Hominids tnp-1

by Robert J. Sawyer

  Question: How many Neanderthals does it take to change a light bulb? Answer: All of them.

  … 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 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 house 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.

  “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 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 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 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 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 the 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 41

  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 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.”

  “Go get your lenses,” said Adikor. “I have something I want to show you.”

  Dern looked puzzled, but headed into the house. A moment later, he emerged with a pair of lenses connected to a wide elasticized fabric band. He slipped the band over his head, bringing it down to nestle in the furrow behind his browridge. The lenses were on little hinges; he flipped them down over his eyes and looked at Adikor expectantly.

  Adikor reached into the pouch attached to the left hip of his pant and pulled out the sheet of thin plastic he’d written on this afternoon. Adikor had made the symbols as small as he possibly could—he’d had to search for a stylus with a fine-enough point. Scanner resolution had improved since those images of Adikor hitting Ponter had been recorded, but there still was a limit to how much detail could be made out. Adikor had endured cramps in his right hand making ideograms smaller than anyone back at the archive building could possibly read.

  “What’s this?” said Dern. taking the sheet and peering at it. “Oh!” he exclaimed as he began reading. “Really! Do you think? Well, well … I can’t let you have a new one, of course—not if there’s a good chance you’re going to lose it. But I’ve got several old ones that are due to be decommissioned; one of those should fit the bill.” Adikor nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Now, where and when do you need this?”

  Adikor was about to shush him, but for all his exuberance, Dern was no idiot. He nodded after finding the information he was looking for on the sheet. “Yes, that’s fine. I’ll be there, waiting for you.”

  * * *

  After dinner, Ponter and Mary got into Mary’s car and started driving back toward Sudbury. “I enjoyed today,” said Ponter. “I enjoyed getting out of the city. But I suppose I should now see other places.”

  Mary smiled. “There’s a whole wide world out there waiting to meet you.”

  “I understand,” said Ponter. “And I must accept my new life as … a curiosity.”

  Mary opened her mouth to protest, but couldn’t think of anything to say. Ponter was a curiosity; in a crueler century, he’d have ended up as a circus freak. Finally, she just let the comment pass, and said, “Our world has a lot of variety. I mean, geographically it’s no more varied than yours, I’m sure, but we have many cultures, many kinds of architecture, many ancient buildings.”

  “I understand that I must travel; that I must contribute,” said Ponter. “I had thought to stay here, to stay near Sudbury, in case, somehow, the portal reopened, but it has been so many days now. I am sure Adikor has tried; he must, therefore, have failed—the conditions must not be reproducible.” Mary could hear reluctant acceptance growing behind his words. “Yes, I will go wherever I am expected to go; I will go far from here.”

  By then they were well away from the lights of the inn and the small village it had been part of. Mary looked out her side window, noticing the sky.

  “My God,” she said.

  “What?” said Ponter.

  “Look at all those stars! I’ve never seen so many!” Mary pulled the car over to the side of the country road, getting it well up on the shoulder, out of the way of any traffic that might come along. “I’ve got to have a look.” She got out of her car, and Ponter did the same. “It’s gorgeous,” said Mary, bending her neck backward and looking up.

  “I always enjoy the night sky,” said Ponter.

  “I never get to see it like this,” said Mary. “Not in Toronto.” She snorted. “I live on a street called Observatory Lane, but you’re lucky if you can see a few dozen stars on even the darkest winter night.”

  “We do not light up the outside world at night,” said Ponter.

  Mary shook her head in wonder, imagining not needing to have streetlights, not needing to protect yourself from your own kind. But suddenly her heart jumped. “There’s something in the bush,” she said softly.

  She couldn’t really see Ponter as anything more than a vague outline, but she could hear him inhale deeply. “Just a raccoon,” he said. “Nothing to worry about.”

  Mary rel
axed and tipped her head up to look at the stars some more. Her neck creaked a bit as she did so; it wasn’t a comfortable posture. But then a memory came back to her from her teenage years. She stepped over to the Neon’s front, and scooted her rear up onto the hood, then worked her way back until she was leaning comfortably against the windshield on the driver’s side. She patted the hood next to her and said, “Here, Ponter. Have a seat.”

  Ponter moved in the dark and made his way up onto the hood as well, the metal groaning as it took his weight. He leaned back against the glass next to Mary.

  “We used to do this when I was a kid,” Mary said. “When my father took us camping.”

  “It is a great way to look at the sky,” said Ponter.

  “Isn’t it, though?” said Mary. She let out a long contented sigh. “Look at the Milky Way! I’ve never seen it like that!”

  “Milky Way?” said Ponter. “Oh, I see, yes. We call it the Night River.”

  “It’s lovely,” said Mary. She looked to her right. Ursa Major sprawled across the sky above the trees.

  Ponter turned his head as well. “That pattern there,” he said. “What do you call it?”

  “The Big Dipper,” said Mary. “Well, at least that part—those seven bright stars. That’s what we call it here in North America. The Brits call it ‘The Plow.’”

  Bleep.

  “A farming implement.”

  Ponter laughed. “I should have known. We call it the Head of the Mammoth. See? It is a profile. That is his trunk arching out from the block-shaped head.”