Hominids tnp-1

by Robert J. Sawyer

  “Hardly sounds worth fighting about,” said Ponter.

  “It seemed very important at the time. But, anyway, the president of the United States, he set the goal in—when was it?—in 1961, I guess, to put a man on the moon by the end of that decade. See, the Russians—the people from the Soviet Union—they’d put the first artificial satellite in space, and then the first man in space, and the U.S. was lagging behind, so, well, it set out to beat them.”

  “And did it?”

  “Oh, yes. The Russians never managed to put anyone on the moon. But, well, once we’d beaten the Russians, the public pretty much lost interest.”

  “That is ridiculous—” began Ponter, but then he stopped. “No, I must apologize. Going to the moon is a magnificent feat, and whether you did it once or a thousand times, it is still praiseworthy.” He paused. “I guess it is simply a question of different priorities.”

  Chapter 35

  Mary and Ponter headed downstairs, looking for something to eat. Just after they got to the kitchen, Reuben Montego and Louise Benoit finally emerged from the basement. Reuben grinned at Ponter. “More barbecue?”

  Ponter smiled back at him. “Please. But you must let me help.”

  “I’ll show you how,” said Louise. She patted Ponter on the forearm. “Come on, big fella.”

  Suddenly, Mary found herself objecting. “I thought you were a vegetarian.”

  “I am,” said Louise. “For five years now. But I know how to barbecue.”

  Mary had an urge to go with them, as Ponter and Louise headed out through the sliding glass doors onto the deck. But … but … no, that was silly.

  Louise slid the glass doors shut behind them, keeping the cooled air inside the house.

  Reuben was clearing off the kitchen table. He faked the voice of an old Jewish yenta. “So, vhat have you two kids been talking about?”

  Mary was still looking out through the glass, at Louise, laughing and tossing her hair as she explained how the barbecue worked, and at Ponter, hanging on her every word.

  “Umm, mostly religion,” said Mary.

  Reuben’s voice immediately switched back to normal. “Really?”

  “Uh-huh,” said Mary. She tore her eyes away from what was going on outside, and looked at Reuben. “Or more precisely, Neanderthals’ lack of religion.”

  “But I thought Neanderthals did have religion,” said Reuben, now getting some plain white Corelle plates from a cupboard. “The cult of the cave bear, and all that.”

  Mary shook her head. “You’ve been reading old books, Reuben. No one takes that seriously anymore.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Oh, some cave-bear skulls were found in one cave that had indeed been occupied by Neanderthals. But it now looks like the bears had simply died in the cave, probably during hibernation, and the Neanderthals had moved in afterwards.”

  “But weren’t the skulls all arranged in patterns?”

  “Well,” said Mary, getting a handful of cutlery and laying it out, “the guy who first found them claimed they were in a stone crib or coffin. But no photos were taken, workers supposedly destroyed the coffin, and the only two sketches made by the archeologist—a guy named Bachler—completely contradict each other. No, it seems Bachler simply saw what he wanted to see.”

  “Oh,” said Reuben, now rummaging in the fridge for things to make a salad. “But what about Neanderthals burying their dead with stuff the dear departed might need in the afterlife? Surely that’s a sign of religion.”

  “Well, it would be,” said Mary, “if Neanderthals had really done that. But sites occupied for generations accumulate garbage: bones, old stone tools, and so on. The few examples we thought we had of grave goods at Neanderthal burials turned out to be stuff that had just accidentally been buried with the corpse.”

  Reuben was pulling leaves off a head of iceberg lettuce now. “Ah, but doesn’t burial in and of itself imply a belief in the afterlife?”

  Mary looked around for something else she could do to help, but there really didn’t seem to be anything. “It might,” she said, “or it might just be a case of trying to keep things neat. Lots of Neanderthal corpses are found in tightly wrapped fetal positions. That could be ceremony, or it could just be a desire on the part of the poor slob who had to dig the grave to make the hole as small as possible. Dead bodies attract scavengers, after all, and they get to stinking if you leave them out in the sun.”

  Reuben was now chopping up celery. “But … but I read about Neanderthals being, well, the first flower children.”

