear no buts!” said Ponter. “She is human. They are all humans, these people of the other world.”

  “If you say so. And yet—”

  “You don’t know them,” said Ponter. “You haven’t met even one of them. They are people. They are us.”

  “You sound defensive about this,” said Selgan.

  Ponter shook his head. “No. You have perhaps been right about other things, but not about this. I have no doubt in my mind. Mare Vaughan, Lou Benoît, Reuben Montego, Hélène Gagné, and all the others I met over there—they are human beings. You will come to know that; all of our people will come to know that.”

  “And yet you were crying.”

  “It was as I said to Mary. I was remembering Klast.”

  “You weren’t feeling guilty?”

  “About what?”

  “Two were not One at this time.”

  Ponter frowned. “Well, I suppose that’s true. I mean, I never thought about it. In the Gliksin world, males and females spend the entire month together, and…”

  “And when in Bistob, do as the Bistobians do?”

  Ponter shrugged. “Exactly.”

  “Do you think your man-mate would have shared your view of this?”

  “Oh, Adikor wouldn’t have minded. In fact, he’d have been thrilled. He’s been wanting me to find a new woman, and well…”

  “Well what?”

  “Better a Gliksin when Two were supposed to be separate, than Daklar Bolbay at any time of the month. That would be his perspective, I’m sure.”

  Mary and Ponter finally emerged from the hotel room. They’d missed the first three papers being presented that morning, but that was all right; Mary had downloaded the PDF file containing the abstracts prior to their leaving New York, and knew that the morning sessions were devoted to Homo erectus and some attempts to resurrect Homo ergaster as a valid separate species. No DNA had ever been recovered from either of these ancient forms, so Mary wasn’t particularly interested in them.

  As they came down the corridor, one of the FBI men appeared. “Envoy Boddit,” he said, “this just came for you via FedEx from Sudbury.”

  The man held out a diplomatic pouch. Ponter took the bag, opened it, and extracted a memory bead. He turned it over in his hand. “I should really listen to this.”

  Mary grinned. “Well, I certainly don’t want to hear you being yelled at. I’m going to go and look at the poster displays.”

  Ponter smiled and went to his hotel room. The FBI man stood at attention in the corridor, and Mary proceeded to the elevator station.

  The lift came. Mary headed down to the mezzanine where the Association of American Archeology poster displays were being set up. That conference didn’t really start until tomorrow, and she and Ponter weren’t going to stay for it, but several exhibitors had already put up their posters. Mary stood looking at a pair of panels about Hopi pottery.

  After a while, though, she got worried about Ponter, and so she headed back up to the twelfth floor.

  The FBI man was still there in the corridor. “Are you looking for Envoy Boddit, ma’am?” he said.

  Mary nodded.

  “He’s in his own room,” said the agent.

  Mary went over to that room, and knocked on the door. After a moment, it opened. “Mare!” said Ponter.

  “Hi,” she replied. “Can I come in?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  Ponter’s suitcase—the strange trapezoidal one he’d brought from the other universe—was lying unfolded on the bed. “What are you doing?” asked Mary.

  “Packing.”

  “They’re making you go back? I thought you said you wouldn’t do that.” She frowned. Of course, now that there were a dozen Neanderthals in New York City, he really didn’t have to stay any longer to force the portal to remain open, but, well, after last night…

  “No,” said Ponter. “No one is making me. The memory bead was from my daughter, Jasmel Ket.”

  “My God, is she okay?”

  “Jasmel is fine. She has consented to be the woman-mate of Tryon, a young man she has been seeing.”

  Mary lifted her eyebrows. “You mean she’s getting married?”

  “It is comparable, yes,” said Ponter. “I must return to my universe for the ceremony.”

  “When is it?”

  “In five days.”

  “Wow,” said Mary. “Things certainly move fast in your world.”

  “Actually, Jasmel has been dilatory. It will soon be time for Generation 149 to be conceived. Jasmel still has not selected a woman-mate, but that is not as time-sensitive an issue.”

  “Have you met this—this Tryon?”

  “Yes, several times. He is a fine young man.”

  “Umm, Ponter, are you sure this isn’t a trick? You know, to lure you back to the other side?”

  “It is no trick. The message was really from Jasmel, and she would never lie to me.”

  “Well, we better get you back to Sudbury, then,” said Mary.

  “Thank you.” Ponter was quiet for a moment, as if thinking, then: “Would you…would you like to accompany me to the bonding ceremony? It is customary for the children’s parents to go, but…”

  But Jasmel’s mother Klast was dead. Mary found herself smiling. “I’d love to,” she said. “But…do we have time to stay for the presentation of my paper? It’s at two-thirty this afternoon. Not to use a military metaphor, but I’d really like to drop that bomb.”

