“Four new messages,” announced the cold, emotionless male voice, and then they began to play.
“Howdy, Sis, it’s Christine. I just have to tell you about this new guy I’m seeing—I met him at work. Yeah, I know, I know, you always say never get involved with anyone at the office, but, really, he is so cute, and so nice, and so funny. Honest to God, Sis, he’s a real find!”
A real find, thought Mary. Good grief, another real find.
The mechanical voice again: “Friday, 9:04 P.M.” That was just after six Sacramento time; Christine must have called as soon as she’d gotten home from the office.
“Hey, Mary, it’s Rose. Haven’t seen you for ages. Let’s do lunch, eh? Don’t they have a Blueberry Hill up at York? I’ll come up there, and we’ll go—they closed the one near me. Anyway, I guess you’re out right now—hope you’re having a great time, whatever you’re doing. Give me a call.”
The machine’s voice: “Friday, 9:33 P.M.”
Christ, thought Mary. Good Christ. That would have been precisely when … when …
She closed her eyes.
And then the next message played: “Professor Vaughan?” said a voice with a Jamaican accent. “Is this the home of Professor Mary Vaughan, the geneticist? I’m sorry if it isn’t—and I hate to be calling so late; I tried the York campus, on the off chance that you were still there, but only got your voice mail. I had directory assistance give me the numbers for every M. Vaughan in Richmond Hill—that’s where an article I found about you on the Web said you live.” Mary’s outgoing message said only, “This is Mary,” but the caller had presumably been buoyed by that. “Anyway—God, I hope I don’t get cut off here—look, my name is Reuben Montego, and I’m an M.D.; the camp doctor up at Inco’s Creighton Mine in Sudbury. I don’t know if you’ve seen the news reports on this yet, but we’ve found a …” He paused, and Mary wondered why; he’d been burbling to this point. “Well, look, if you haven’t seen the reports, let’s just say we’ve found what we believe to be a Neanderthal specimen in, ah, remarkable condition.”
Mary shook her head. There were no Neanderthal fossils from anywhere in North America; the guy must have some old Native Canadian material …
“Anyway, I did a Web search on ‘Neanderthal’ and ‘DNA,’ and your name kept coming up. Can you—”
Beep. The guy had indeed exceeded the maximum message length.
“Friday, 10:20 P.M.,” reported the robotic voice.
“Damn, I hate these things,” said Dr. Montego, coming on again. “Look, what I was saying was, we’d really like you to authenticate what we’ve got here. Give me a call—anytime, day or night, on my cell phone at …”
She didn’t have time for this. Not today, not anytime soon. Still, Neanderthals weren’t her only interest; if it was a well-preserved ancient Native bone, that would be intriguing, too—but the preservation would have to be remarkable indeed for the DNA to have not deteriorated, and—
Sudbury. That was in Northern Ontario. Could they have—?
That would be fabulous. Another ice man, frozen solid, maybe found buried deep in a mine.
But, sweet Jesus, she didn’t want to think about that right now; she didn’t want to think about anything.
Mary went back into the kitchen and filled a mug with the now-ready coffee, which she poured a little chocolate milk into from a half-liter carton—she didn’t know anyone else who did that, and she had given up trying to get it in restaurants. She then returned to the living room and put on the TV, a fourteen-inch set that normally didn’t get much use; Mary preferred to curl up with a John Grisham novel, or, occasionally, a Harlequin romance, when she was home in the evenings.
She used the remote to select CablePulse 24, a twenty-four-hour news channel that devoted only part of its screen to the newscast; the right-hand side showed weather and financial information, and the bottom flashed headlines from The National Post. Mary wanted to see what today’s high would be, and if it was going to finally rain, taking some of the awful humidity out of the air, and—
“—the destruction of the Sudbury Neutrino Observatory yesterday,” said the Skunk Woman; Mary could never remember her name, but she had an incongruous white streak in her otherwise dark hair. “Few details are yet known, but the facility, buried more than two kilometers underground, apparently suffered a major accident at about 3:30 P.M. No one was hurt, but the 73-million-dollar lab is currently shut down. The detector, which made headlines around the world last year by solving the so-called Solar Neutrino Problem, probes the mysteries of the universe. It opened with great fanfare in 1998, with a visit by renowned physicist Stephen Hawking.” File footage of Hawking in his wheelchair going down a mineshaft elevator ran behind the Skunk Woman’s words.