  Mary laughed. “Ah, yes. Shanidar Cave, in Iraq—where Neanderthal bodies were found covered with fossil pollen.”

  “That’s right,” said Reuben, nodding. “As if they’d been buried wearing flower garlands, or something.”

  “Sorry, but that’s been discredited, too. The pollen was just an accidental intrusion into the grave, brought there by burrowing rodents or groundwater percolating through the sediment.”

  “But—wait a minute! What about the Neanderthal flute! That was front-page news all over the world.”

  “Yeah,” said Mary. “Ivan Turk found that in Slovenia: a hollowed-out bear bone with four holes in it.”

  “Right, right. A flute!”

  “’Fraid not,” said Mary, leaning against the side-by-side fridge now. “It turns out that the bone was pierced by carnivore gnawing—probably by a wolf. And, yes, in typical newspaper fashion, that revelation did not make the front page.”

  “That’s for sure. This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

  “I was there at the Paleoanthropology Society meeting in Seattle in ’98, when Nowell and Chase presented their paper discrediting the flute.” Mary paused. “No, it really does look like right until the very end, Neanderthals—at least on this version of Earth—had nothing that we’d call religion, or even culture for that matter. Oh, some of the very last specimens show a little variety in the things they did, but most paleoanthropologists think they were just imitating Cro-Magnons who lived nearby; Cro-Magnons were indisputably our direct ancestors.”

  “Speaking of Cro-Magnons,” said Reuben, “what about crossbreeding between Neanderthals and Cro-Magnons? Didn’t I read that fossils of a hybrid child had been found in, what, oh, maybe 1998?”

  “Yeah, Erik Trinkaus is big on that specimen; it’s from Portugal. But, look, he’s a physical anthropologist, and I’m a geneticist. He bases his case entirely on the skeleton of a child that, to him, shows hybrid characteristics. But he doesn’t have the skull—and the skull is the only truly diagnostic part of a Neanderthal. To me, it just looks like a stocky kid.”

  “Hmm,” said Reuben. “But, you know, I’ve seen guys who look a fair bit like Ponter, in features if not in coloring. Some Eastern Europeans, for instance, have big noses and prominent browridges. Are you saying those guys don’t have Neanderthal genes in them?”

  Mary shrugged. “I know some paleoanthropologists who would argue that they do. But, really, the jury is still out on whether our kind of humans and Neanderthals even could crossbreed.”

  “Well,” said Reuben, “if you keep spending so much time with Ponter, maybe you’ll answer that one for us someday.”

  Reuben was close enough that she was able to swat him on the arm with an open hand. “Stop that!” she said. She looked into the living room, so that Reuben wouldn’t see the grin growing across her face.

  * * *

  Jasmel Ket showed up at Adikor’s house around noon. Adikor was surprised but pleased to see her. “Healthy day,” he said.

  “The same to you,” replied Jasmel, bending down to scratch Pabo’s head.

  “Will you have food?” asked Adikor. “Meat? Juice?”

  “No, I’m fine,” said Jasmel. “But I’ve been reading more of the law. Have you considered a counterclaim?”

  “A counterclaim?” repeated Adikor. “Against whom?”

  “Daklar Bolbay.”

  Adikor ushered Jasmel into the
living room. He took a chair, and she took another. “On what possible charge?” said Adikor. “She has done nothing to me.”

  “She has interfered with your grieving for the loss of your man-mate …”

  “Yes,” said Adikor. “But surely that is not a crime.”

  “Isn’t it?” said Jasmel. “What does the Code of Civilization say about disturbing the life of another?”

  “It says a lot of things,” said Adikor.

  “The part I’m thinking of is, ‘Frivolous actions against another cannot be countenanced; civilization works because we only invoke its power over the individual in egregious cases.’”

  “Well, she’s accused me of murder. There’s no more egregious crime.”

  “But she has no real evidence against you,” said Jasmel. “That makes her action frivolous—or, at least, it might in the eyes of an adjudicator.”

  Adikor shook his head. “I can’t see Sard being impressed by that argument.”

