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  She nodded. Cornelius bent from his knees, just like you’re supposed to, and lifted the crate. They headed out into the corridor. Coming the other way was Jeremy Banyon, a grad student, but not one of Mary’s. “Hello, Professor Vaughan,” he said. “Hello, Doctor Ruskin.”

  Mary saw Cornelius manage a tight little smile. Mary and the other full-time faculty were always called “Professor,” but Cornelius wasn’t entitled to that honorific. It was only in the halls of academe that being referred to as “Doctor” was the consolation prize, and she could see in his expression how much Cornelius coveted the P-word.

  Mary and Cornelius went down the stairs and out into the sultry August heat. They made their way over to the parking lot by York Lanes, and he helped her put her things in the trunk of her Honda. She bade him farewell, got in, started the engine, and drove off to her new life.

  Chapter Seven

  “Interesting that you started another relationship so quickly,” said Selgan, his tone neutral.

  “I wasn’t starting a relationship,” snapped Ponter. “I had known Daklar Bolbay for over 200 months by this point.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Selgan. “After all, she had been your woman-mate’s woman-mate.”

  Ponter folded his arms across his chest. “Exactly.”

  “So naturally you had known her,” agreed Selgan, nodding.

  “That’s right.” Ponter had a defensive tone in his voice.

  “And, in all that time that you had known Daklar, did you ever fantasize about her?”

  “What?” said Ponter. “You mean sexually?”

  “Yes, sexually.”

  “Of course not.”

  Selgan shrugged slightly. “It’s not that unusual. Lots of men fantasize about the females their women-mates are bonded to.”

  Ponter was quiet for a few beats, then, softly, he allowed, “Well, there’s a difference between idle thoughts and fantasizing…”

  “Of course,” said Selgan. “Of course. Had you often had idle thoughts about Daklar?”

  “No,” snapped Ponter. He fell silent yet again, then: “Well, ‘often’ is a subjective term. I mean, sure, now and then, I suppose, but…”

  Selgan smiled. “As I said, there’s nothing unusual about it. A lot of pornography exists devoted to that very theme. Have you ever partaken of—”

  “No,” said Ponter.

  “If you say so,” said Selgan. “But I detect an undercurrent of discomfort. Something about this change in your relationship with Daklar disturbed you. What was it?”

  Ponter fell silent again.

  “Was it,” asked Selgan, “that you somehow felt it was wrong, because Klast had died so recently?”

  Ponter shook his head. “That wasn’t it. Klast was dead; gone. In fact, being with Daklar helped me to recall Klast. After all, Daklar was the only person in the world who knew Klast as intimately as I did.”

  “All right, then,” said Selgan. “Let me ask you another question.”

  “I doubt I could prevent you from doing so,” said Ponter.

  “That much is true,” replied Selgan, smiling. “At this point, you did not know what decision the High Gray Council was going to make with respect to reopening contact with the Gliksin world. Was your discomfort related to a feeling that you were being unfaithful to Mare by spending time with Daklar?”

  Ponter laughed derisively. “You see? I told you, you personality sculptors always look for simple, pat answers. I was not bonded to Mare Vaughan. I was not committed to her in any way. My discomfort—”

  Ponter had cut himself off, and Selgan waited for a time, presumably to see if he would go on. But he didn’t. “You stopped yourself,” said Selgan. “A thought was complete in your brain, but you decided not to give it voice. What was that thought?”

  Ponter took a deep breath, no doubt sucking in Selgan’s pheromones, trying to perceive the nature of the trap that was being set for him. But Selgan had an inordinate ability to control his own bodily scents; that’s what made him an effective therapist. He waited patiently, and finally Ponter spoke again. “It wasn’t Mare I was being disloyal to. It was Adikor.”

  “Your man-mate,” said Selgan, as if trying to place the name.

  “Yes,” said Ponter.

  “Your man-mate who had whisked you back from that other world, from Mare Vaughan…”

  “Yes. No. I mean, he—”

  “He did what he had to do, no doubt,” said Selgan. “But, still, down deep, there was a part of you that…well, what?”

