Humans

by neetha Napew

  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 declaringHomo 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 theStar, 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 wa
nt 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. “Itis 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 anA for effort. But if Cornelius had noticed, he let it pass without sign, still clearly fascinated by 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-?”

  “Daria Klein, I’d like you to meet Ponter Boddit.”

  “Wow,” said Daria, and, as if that weren’t quite enough, “Wow,” she said again.

  “Daria is working on her Ph.D. Her specialty is the same as mine-recovering ancient DNA.”

  Mary and Daria talked for a few minutes, and Ponter, always the scientist, looked around the lab, endlessly fascinated by Gliksin technology. Finally, Mary said, “Well, we’ve got to get going. I just wanted to pick up a couple of specimens I left here.”

  She walked across the room to the refrigerator used to store biological specimens, noting that a few new cartoons had been taped to it, joining the selection of Sidney Harris and Gary Larson panels she’d put up herself. She opened the metal door and felt the blast of cold air coming out.

  There were maybe two dozen containers inside, of varying sizes. Some had laser-printed labels; others just had strips of masking tape that had been written on with Magic Marker. Mary couldn’t see the specimens she was looking for; doubtless they’d been shuffled to the very back by others using the fridge in her absence. She started moving containers, taking out two big ones-“Siberian Mammoth Skin,” “Inuit Placental Material”-and placing them on the counter, so that she could more easily see inside.

  Mary felt her heart pounding.

  She rummaged through the specimens again, just to make sure.

  But there was no room for error.

  The two containers she’d labeled “Vaughan 666,” the two containers that held the physical evidence of her rape, were gone.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  “Daria!” Mary shouted. Ponter loomed close to her, clearly wondering what was wrong. But Mary ignored him and shouted out Daria’s name again.

  The slim grad student dashed across the room. She said, “What’s wrong?” in that defensive tone that implies, “What have I done now?”

  Mary stepped away from the refrigerator so that Daria could see its interior, and she stabbed an accusatory finger toward it. “I had two specimen jars in here,” said Mary. “What happened to them?”

  Daria was shaking her head. “I didn’t take anything. I haven’t even been into that fridge since you left for Rochester.”

  “Are you sure?” said Mary, trying to control the panic in her voice. “Two specimen jars, both opaque, both labeled in red ink with the date August 2nd”-she would rememberthat date for the rest of her life-“and the words ‘Vaughan 666.’”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Daria. “I saw those once-when I was working on Ramses. But I didn’t touch them.”

  “Are you positive?”

  “Yes, of course I am. What’s wrong?”

  Mary ignored the question. “Who has access to this fridge?” she demanded, although she already knew the answer.

  “Me,” said Daria, “Graham and all the other grad students, the faculty, Professor Remtulla. And the janitorial staff, I suppose-anyone who has a key to this room.”

  The janitorial staff! Mary had seen a janitor working in the ground-floor corridor of this building, just before...

  Just before she’d been attacked.

  And-God damn it, how could I be so stupid?-you didn’t need a bloody degree in genetics to recognize that something labeled with the name of the victim, the number of the beast, and marked with the date of the rape was what you were looking for.

  “Is everything okay?” asked Daria. “Was it some of the passenger-pigeon material?”

  But Mary yanked another container out of
the fridge. “That’sthe fucking passenger pigeon!” she shouted, slamming the container down on the counter top.

  Ponter’s translator bleeped. “Mare...” he said, softly.

  Mary took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Her whole body was shaking.

  “Professor Vaughan,” said Daria, “I swear I didn’t-“

  “I know,” said Mary, forcing calmness back into her voice. “I know.” She looked at Ponter, whose face was a study in concern, and Daria, whose expression was segueing to that from fear. “I’m sorry, Daria. It’s just that-just that they were irreplaceable specimens.” She shrugged a little, still furious at herself but trying not to show it. “I never should have left them here.”

  “What were they?” asked Daria, her curiosity getting the better of her.

  “Nothing,” said Mary, shaking her head and stalking across the room without looking to see if Ponter was following. “Nothing at all.”

  Ponter caught up with Mary in the corridor, and he touched her shoulder. “Mare...”

  Mary stopped walking and closed her eyes for a second. “Iwill tell you,” she said, “but not here.”

  “Then let us leave this place,” said Ponter. And he and Mary headed down the stairs. On the way down, they passed a blue-shirted janitor coming up, taking the steps two at a time, and Mary thought her heart was going to rocket through the roof of her skull. But, no, no, it was Franco-she knew him well enough-and Franco was Italian. With brown eyes.

  “Why, Professor Vaughan!” he said. “I thought you weren’t going to be with us this year!”

  “I’m not,” said Mary, trying to sound normal. “Just dropping in for a visit.”

  “Well, have a good one,” said Franco, as he passed them.

  Mary exhaled and continued down. She exited the building, and Ponter followed her, and they headed for Mary’s car, but this time Mary took a long detour to avoid the intersecting walls where she’d been attacked. At last they made it to the parking lot.

  They got in the car. It was hotter than hell inside. Mary usually left the windows down a crack in the summer-and it wasstill summer, after all; fall didn’t officially arrive until September 21-but she’d forgotten this time, her mind swirling with far too many other thoughts at returning to York.