  “Ah, but Sard cannot hear the counterclaim; that’s the law. You’d speak in front of a different adjudicator.”

  “Really? Maybe it is worth trying. But … but my goal isn’t to prolong these proceedings. It’s to get them over with, to get this rotting judicial scrutiny lifted so I can get back down to the lab.”

  “Oh, I agree you shouldn’t really pursue a counterclaim. But the suggestion that you might could perhaps help you get your answer.”

  “Answer? About what?”

  “About why Daklar is pursuing you like this.”

  “Do you know why?” asked Adikor.

  Jasmel looked down. “I didn’t, not until today, but …”

  “But what?”

  “It’s not for me to say. If you’re going to hear it at all, it will have to be directly from Daklar.”

  Chapter 36

  Reuben, Louise, Ponter, and Mary sat around the table in Reuben’s kitchen. Everyone but Louise was eating hamburgers; Louise was picking at a plate of salad.

  Apparently, in Ponter’s world, people ate with gloved hands. Ponter didn’t like using cutlery, but the hamburger seemed a good compromise. He didn’t eat the bun, but instead used it to manipulate the meat, constantly squeezing the patty forward and biting off the part that protruded from the disks of bread.

  “So, Ponter,” said Louise, making conversation, “do you live alone? Back in your world, I mean.”

  Ponter shook his head. “No. I lived with Adikor.”

  “Adikor,” repeated Mary. “I thought he was the person you worked with?”

  “Yes,” said Ponter. “But he is also my partner.”

  “Your business partner, you mean,” said Mary.

  “Well, that too, I suppose. But he is my ‘partner’; that is the word we use. We share a home.”

  “Ah,” said Mary. “A roommate.”

  “Yes.”

  “You share household expenses and chores.”

  “Yes. And meals and a bed and …”

  Mary was angry with herself for the way her heart fluttered. She knew lots of gay men; she was just used to them coming out of the closet, not popping through a transdimensional portal.

  “You’re gay!” said Louise. “How cool is that!”

  “Actually, I was happier at home,” said Ponter.

  “No, no, no,” said Louise. “Not happy. Gay. Homosexual.” Bleep. “Having sexual relations with one’s own gender: men who have sex with other men, or women who have sex with other women.”

  Ponter looked more confused than ever. “It is impossible to have sex with a member of the same gender. Sex is the act of potential procreation and it requires a male and a female.”

  “Well, all right, not sex as in sexual intercourse,” said Louise. “Sex as in intimate contact, as in—you know—um, affectionate touching of … of the genitals.”

  “Oh,” said Ponter. “Yes, Adikor and I did that.”

  “That’s what we call being homosexual,” supplied Reuben. “Having such contact only with members of your own gender.”

  “Only?” said Ponter, startled. “You mean exclusively? No, no, no. Adikor and I kept each other company when Two were separate, but when Two became One, we of course had—what did you call it, Lou?—‘affectionate touching of the genitals’ with our respective females … or, at least I did until Klast, my woman-mate, died.”

  “Ah,” said Mary. “You’re bisexual.” Bleep. “You have genital contact with men and women.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is everyone like that in your world?” asked Louise, stabbing some lettuce with her fork. “Bisexual?”

  “Just about.” Ponter blinked, getting it at last. “You mean it is different here?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Reuben. “Well, for most people, anyway. I mean, sure, there are some bisexual people, and lots and lots of gay—homosexual—people. But the vast majority are heterosexual. That means they have affectionate contact only with members of the opposite gender.”

  “How boring,” said Ponter.

  Louise actually giggled. Then, composing herself, she said, “So, do you have any children?”

  “Two daughters,” said Ponter, nodding. “Jasmel and Megameg.”

  “Lovely names,” said Louise.

  Ponter looked sad, obviously thinking of the fact that he’d likely never see them again.

  Reuben clearly saw this, too, and sought to move the conversation to something less personal. “So, um, so what’s this ‘Two become One’ you mentioned? What’s that all about?”

  “Well, on my world, males and females live mostly apart, so—”

  “Binford!” exclaimed Mary.