  Ponter closed his eyes. “That resented him.”

  “For bringing you home.”

  Ponter nodded.

  “For taking you away from Mare.”

  Another nod.

  “For taking you away from a potential replacement for Klast.”

  “No one can replace Klast,” snapped Ponter. “No one.”

  “Of course not,” said Selgan quickly, lifting his hands, palms out. “Forgive me. But, still, it appealed to you—to some part of you—to flirt with Daklar, the woman who had almost had Adikor castrated in your absence. Your subconscious wanted to punish him, no? To make him pay for having torn you back from that other world?”

  “You’re wrong,” said Ponter.

  “Ah,” said Selgan lightly. “Well, I often am, of course…”

  Two had finally ceased being One, and Ponter and Adikor had returned with the other males to the Rim. Ponter hadn’t said anything about his time with Daklar while they were commuting back home on the hover-bus. Not that Adikor would have been upset that Ponter was spending time with a woman; to be jealous of your man-mate’s involvements with those of the opposite sex was the height of gaucherie.

  But Daklar wasn’t just any woman.

  No sooner had Ponter and Adikor gotten off the hover-bus outside their house than Pabo, Ponter’s large reddish brown dog, came rushing out the front door to greet them. Sometimes Pabo came into the Center with Ponter and Adikor, but this time they’d left the old girl at home; she had no trouble hunting her own food while Ponter and Adikor were away.

  They all entered the house, and Ponter took a seat in the living area. It was normally his job to prepare the evening meal, and he usually got to that as soon as they came home, but today he wanted to talk to Adikor first.

  Adikor made a trip to the bathroom, and Ponter waited, fidgeting. At last he heard the sound of the plumbing jets. Adikor emerged and noted Ponter on one of the couches; he raised his eyebrow at Ponter.

  “Sit down,” said Ponter.

  Adikor did so, mounting a saddle-seat facing Ponter.

  “I wanted you to hear it from me before you heard it from anyone else,” Ponter said.

  Adikor could have prodded him to go on, Ponter thought, but instead he just looked at him expectantly.

  “I spent most of Two becoming One with Daklar.”

  Adikor visibly sagged in the saddle-seat, his splayed legs hanging loosely at his sides. “Daklar?” he repeated, then, as if there could be another: “Daklar Bolbay?”

  Ponter nodded.

  “After what she did to me?”

  “She wants forgiveness,” said Ponter. “From you, and from me.”

  “She tried to have me castrated!”

  “I know,” said Ponter, softly. “I know. But she didn’t succeed.”

  “No blade, no injury,” snapped Adikor. “Is that it?”

  Ponter was quiet for a long time, composing his thoughts. He’d rehearsed this all in his head during the hover-bus ride back from the Center, but, as was always the case in such matters, reality had already diverged widely from the planned script. “Look, there are my children to think of. It won’t do for their father and the woman they live with to be at odds.”

  “I do care about Megameg and Jasmel,” said Adikor. “But it was not me who created this conflict.”

  Ponter nodded slowly. “Granted. But, still…they have been through so much in the last two ten months.”

  “I know,
” said Adikor. “I am so very sorry that Klast died, but, again, it was not me who created the conflict here. It was Daklar Bolbay.”

  “I understand that,” said Ponter. “But…but forgiveness isn’t only of benefit to the person who is being forgiven. It’s also of benefit to the person doing the forgiving. To carry hate and anger around inside you…” Ponter shook his head. “It’s far better to let it go, totally and completely.”

  Adikor seemed to consider this, and, after a few moments, he said, “Two-hundred-odd months ago, I did you an injury.”

  Ponter felt his mouth go tight. They never spoke of this—never. That was part of what had made it possible to go on.

  “And,” continued Adikor, “you forgave me.”

  Ponter was impassive.

  “You’ve never asked me for anything in return,” said Adikor, “and I know that is not what you are doing now, but…”

  Pabo, evidently disturbed by the break from routine—it was time to make dinner!—came into the living area and nuzzled Ponter’s legs. He reached down and scratched the top of the dog’s head.