“And speaking of mysteries, there are claims from a hospital in Sudbury that a living Neanderthal was found inside the mine. We have a report from Don Wright. Don?”
Mary watched, absolutely stunned, as a Native Canadian journalist gave a brief report. The guy they were showing on screen did indeed have browridges, and—
—God, the skull, glimpsed briefly in an x-ray that someone was holding up against a window …
It did look Neanderthal, but …
But how could that be? How could that possibly be? For Pete’s sake, the guy was clearly not a wild man, and he had a funky haircut. Mary watched CablePulse 24 often enough; she knew they weren’t above occasionally airing stories that amounted to little more than thinly disguised promos for current movies, but …
But Mary subscribed to the hominid listserv; there was enough idle chatter on it that there was no way she could have failed to have heard if a movie about Neanderthals was going to be made here in Ontario.
Sudbury … She’d never been to Sudbury, and—
And, Christ, yes, it would do her some good to just get the hell away for a while. She pushed the backward-review button on her phone’s caller-ID display; a number with a 705 area code was the first to appear. She hit the dial button, and settled back into her Morticia seat, a high-backed wicker chair that was her favorite. After three rings, the voice she’d already heard answered. “Montego.”
“Dr. Montego, this is Mary Vaughan.”
“Professor Vaughan! Thank you for calling back. We’ve got …”
“Dr. Montego, look—you have no idea how … how … swamped I am right now. If this is a joke, or—”
“It’s no joke, Professor, but we don’t want to take Ponter anywhere yet. Can you come up here to Sudbury?”
“You’re absolutely sure you’ve got something real?”
“I don’t know; that’s what we want you to tell us. Look, we’re also trying to reach Norman Thierry at UCLA, but it’s not even 8:00 A.M. there yet, and—”
Jesus, she didn’t want Thierry to get this; if this was for real—although, God, how could it be?—it would be absolutely huge.
“Why do you need me to come up there?” asked Mary.
“I want you to take the DNA specimens directly; I want there to be no question about their authenticity or where they came from.”
“It would take—God, I don’t know, maybe four hours to drive to Sudbury from here.”
“Don’t worry about that,” said Montego. “We’ve had a corporate jet standing by at Pearson since last night, in case you did call. Grab a cab, get over to the airport, and we can have you up here before noon. Don’t worry; Inco will reimburse all your expenses.”
Mary looked around her apartment, with its white bookcases and wicker furniture, her collection of Royal Doulton figurines, the framed Renoir prints. She could drop by York University to pick up the appropriate primers, but …
No. No, she didn’t want to go back there. Not yet, not today—maybe not until September, when she had to start teaching again.
But she would need the primers. And it was day now, and she could park over in Lot DD, approaching the Farquharson Building from a completely different direction, not going anywhere near wh
ere …
Where …
She closed her eyes. “I’ll have to go by York to get some things, but … yes, all right, I’ll do it.”
Chapter 11
It was twenty-four days until Two would next become One, that fabulous four-day holiday Adikor Huld so looked forward to each month. But, despite propriety, he certainly couldn’t wait until then to talk with the person he hoped would speak on his behalf at the dooslarm basadlarm. He could have called her with voice communication, but so much was lost when only words, without gestures or pheromones, were exchanged. No, this was going to be very delicate; it clearly merited a trip into the Center.
Adikor used his Companion to call for a travel cube and driver. The community had over three thousand cars; he shouldn’t have to wait long for one to come and get him.