  “No, it is true,” said Ponter.

  “That wasn’t a swear word,” said Mary. “It’s a man’s name. Lewis Binford is an anthropologist who argues the same thing: that Neanderthal men and women lived largely separate lives on this Earth. He bases it on sites at Combe Grenal, in France.”

  “He is correct,” said Ponter. “Women live in the Centers of our territories; males at the Rims. But once a month, we males come into the Center and spend four days with the females; we say that ‘Two become One’ during this time.”

  “Par-tay!” said Louise, grinning.

  “Fascinating,” said Mary.

  “It is necessary. We do not produce food the way you do, so the population size must be kept in check.”

  Reuben frowned. “So this ‘Two becoming One’ business is for birth control?”

  Ponter nodded. “In part. The High Gray Council—the governing body of elders—sets the dates on which we come together, and Two normally become One when the women are incapable of conceiving. But if it is time to produce a new generation, then the dates are changed, and we come together when the women are most fertile.”

  “Goodness,” said Mary. “A whole planet on the rhythm method. The Pope would like you guys. But—but how can that work? I mean, surely your women don’t all have their periods—undergo menstruation—at once?”

  Ponter blinked. “Of course they do.”

  “But how could—oh, wait. I see.” Mary smiled. “That nose of yours: it’s very sensitive, isn’t it?”

  “I do not think of it as being so.”

  “But it is—compared to ours I mean. Compared to the noses we have.”

  “Well, your noses are very small,” said Ponter. “They are, ah, rather disconcerting to look at. I keep thinking you will suffocate—although I have noticed many of you breathe through your mouths, presumably to avoid that.”

  “We’ve always assumed that Neanderthals evolved in response to Ice Age conditions,” said Mary. “And our best guess was that your large noses allowed you to humidify frigid air before drawing it into your lungs.”

  “Our—the scientists who study ancient humans—believe the same thing,” said Ponter.

  “The climate has warmed up a great deal, though, since your big noses evolved,” said Mary. “But you’ve retained that feature perhaps because it has the beneficial side ef
fect of giving you a much better sense of smell than you would have had otherwise.”

  “Does it?” said Ponter. “I mean, I can smell all of you, and all the different foods in the kitchen, and the flowers out back, and whatever acrid thing Reuben and Lou have been burning downstairs, but—”

  “Ponter,” said Reuben, quickly, “we can’t smell you at all.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Oh, if I stuck my nose right into your armpit, I might smell something. But normally we humans can’t smell each other.”

  “How do you find one another in the dark?”

  “By voice,” said Mary.

  “Very strange,” said Ponter.

  “But you can do more than just detect a person’s presence, can’t you?” said Mary. “That time you looked at me. You could …” She swallowed but, well, Louise was another woman, and Reuben was a doctor. “You could tell I was having my period, couldn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  Mary nodded. “Even women of Louise and my kind, if they live together long enough in the same house, can get their menstrual cycles synchronized—and we have lousy senses of smell. I guess it makes sense that whole cities of your women would be on the same cycle.”

  “It never occurred to me that it might be another way,” said Ponter. “I thought it odd that you were menstruating but Lou was not.”

  Louise frowned but said nothing.

  “Look,” said Reuben, “does anybody want anything else? Ponter, another Coke?”

  “Yes,” said Ponter. “Thank you.”

  Reuben got up.

  “You know that stuff’s got caffeine in it?” said Mary. “It’s addictive.”

  “Do not worry,” said Ponter. “I am only drinking seven or eight cans a day.”

  Louise laughed and went back to eating her salad.

  Mary took another bite of her hamburger, circles of onion crunching beneath her teeth. “Wait a minute,” she said, once she’d swallowed. “That means your females don’t have hidden ovulation.”

  “Well, it is hidden from view,” Ponter said.

  “Yes, but … well, you know, I used to team-teach a course with the Women’s Studies department: The Biology of Sexual Power Relationships. We’d assumed that hidden ovulation was the key to females gaining constant protection and provisioning by males. You know: if you can’t tell when your female is fertile, you better be attentive all the time, lest you be cuckolded.”