  “Pardon?” said Ponter.

  “It’s going to be explosive.”

  �
�Ah,” said Ponter, getting it. “Yes, of course, we can stay for that.”

  Mary’s paper was indeed the hit of the conference—she was, after all, resolving one of the great ongoing debates of anthropology by declaring Homo neanderthalensis definitively a species in its own right. Normally, she would have had to have published an abstract in advance, which would have tipped her hand, but she’d been a last-minute addition to the programming, and her paper’s title—“Neanderthal Nuclear DNA and a Resolution of Neanderthal Taxonomy Issues”—had been enough to ensure a packed meeting room.

  And, of course, the room had erupted into great debates the moment she put up the overhead transparency of Ponter’s karyotype. In the end, Mary was delighted that she and Ponter had to leave for Sudbury as soon as her fifteen minutes were up. Indeed, noting the length of the presentation slot, Ponter amazed her by saying, “That guy who painted soup cans would be proud of you.”

  Just before they left the hotel, Mary called Jock Krieger at the Synergy Group. Jock seemed delighted that Mary was enjoying her time with Ponter, and thrilled that she was going to get a chance to visit the Neanderthal world. Still, he did have one request. “I want you to do a simple experiment for me while you’re there.”

  “Yes?” said Mary.

  “Get a compass—a regular magnetic compass—and when you arrive in the other world, orient yourself by some other method so that you’re sure you’re facing north. Use the North Star if it’s at night, or the rising or setting sun to find east or west if it’s day. Okay? Then check to see what direction the colored part of the compass needle points.”

  “It should point north,” said Mary. “Shouldn’t it?”

  “That’s what you get for missing staff meetings,” said Jock. “The Neanderthals claim that their world has already undergone the pole reversal that’s just beginning here. I want to find out if that’s true.”

  “Why would they lie about something like that?”

  “I’m sure they wouldn’t. But they might be mistaken. Remember, they don’t have satellites; most of our studies of Earth’s magnetic field have been done from orbit.”

  “Okay,” said Mary.

  She paused, and Joke took it upon himself to wrap up the conversation. “All right then, Mary. Have a great trip.”

  She put down the phone. Just then, Ponter arrived at her room, to see if she was ready to leave.

  “I’ve arranged to drop off the rental car in Rochester, which isn’t too much out of our way” said Mary. “We can pick up my car there, and head on up to Sudbury, but…”

  “Yes?”

  “But, well, I’d like to stop over in Toronto on the way up to Sudbury,” Mary said. “It’s not really out of our way either, and, well, it’s not like you can share the driving.”

  “That would be fine,” said Ponter.

  But Mary didn’t let the matter drop. “I have a few…errands I need to run.”

  Ponter looked perplexed at her need to justify herself. “As your people would say, ‘No problem.’”

  * * *

  Mary and Ponter arrived at York University. There really was no disguising who Ponter was. In winter, he could perhaps wear a toque pulled down over his browridge, and wraparound ski goggles, but he’d be just as conspicuous doing that this autumn day as he would be walking around with his face exposed. Besides—Mary shuddered—she didn’t want to see Ponter in anything resembling a ski mask; she didn’t ever want to confuse those two people in her mind.

  They parked in a visitors’ lot, and Mary and Ponter started walking across the campus. “I do not require security here?” asked Ponter.

  “Handguns are banned in Canada,” Mary said. “That’s not to say there aren’t some around, but…” She shrugged. “It’s a different place than where we were. The last assassination in Canada was in 1970, and that had to do with Quebec separation. I honestly don’t think you have any more to worry about than does any other celebrity in Canada. According to the Star, Julia Roberts and George Clooney are both in town making movies. Believe me, they’ll be attracting more gawkers than either of us.”

  “Good,” said Ponter. They passed the low edifice of York Lanes and continued on toward—

  It was inevitable. Mary had known it from the start; the vicissitudes of visitors’ parking. She and Ponter were about to pass the spot where the two concrete retaining walls intersected, the spot where…

  Mary reached out, found Ponter’s massive hand, and, splaying her own fingers wide, interlaced hers with his. She didn’t say anything, didn’t even glance at the wall, just walked, eyes straight ahead.

  Ponter was looking around, though. Mary had never told him exactly where the rape occurred, but she could see him taking note of the enclosed space, of the shielding trees, of how far away the nearest lighting standard was. If he had figured it out, he didn’t say anything, but Mary was grateful for the comforting pressure of his grip.