His Companion spoke to him. “You know it’s Last Five, don’t you?”
Gristle! He’d forgotten that. The effect would be in full swing. He’d only twice before gone into the Center during Last Five; he’d known men who had never done it, and he had teased them, saying he’d barely gotten out with his life.
Still, it was probably a wise precaution to slip into the pool again before going in, to cut down on his own pheromones. He went and did precisely that.
Once done, he dried off with a cord, then dressed in a dark brown shirt and a light brown pant. No sooner had he finished than the travel cube settled to the ground outside the house. Pabo, still looking for Ponter, ran out to see who had arrived. Adikor walked out more slowly.
The cube was the latest version, mostly transparent, with two ground-effect motors underneath and chairs at each of its corners, one of which was occupied by the driver. Adikor got in, folding himself against the heavily padded saddle-seat next to the driver.
“You’re going into the Center?” said the driver, a 143 with a bald stripe running back over his head, where his part had widened.
“Yes.”
“You know it’s Last Five?”
“I do.”
The driver chuckled. “Well, I won’t be waiting around for you.”
“I know,” said Adikor. “Let’s go.”
The driver nodded and operated the controls. The cube had good sound-deadening; Adikor could barely hear the fans. He settled in for the ride. They passed a couple of other cubes, both of which had male passengers. Adikor thought that drivers probably felt quite useful; he himself had never operated a travel cube, but maybe that was a job he’d enjoy …
“What’s your contribution?” asked the driver in an easy tone, making conversation.
Adikor continued to look out the cube’s walls at the scenery going by. “I’m a physicist.”
“Here?” said the driver, sounding incredulous.
“We have a facility down in one of the mineshafts.”
“Oh, yeah,” replied the driver. “I’ve heard about that. Fancy computers, right?”
A goose was flying by overhead, its white cheeks stark against its black neck and head. Adikor tracked it with his eyes. “Right.”
“How’s that going?”
Being accused of a crime changed your perspective on everything, Adikor realized. Under normal circumstances, he might have just said “Fine,” rather than go into the whole sorry mess. But even the driver might be called for questioning at some point: “Yes, Adjudicator, I drove Scholar Huld, and when I asked him how things were going at his computing facility, he said ‘fine.’ Ponter Boddit was dead, but he didn’t show any remorse at all.”
Adikor took a deep breath, then measured his words carefully. “There was an accident yesterday. My partner was killed.”
“Oh,” said the driver. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
The landscape was barren at this point: ancient granite outcrops and low brush. “Me, too,” Adikor said.
They continued on in silence. There was no way he could be found guilty of murder; surely the adjudicator would rule that if there was no body, there was no proof that Ponter was dead, let alone that he had fallen victim to foul play.
But if—
If he were convicted of murder, then—
Then what? Certainly he’d be stripped of his property, and all of it would be given to Ponter’s woman-mate and children, but … but, no, no, Klast had been dead for twenty months now.
But beyond taking his property, what else?
Surely … surely not that.
And yet, for murder, what other penalty could they prescribe? It seemed inhumane, but it had been invoked whenever necessary since the first generation.
Surely, though, he was worrying for nothing. Daklar Bolbay was obviously inconsolable over the loss of Ponter—for Ponter had been the man-mate of Daklar’s own woman-mate; they had both been bonded to Klast, and her death must have hit Bolbay as hard as it had Ponter. And now she had lost Ponter as well! Yes, Adikor could see how her mental state might be temporarily unbalanced by this double loss. Doubtless after a day or two, Bolbay would come to her senses, withdrawing the accusation and offering an apology.
And Adikor would graciously accept the apology; what else could he do?
But if she didn’t drop the charge? If Adikor had to proceed with this nonsense all the way to a full tribunal? What then? Why, he’d have to—
The driver broke Adikor’s contemplation by speaking again. “We’re almost to the Center. Do you have an exact address?”
“North side, Milbon Square.”
