But no, that wasn’t right, either. Disabling it would do no good; Gaskdol Dut and the other enforcers might not be able to track him if the Companion stopped working, but they’d immediately know by its lack of transmissions that something was afoot. And it wouldn’t take a Lonwis to figure out that Adikor would be heading for the mine, since he’d already been thwarted once before in trying to go there.
No, no, the real problem wasn’t that his Companion [346] was working. Rather, it was that someone was watching the transmissions from his Companion. That’s what needed to stop—and not just for a moment or two, but for several daytenths, and—
And suddenly it came to him: the perfect answer.
But he couldn’t arrange it himself; it would only work if the enforcers had no idea that Adikor was involved. Jasmel could perhaps take care of doing it, though; Adikor had to believe that it really was only his Companion being monitored. Anything beyond that would be outrageous. But how to communicate privately to Jasmel?
He rose and headed into the kitchen. “Come on, Jasmel,” he said. “Let’s take Pabo for a walk.”
Jasmel’s expression conveyed that this should be the least of their priorities just now, but she got up and went with Adikor to the back door. Pabo needed no prodding to join them; she bounded after Jasmel.
They walked out onto the deck, out into the summer heat, cicadas making their shrill whine. The humidity was high. Adikor stepped off the deck, and Jasmel followed. Pabo ran ahead, barking loudly. After a few hundred paces, they came to the brook that ran behind the house. The sound of fast-running water drowned out the insect noises. There was a large boulder—one of countless glacial erratics that dotted the landscape—in the middle of the brook. Adikor stepped on smaller rocks to get over to it, and motioned for Jasmel to follow, which she did. Pabo was now running up the riverbank.
When Jasmel reached the boulder, Adikor patted the mossy spot next to where he was sitting, indicating that she should join him. She did so, and he leaned toward her [347] and started whispering, his words all but inaudible against the water crashing around the boulder. There was no way, he felt sure, that the Companion could pick up what he was saying. And, as he told Jasmel his plan, he saw a mischievous grin grow on her face.
Ponter sat on the couch in Reuben’s office. Everyone else had gone to bed—although Reuben and Louise, next door, clearly weren’t sleeping.
Ponter was sad. The sounds and smells they were making reminded him of himself and Klast, of Two becoming One, of everything he’d lost before coming to this Earth, and all the rest of it he’d lost since.
He’d had the TV on, watching a channel devoted to this thing called religion. There seemed to be many variations, but all of them proposed a God—that outlandish notion again—and a universe that was of a finite, and often ridiculously young, age, plus some sort of after-death existence for the ... there was no Neanderthal word for it, but “soul” had been the term Mare had used. It turned out the symbol Mare wore around her neck was a sign of the particular religion she subscribed to, and the fabric that had been wrapped around Dr. Singh’s head was a sign of his somewhat different religion.
Ponter had turned the sound on the TV way down—it had been simple enough to find the appropriate control, although he doubted anything he might do would disturb the couple in the adjacent room.
“How are you feeling?” asked Klast’s voice, and Ponter felt his heart leaping.
[348] Klast!
Darling Klast, contacting him from ...
From an afterlife!
But no.
No, of course it wasn’t.
It was just Hak talking to him. Ponter was presumably stuck now with Hak speaking forevermore with Klast’s voice, if he wanted anything other than that droning default male persona the device had come preprogrammed with; certainly there was no way to access the equipment needed to reprogram the implant.
Ponter let out a long sigh, then answered Hak’s question. “I’m sad.”
“But are you adjusting? You were quite shaky when we first got here.”
Ponter shrugged a bit. “I don’t know. I’m still confused and disoriented, but ...”
Ponter could almost imagine Hak nodding sympathetically somewhere. “It will take time,” said the Companion, still in Klast’s voice.
“I know,” said Ponter. “I know. But I have to get used to it, don’t I? It looks like I—like we—are going to spend the rest of our lives here, doesn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Hak gently.