  “Daklar does want forgiveness,” said Ponter.

  Adikor looked at the moss-covered floor. Ponter knew what he was thinking. Emasculation was the highest degree of punishment allowed under law, and Daklar had sought it when no crime had existed. Her own unfortunate circumstances provided the motive, if not the excuse, for her behavior.

  “Are you going to bond with her?” asked Adikor, without looking up. As it happened, Ponter himself quite liked Adikor’s woman-mate, the chemist Lurt, but there was certainly no law that said you had to get along with your mate’s other mate.

  “It’s premature to even think about that,” said Ponter. “But I did spend four enjoyable days with her.”

  “Did you have sex?”

  Ponter wasn’t offended by the question; it was normal enough for two mated men to discuss their intimate encounters with women—indeed, it was a common way of dealing with the difficult-to-express notions of what each man found pleasing.

  “No,” said Ponter. He shrugged. “I might have, if a real opportunity had presented itself, but we spent most of our time with Jasmel and Megameg.”

  Adikor nodded, as if Ponter were revealing a vast conspiracy. “The way to win a man’s love is by paying attention to his children.”

  “She is their tabant, you know. They are her children in a way, too.”

  Adikor made no reply.

  “So,” said Ponter, at last, “will you forgive her?”

  Adikor looked up at the painting on the room’s ceiling for a time, then: “Ironic, isn’t it? This issue between you and me now exists only because of your kindness to me all those ten-months ago. If you had made a public accusation after what I did to you, I would have been castrated back then. Had that been done, I would have had no testicles for Daklar to come after in your absence.” He lifted his shoulders. “I have no choice but to forgive her, since you wish it.”

  “You have a choice,” said Ponter.

  “As did you, all those months ago.” Adikor nodded. “I will forgive her.”

  “You are a good man,” said Ponter.

  Adikor frowned, as if contemplating the platitude. “No,” he said. “No, I am an adequate man. But you, my friend…”

  Ponter smiled and rose to his feet. “It’s time I got to work on dinner.”

  Even though Two had just ceased being One, Ponter and Adikor headed back In, back to the Council chamber. The High Grays had announced that they were ready to make a decision about reopening the portal.

  The Council chamber was packed with spectators of both sexes. Adikor looked rather uneasy, and it took Ponter a moment to figure out why. The last time Adikor had seen this chamber when it had been crowded like this, it was being used for the dooslarm basadlarm. But Adikor said nothing about his discomfort—after all, to do so would be to again bring up the matter of his unfortunate history with Daklar—and Ponter loved him all the more for that.

  There were eleven Exhibitionists in the audience, dressed in silver. Ponter had never quite gotten used to the Gliksin idea of “news:” a constant reporting—some channels devoted ten tenths a day to it—of bad things happening all over the world. The Companion implants, which had ensured the safety of citizens here for almost a thousand months now, had all but put an end to theft and murder and assault. Still, humans here were equally hungry for information—Ponter had read that gossiping served the same purpose in people as grooming pelts for insects did in other primates, binding them together. And so some citizens made their contribution by allowing the transmissions from their implants to be publicly received by anyone who wished; people tuned their Voyeurs to whichever Exhibitionist they preferred to watch.

  A couple of Exhibitionists always sat in on Council sessions, but the item to be announced today was of wide interest, and even Exhibitionists who normally only attended sporting events or poetry readings were in attendance.

  High Council president Pandaro rose to address the assembled group. She used a carved wooden cane to help support herself as she did so. “We have studied the issues Scholar Huld and Scholar Boddit have put before us,” she said. “And we have pored over Scholar Boddit’s lengthy narrative of his trip to the Gliksin world, and the limited physical evidence we have from it.”

  Ponter fingered the small gold object he sometimes wore around his neck. He’d hated giving it up for analysis, and was delighted to have it back. Mare had handed it to him just before he’d left her world, a pair of overlapping mutually perpendicular gold strips, one longer than the other.