Adikor could see the driver’s head move up and down as he nodded acknowledgment.
They were indeed approaching the Center: the open lands were giving way to stands of aspen and birch, and clusters of buildings made of cultured trees and gray brick. It was almost noon, and the clouds of earlier in the day had vanished.
As they continued in, Adikor saw first one, and then another, and then several more, walking along: the most beautiful creatures in all the world.
One of a pair of them caught sight of the travel cube, and pointed at Adikor. It wasn’t all that unusual for a man to be coming into the Center at sometime other than the four days during which Two became One, but it was noteworthy during Last Five, the final days of the month.
Adikor tried to ignore the stares of the women as the driver took him in deeper.
No, he thought. No, they couldn’t find him guilty. There was no body!
And yet, if they did …
Adikor squirmed in his seat as the cube flew on. He could feel his scrotum contracting, as if its contents wanted to climb into his torso, out of harm’s way.
Chapter 12
Reuben Montego was delighted that Mary Vaughan was on her way up from Toronto. Part of him was hoping that she could prove genetically that Ponter wasn’t a Neanderthal, that she could show he was just a plain old garden-variety human being. That would restore some rationality to the situation; after a fitful night’s sleep, Reuben realized that it really was easier to swallow the idea that some nut had had himself altered to look like a Neanderthal, rather than that he actually was one. Perhaps Ponter was indeed a member of some weird cult, as Reuben had first thought. If he’d worn a series of tight helmets while growing up, each of which had their interiors sculpted to look like a Neanderthal head, his own skull could have grown into that shape. And at some point, he’d obviously had that submaxillary surgery to give his lower jaw the same prehistoric cast …
Yes, it could have happened that way, thought Reuben.
There was no point going directly to the Sudbury airport; it would still be a couple of hours before Professor Vaughan arrived. Reuben headed to St. Joseph’s Health Centre to see how Ponter was doing.
The first thing he noticed when he entered the hospital room were the dark semicircles beneath Ponter’s deep-set eyes. Reuben was delighted that he himself was not subject to such signs of fatigue. His parents, back in Kingston (Jamaica, that is, not Ontario—although he’d lived briefly for a time there, too) hadn’t been able to tell when he’d stayed up half the night read
ing comic books.
Perhaps, thought Reuben, Dr. Singh should have prescribed a sedative for Ponter. Even if he really was a Neanderthal, almost certainly any that worked on regular humans would be effective on him, too. But, then again, if it had been his call to make, Reuben might have erred on the side of caution himself.
In any event, Ponter was now sitting up in bed, eating a late breakfast a nurse had just brought him. He had looked at the tray for a time after its arrival, as though something was missing. He’d finally wrapped his right hand in the white linen napkin, and was using that covered hand to eat with, picking up strips of bacon one at a time. He only used cutlery for the scrambled eggs, and for those he employed the spoon rather than the fork.
Ponter set the toast back down after sniffing it. He also disdained the contents of the little box of Kellogg’s Corn Flakes, although he did seem to enjoy puzzling out the complex perforations to open it up into a self-contained bowl. After a tentative sip, he drained the small plastic cup of orange juice in a single gulp, but he seemed to want nothing to do with either the coffee or the 250-milliliter carton of partially skimmed milk.
Reuben went to the bathroom to get Ponter a cup of water—and he stopped dead in his tracks.
Ponter was from somewhere else. He had to be. Oh, it was common enough for a person to forget to flush the toilet, but …
But Ponter not only hadn’t flushed—he had wiped himself with the long, thin “Sanitized for Your Protection” loop, instead of with the toilet paper. No one from anywhere in the developed world could possibly make that mistake. And Ponter was indeed from a technological culture; there was that intriguing implant on the inside of his left wrist.
Well, thought Reuben, the best way to find out about this man was by talking with him. He clearly didn’t—or wouldn’t—speak English, but, as Reuben’s old grandmother used to say, there be nine and sixty ways to skin a cat.
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