Ponter was quiet for a while, and Hak let him be so. Finally, Ponter said, “I guess I’d better face facts. I better start planning for a life here.”
Chapter Forty
DAY SEVEN
THURSDAY, AUGUST 8
148/119/01
NEWS SEARCH
Keyword(s): Neanderthal
Opposition MP Marissa Crothers charged today in the House of Commons that the clearly fake Neanderthal was a flimsy attempt by the governing Liberal party to cover up the abject failure of the 73-million-dollar Sudbury Neutrino Observatory project ...
“Stop hogging the caveman!” That was the sentiment on a placard worn by one American protester during a large demonstration outside the Canadian embassy in Washington today. “Share Ponter with the World!” said another ...
Invitations sent to Ponter Boddit for all-expense-paid visits received c/o the Sudbury Star. Disneyland; the Anchor Bar and Grill, home of the original chicken wing, in Buffalo, New York; Buckingham Palace; the Kennedy Space Center; Science North; the UFO museum in Roswell, New Mexico; Toronto’s Zanzibar Tavern strip club; Microsoft headquarters; next year’s World Science Fiction Convention; The Neanderthal Museum in Mettmann, Germany; Yankee Stadium. Also submitted: offers of meetings with the French and Mexican presidents; the Japanese prime minister and royal family; the Pope; the Dalai Lama; Nelson Mandela; Stephen Hawking, and Anna Nicole Smith.
Question: How many Neanderthals does it take to change a light bulb? Answer: All of them.
[350] ... and so this columnist urges that the Creighton Mine be filled in, to prevent an army of Neanderthals invading our world via the gateway in its bowels. The last time our kind did battle with them, we won. This time, the outcome could be quite different ...
Preliminary call for papers: Memetics and the epistemological disjuncture between H. neanderthalensis and H. sapiens ...
A spokeswoman for the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta, Georgia, today praised the Canadian government’s rapid response to the arrival of a potential plague vector. “We think they acted properly,” said Dr. Ramona Keitel. “However, we’ve found no pathogens in the specimens they’ve sent us for analysis ...”
Everything came off flawlessly. Ponter and Mary left Reuben’s at just after 8:00 A.M., making it through the trees at the back of his property and over the fence without being seen; Ponter’s sense of smell helped them avoid the RCMP officer patrolling the back area on foot.
Louise’s friend was indeed waiting for them. Garth turned out to be a handsome, well-muscled Native Canadian about twenty-five years old. He was extremely polite, calling Mary—to her chagrin—“ma’am,” and Ponter “sir.” He drove them the short distance to the Creighton Mine. The security guards recognized Mary—and Ponter, too, of course—and let them in. There, Mary and Ponter switched into her rented red Neon, which had acquired a patina of dust and bird droppings while sitting in the parking lot.
Mary knew where to head. The night before, she had said to Ponter, “Is there anywhere in particular you’d like to go tomorrow?”
Ponter had nodded. “Home,” he’d said. “Take me home.”
Mary had felt so very sad for him. “Ponter, I would if [351] I could, but there’s no way. You know that; we don’t have the technology.”
“No, no,” Ponter had said. “I don’t mean my home in my world. I mean my home in this world: the place on this version of Earth that corresponds to where my ho
use is.”
Mary had blinked. She’d never even thought of doing that. “Um, yeah. Sure. If you’d like to see it. But how will we find it? I mean, what landmarks will you recognize?”
“If you can show me a detailed map of this area, I can find the spot, and then we can go there.”
Reuben’s password had gotten them into a private Inco website containing geological maps of the entire Sudbury basin. Ponter had no trouble recognizing the contours of the land and finding the spot he wanted, about twenty kilometers from Reuben’s house.
Then Mary drove Ponter as close as she could get to the place he’d indicated. Most of the land surrounding the city of Sudbury was covered with Canadian shield outcrops, forest, and low brush. It took them hours to hike through it all, and, although Mary wasn’t much of an athlete—she played an occasional mediocre game of tennis—she actually enjoyed the exercise, at least for a while, after having been cooped up for so long at Reuben’s place.