  “And, after this deliberation,” Pandaro continued, “we believe the potential value in gaining access to another version of Earth, and another kind of humanity, with scientific expertise and goods to trade, is too great to ignore.”

  “It’s a mistake!” shouted a man’s voice from the opposite seating gallery. “Don’t do it!”

  Councilor Bedros, next to President Pandaro, fixed a steady gaze on the person who had shouted out. “Your opinion was noted if you bothered to vote in the poll on this matter. Regardless, it is the job of this Council to make decisions, and you will do us the courtesy of waiting until you hear ours.”

  Pandaro continued. “The High Gray Council,” she said, “by a fourteen-to-six margin, recommends that Scholars Huld and Boddit attempt to reopen the portal to the parallel universe, with reports to be made to this Council every ten days, and with the decision to continue this work subject to review every three months.”

  Ponter rose, and made a little bow. “Thank you, President.” Adikor was on his feet, too, now, and the two men embraced.

  “Save that for later,” said Pandaro. “Let’s get down to the marrow of the security and health issues…”

  Chapter Eight

  “Welcome to the Synergy Group, Professor Vaughan.”

  Mary smiled at Jock Krieger. She hadn’t really known what to expect by way of facilities. The Synergy Group, it turned out, was housed in—well, a house: an old-money mansion in the Seabreeze section of Rochester, right on the shore of Lake Ontario. Ponter would have liked this place: Mary had seen a heron walking along the sandy beach, and ducks, geese, and swans in the harbor, which was lined with pleasure craft.

  “Let me show you around,” continued Krieger, ushering Mary farther into the old house.

  “Thanks,” said Mary.

  “We’ve got twenty-four people on staff currently,” said Krieger, “and we’re still growing.”

  Mary was stunned. “Twenty-four people all working on Neanderthal immigration issues?”

  “No, no, no. Synergy is involved in a lot more than just that. The DNA project is a particularly high priority, because it’s something we may need right away if the portal ever opens again. But here at Synergy we’re studying all aspects of the Neanderthal situation. The U.S. government is particularly interested in the Companion implants, and—”

  “Big Brother is watching,” sa
id Mary.

  But Krieger shook his head. “No, my dear, nothing like that. It’s simply that, if we believe what Ponter said, the Companion implants can make a 360-degree detailed recording of everything that’s going on around an individual. Now, yes, we do have four sociologists here evaluating whether the particular uses the Neanderthals put that kind of monitoring to might ever have any applicability in this world—although frankly, I doubt it; we value privacy too much. But, again, if the portal reopens, we want to be on an even footing. If their emissaries can effortlessly record everything they see and hear at all times, obviously we’d like our emissaries to their world to have the same advantage. It’s all about trade, after all—fair trade.”

  “Ah,” said Mary. “But Ponter said his Companion wasn’t able to transmit anything to the alibi archives from here; none of the images from his visit were recorded.”

  “Yes, yes, a minor technological problem, I’m sure. A recorder could be built on this side.”

  They had been walking down a long corridor and had now reached its end. Krieger opened a door. Inside were three people—a black man, a white man, and a white woman. The black man was leaning way back in a chair, tossing crumpled up pieces of paper at a wastebasket. The white guy was staring out at the beach and Lake Ontario beyond. And the woman was pacing back and forth in front of a whiteboard, a felt-tipped marker in hand.

  “Frank, Kevin, Lilly, I’d like you to meet Mary Vaughan,” said Krieger.

  “Hi,” said Mary.

  “Are you in imaging?” asked the one who must be Lilly.

  “Sorry?”

  “Imaging,” said Frank, and “Imaging,” repeated Kevin—or perhaps it was the other way around. “You know,” added the black man, helpfully, “photography and all that.”

  Krieger explained. “There’s a reason we’re in Rochester,” he said. “Kodak, Xerox, and Bausch & Lomb all have their headquarters here. As I said, replicating the Companion technology is a priority; there’s no city in the world that has more experts on imaging and optics.”