“That’s right,” said Dern. “Then people could just walk through from this universe to that one.”
“They’d have to build a platform and stairs on the other side, leading up to the tube,” said Ponter.
“Easily enough done, I’m sure,” said Dern.
“What happens if the gate doesn’t stay open indefinitely?” asked Adikor.
“I wouldn’t suggest anyone linger in the tunnel,” said Dern, “but presumably if the gate did shut down, it would simply sever the tunnel, cutting it into two parts. Either that, or it would draw the tunnel fully into one side or the other.”
“There are issues to be concerned about,” said Ponter. “I got very sick when I was over there; germs exist on the other side to which we have no immunity.”
Adikor nodded. “We’d have to exercise caution. We certainly wouldn’t want pathogens moving freely from their universe into ours, and travelers headed there would presumably require a series of immunizations.”
“It could be worked out, I’m sure,” said Dern. “Although I don’t know exactly what the procedures should be.”
There was silence between them for a time. Finally, Ponter spoke. “Who makes the decision?” he asked. “Who decides if we should establish permanent contact—or even reestablish temporary contact—with the other world?”
“I’m sure there are no procedures in place,” said Adikor. “I doubt anyone has even considered the possibility of a bridge to another Earth.”
“If it weren’t for the danger of germs traveling here,” said Ponter, “I’d say we should just go ahead and open up the gateway, but …”
They were all silent, until Adikor spoke. “Are they—are they good people, Ponter? Should we be in contact with them?”
“They are different,” said Ponter, “in many, many ways. But they showed a lot of kindness toward me; I was treated very well.” He paused, then nodded. “Yes, I do think we should be in contact with them.”
“All right, then,” said Adikor. “I suppose the first step is to make a presentation to the High Gray Council. We should get to work on that.”
Ponter had thought a lot about what Mare had said to him in the elevator on the way down to the neutrino observatory. Yes, he had indeed been interested; she had read him correctly. Even across species boundaries, even across timelines, some things were clear.
Ponter’s heart was pounding. It seemed he was going to get to see her again.
Who knew what would come of it?
Well, there was only one way to find out. “Yes,” said Ponter Boddit, smiling. “Let’s get to work.”
* * *
Usually, one had to wait until September for Toronto to be so heart-stoppingly beautiful, with the sky’s complexion clear and flawless, the temperature perfect, and the wind a gentle caress—the kind of profound pleasantness that reminded Mary of just why it was that she believed in God.
But September was still two weeks away, and, of course, when Labour Day, that final, abrupt punctuation mark at the end of summer, came around, Mary would have to go back to work, back to her old life of teaching genetics, and having no one special, and eating too much. For now, though, for right now, with the wonderful weather, Toronto seemed like heaven.
While in Northern Ontario, Mary had lost a few of the extra pounds she normally carried around, but she knew they would return. Every diet she’d ever been on reminded her of Crisco oil: it all came back, except for maybe one tablespoon.
Of course, she hadn’t been on a concerted diet. She simply hadn’t been eating as much as usual. Part of it had been excitement during the time she’d spent in Sudbury, the time she’d spent with Ponter, over all the incredible things that had come and gone.
And part of it—the part that wasn’t over, that could never be over—was the aftermath of the rape.
Mary had agreed to come in to York today, a Monday, for a departmental meeting, and so, for the first time since that horrible night—had it really been just seventeen days?—Mary had to walk by the spot on the campus where the attack had taken place, the concrete wall that the rapist, his head sheathed in a black balaclava, had slammed her body against.
But, of course, it wasn’t because of the wall that she’d been raped. It was because of him—that monster—and the sick society that had produced him. As she passed by, she ran her fingers across the wall, taking care not to chip her red-painted nails—and, as she did so, a crazy thought occurred to her. She remembered another wall from long ago, one she and Colm had carved their initials into.
It was a ridiculous thing for a thirty-eight-year-old woman to contemplate, but maybe she should carve MV+PB here on this wall—although to do it right, she supposed, she should really carve MV plus the symbols in Ponter Boddit’s language that represented his name.
Either way, she’d then smile every time she saw the wall, instead of being disgusted by it. To be sure, it would be a rueful smile, for she knew she’d likely never see him again. But, still, a memory of … love, yes: a memory of love lost was infinitely preferable to one of what had happened here.
Mary Vaughan continued on past the wall, forward, into the future.
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