Finally, they came over a ridge, and Ponter let out a delighted yelp. “There!” he said. “Right there! That is where my house was—I mean, where my house is.”
Mary looked around, taking in the location: on one side, there were large aspens mixed in with thin birch trees, covered with papery white bark; on the other, a lake. Mallard ducks were floating on the lake, and a black squirrel scampered across the ground. Running into the lake was a babbling brook.
[352] “It’s beautiful,” said Mary.
“Yes,” said Ponter, excitedly. “Of course, the vegetation is completely different on my Earth. I mean, the plants are mostly of the same types, but the specific places where they are growing are not the same. But the rock outcrops are very similar—and that boulder in the brook! How I know that boulder! I have often sat atop it reading.”
Ponter had run a short distance away from Mary. “Here—right here!—is where our back door is. And over here—this is our eating room.” He ran some more. “And the bedroom is right here, right beneath my feet.” He made a sweeping motion with his arm. “That is the view we have from the bedroom.”
Mary followed his gaze. “And you can see mammoths out there in your world?”
“Oh, yes. And deer. And elk.”
Mary was wearing a loose-fitting top and lightweight slacks. “Didn’t the mammoths overheat in the summer, what with all that fur?”
“They shed most of their fur in summer,” Ponter said, coming over to stand nearer to her. He closed his eyes. “The sounds,” he said wistfully. “The rustle of the leaves, the buzz of insects, the brook, and—there!—you hear it? The call of a loon.” He shook his head slightly in wonder. “It sounds the same.” He opened his eyes, and Mary could see that his golden irises were surrounded now by pink. “So close,” he said, his voice trembling a bit. “So very close. If only I could—” He shut his eyes again, hard, and his whole body jerked slightly, as if he were trying by an effort of will to cross the timelines.
Mary felt her heart breaking. It must be awful, she [353] thought, to be torn from your own world and dumped somewhere else—somewhere, so similar, yet so alien. She lifted her hand, not quite sure what she intended to do. He turned to her, and she couldn’t say, she didn’t know, she wasn’t sure which of them had moved first toward the other, but suddenly she had her arms wrapped around his broad torso, and his head was resting against her shoulder, and his body was shuddering up and down, and he cried and cried and cried, while Mary stroked his long, blond hair.
Mary tried to remember the last time she’d seen a man cry. It had been Colm, she supposed—not over any of the problems with their marriage; no, those had been borne in stony silence. But when Colm’s mother had died. Even then, he’d tried to put on a brave face, letting only a few tears trickle out. But Ponter was crying now without shame, crying for the world he’d lost, the lover he’d lost, the children he’d lost, and Mary let him cry until he was good and ready to stop.
When he did, he looked up at her, and opened his mouth. She’d expected Hak to translate his words as, “I am sorry”—isn’t that what a man is supposed to say after crying, after letting his guard down, after wallowing in emotion? But no, that’s not what came forth. Ponter simply said, “Thank you.” Mary smiled warmly at him, and he smiled back.
Jasmel Ket started her day by heading off to find Lurt, Adikor’s woman.
Not surprisingly, Lurt was in her chemistry lab, hard at [354] work. “Healthy day,” said Jasmel, coming through the square door.
“Jasmel? What are you doing here?”
“Adikor asked me to come by.”
“Is he all right?”
“Oh, yes. He’s fine. But he needs a favor.”
“For him, anything,” said Lurt.
Jasmel smiled. “I was hoping you would say that.”
It had taken longer to hike from Mary’s car to the location of Ponter’s home than Mary had expected, and, of course, just as long to hike back. By the time they did reach her car, it was after 7:00 P.M.
They were both quite hungry after all that walking, and, as they drove along, Mary suggested they get something to eat. When they came to a little country inn, with a sign advertising that it served venison, Mary pulled over. “How does this look?” she asked.
“I am no adjudicator of such things,” said Ponter. “What kind of food do they provide?”
“Venison.”