  They headed on. The sun was playing hide-and-seek behind billowing white clouds. The campus was crowded with young people, one or two still in shorts, most in jeans, a few of the law students in jackets and ties.

  “This is much bigger than Laurentian,” said Ponter, swiveling his head left and right. Laurentian University, near where Ponter had first arrived in Sudbury, was where Mary had done her DNA studies to show that he really was a Neanderthal.

  “Oh, yes indeed,” she said. “And this is only one of the two—well, three—universities here in Toronto. If you want to see something truly huge, I’ll show you U of T someday.”

  As Ponter looked around, people were looking at him. Indeed, at one point, a woman came up to Mary as though she were a long-lost friend, but Mary couldn’t even remember the woman’s name, and she’d passed by her hundreds of times before without either of them ever acknowledging the other’s presence. But the woman, although limply shaking Mary’s hand, was clearly using the opportunity to get a close look at the Neanderthal.

  They finally got rid of her and continued on. “That’s the building I work in,” said Mary, pointing. “It’s called the Farquharson Life Sciences Building.”

  Ponter looked around some more. “Of all the places I’ve been on your world, I think university campuses are the nicest. Open spaces! Lots of trees and grass.”

  Mary thought about it. “It is a good life,” she said. “More civilized in a lot of ways than the real world.” They reached Farquharson and headed up the stairs to the second floor. As she entered the corridor, Mary caught sight of someone she did know well at the other end. “Cornelius!” she called out.

  The man turned around and looked. He squinted; apparently his eyesight wasn’t as good as Mary’s. But after a moment his face showed recognition. “Hello, Mary,” he called, walking toward them.

  “Don’t look so concerned,” Mary called back. “I’m only here for a visit.”

  “Does he not like you?” asked Ponter softly.

  “No, it’s not that,” said Mary, chuckling. “He’s the guy who’s teaching my classes while I’m working for the Synergy Group.”

  As he came closer, Cornelius’s eyes went wide when he realized who was accompanying Mary. But, to his credit, he recovered his composure quickly. “Doctor Boddit,” he said, with a bow.

  Mary thought about saying to Cornelius that, see, not all the bigwigs are called “Professor,” but she decided against it; Cornelius was sensitive enough as it was.

  “Hello,” said Ponter.

  “Ponter, this is Cornelius Ruskin.” And, as she always did, Mary repeated the introduction with an exaggerated gap between the first and second names, so that Ponter could distinguish them. “He has a Ph.D.—our highest academic standing—in molecular biology.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Professor Ruskin,” said Ponter.

  Mary didn’t want to correct Ponter—he was trying so hard to get human niceties right; he certainly deserved an A for effort. But if Cornelius had noticed, he let it pass without sign, still clearly fascinated b
y Ponter’s countenance. “Thank you,” he said. “What brings you here?”

  “Mare’s car,” said Ponter.

  “We’re on our way back to Sudbury,” said Mary. “Ponter’s daughter is getting married, and there’s a ceremony he wants to attend.”

  “Congratulations,” said Cornelius.

  “Is Daria Klein around?” asked Mary. “Or Graham Smythe?”

  “I haven’t seen Graham all day,” said Cornelius, “but Daria’s in your old lab.”

  “What about Qaiser?”

  “She might be in her office. I’m not sure.”

  “Okay,” said Mary. “Well, I just want to pick up a few things. See you later.”

  “Take care,” said Cornelius. “Goodbye, Dr. Boddit.”

  “Healthy day,” said Ponter, and he followed Mary as she walked along. They came to an office, and Mary knocked.

  “Who’s there?” called a woman’s voice.

  Mary opened the door a bit.

  “Mary!” exclaimed the woman, shocked.

  “Hi, Qaiser,” said Mary, grinning. She opened the door wider, revealing Ponter. Qaiser’s brown eyes went wide.

  “Professor Qaiser Remtulla,” said Mary, “I’d like you to meet my friend, Ponter Boddit.” She turned to Ponter. “Qaiser is the head of the genetics department here at York.”

  “Incredible,” said Qaiser, taking Ponter’s hand and shaking it. “Absolutely incredible.”

  Mary considered saying, “Yes, he is,” but she kept the thought to herself. She chatted with Qaiser for a few minutes, catching up on all the departmental news, then, when Qaiser had to leave to teach a class, Mary and Ponter continued farther down the same corridor. They came to a door with a window in it, and Mary knocked, then walked in.

  “Anybody home?” called Mary to the woman’s back hunched over a worktable.

  The young woman turned around. “Professor Vaughan!” she exclaimed with delight. “It’s great to see you! And—my God! Is that—?”