Bleep. “What is that?”
“Deer.”
“Deer!” exclaimed Ponter. “Yes, deer would be wonderful!”
“I’ve never had venison myself,” Mary said.
“You will enjoy it,” said Ponter.
The inn’s dining room only had six tables, and no one else was eating just now. Mary and Ponter sat opposite each other, a white candle burning between them. The main [355] course took almost an hour to arrive, but she, at least, enjoyed some buttered pumpernickel bread beforehand. Mary had wanted an appetizer Caesar salad, but she felt self-conscious enough about having garlic breath when eating with regular humans; she certainly didn’t want to risk it with Ponter. Instead, she had the house salad, with a sun-dried-tomato vinaigrette. Ponter also had a house salad, and although he left behind the croutons, he seemed to enjoy everything else.
Mary had also ordered a glass of the house red, which turned out to be eminently potable. “May I try that?” Ponter asked when it arrived.
Mary was surprised. He’d declined when offered some of Louise’s wine at dinner back at Reuben’s house. “Sure,” said Mary.
She handed him the glass, and he took a small sip, then winced. “It has a sharp flavor,” he said.
Mary nodded. “You get to like it,” she said.
Ponter handed the glass back to her. “Perhaps one would,” he said. Mary slowly finished the wine, enjoying the rustic, charming inn—and the company of this gentle man.
The balding innkeeper obviously knew who Ponter was; his appearance, after all, was striking, and Ponter was speaking softly in his own language, so that Hak could translate his words. Finally, it clearly got to be too much for the man. “I’m sorry,” he said, coming to their table, “but Mr. Ponter, could I have your autograph?”
Mary heard Hak bleep, and Ponter raised his eyebrow. “Autograph,” said Mary. “That’s your own name, written out. People collect such things from celebrities.” Another [356] bleep. “Celebrities,” repeated Mary. “Famous people. That’s what you are.”
Ponter looked at the man, astonished. “I—I would be honored,” he said at last.
The man handed Ponter a pen, then flipped over the little pad he used for taking orders, exposing its white cardboard back. He placed it on the table in front of Ponter.
“You usually write a few words in addition to your name,” said Mary. “ ‘Best wishes,’ or something like that.”
The innkeeper nodded. “Yes, please.”
Ponter shrugged, clearly stunned by it all, and then made a series of symbols in his own language. He handed the pad and the pen back to t
he man, who scurried away, delighted.
“You’ve made his day,” Mary said after he disappeared.
“Made his day?” repeated Ponter, not getting the idiom.
“I mean, he will always remember today because of you.”
“Ah,” said Ponter, smiling at her over the candle. “And I will always remember this day because of you.”
Chapter Forty-one
Assuming Lurt could pull it off, Adikor would have access to the quantum-computing lab tomorrow. But he needed to make some arrangements before then.
Saldak was a big town, but Adikor knew most of the scientists and engineers on its Rim, and a good fraction of those who lived in the Center. In particular, he’d become friends with one of the engineers who maintained the mining robots. Dern Kord was a fat and jolly man—there were those who said he let robots do too much of his work. But a robot was just what this job called for. Adikor set out to see Dern; now that it was evening, Dern should be home from work.
Dern’s house was large and rambling; the tree that formed the bulk of its shape must have been a thousand months old, dating to the very beginnings of modern arboriculture.
“Healthy—well, healthy evening,” said Adikor as he came up to Dern’s home. Dern was seated out on his deck, reading something on an illuminated datapad. A thin mesh between the deck’s floor and the awning above it kept out insects.
“Adikor!” said Dern. “Come in, come in—watch the [358] flap there; don’t let the bugs follow. Will you have drink? Some meat?”
Adikor shook his head. “No, thank you.”
“So, what brings you here?” asked Dern.
“How are your eyes?” asked Adikor. “Your vision?”
Dern flared his nostrils at the odd question. “Fine. I’ve got lenses, of course, but I don’t need them for reading—at least not on this pad; I just choose larger symbols.”
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