course,” said Ponter. “Of course.”
Mary stripped naked—she was losing her self-consciousness about nudity in this world that had never had any religion to impose such taboos—and went through the tuned-laser decontamination process, coherent beams at precise wavelengths passing through her flesh to zap foreign molecules within her body. Already, similar devices were being built in Mary’s world to treat many forms of infection. Sadly, though, since tumors were made of the patient’s own cells, this process couldn’t cure cancers, such as the leukemia that had taken Ponter’s wife, Klast, two years ago.
No—not “taken.” That was a Gliksin term, a euphemism that implied she’d gone somewhere, and at least by the standards of these people, she hadn’t. As Ponter himself would say, she no longer existed.
And not “Ponter’s wife,” either. The term was
yat-dija
—“woman-mate.” When in the Neanderthal world, Mary really did try to think in Neanderthal terms; it made it easier to deal with the differences.
The lasers danced over—and through—Mary’s body until the square light above the door changed color, signaling that she should leave. Mary stepped out and began changing into Neanderthal clothes, while Ponter took his turn in the chamber. He’d fallen ill with equine distemper while in Mary’s world the first time—members of
Homo sapiens
were immune to it, but
Homo neanderthalensis
individuals were not. This process made sure they weren’t bringing the
Streptococcus equii
bacterium, or any other nasty germs or viruses, across with them; everybody who passed through the portal was subjected to it.
No one who had any choice would live where Cornelius Ruskin did. Driftwood was a rough neighborhood, full of crime and drugs. Its only appeal for Cornelius was that it was an easy walk to the York University campus.
He took the elevator down the fourteen floors to the grungy lobby of his building. Still, despite everything, he had a certain—well, affection was too strong a word, but a certain gratitude for the place. After all, living within walking distance of York saved him the cost of a car, driver’s insurance, and a university parking permit—or the alternative, the monthly $93.50 for a Toronto Transit Commission Metro-Pass.
It was a beautiful day with a clear blue sky. Cornelius was wearing a brown suede jacket. He continued up the road, past the convenience shop that had bars on its windows. That seedy little store had a giant rack of porno mags and dusty tin cans of food. It was where Cornelius bought his cigarettes; fortunately he’d had half a carton of du Mauriers in his apartment.
Cornelius crossed onto the York campus, walking by one of the residence towers. Students were milling about, some still in short sleeves, others wearing sweatshirts. He suspected he might be able to get testosterone supplements at York. Why, he could even devise a genetics project that might require them. That certainly would be an incentive to go back to his old job, but…
But things
had
changed in Cornelius. For one thing, the nightmares had finally ended, and he was now sleeping like a rock. Instead of lying awake for an hour or two, tossing and turning, fuming over all the things that were wrong in his life—all the slights, all his anger at having no one in his life—instead of lying awake, tortured by all that, he’d fall asleep within moments of putting his head to the pillow, sleep soundly through the night, and wake refreshed.
True, for a while, he hadn’t wanted to get out of bed, but he was over that now. He felt…not energetic, not ready for the daily fight for survival. No, he felt something he hadn’t felt for years, since the summers of his childhood, when he was away from school, away from the bullies, away from the daily beatings-up.
Cornelius Ruskin felt
calm
.
“Hello, Dr. Ruskin,” said a perky male voice.
Cornelius turned. It was one of his Eukaryotic Genetics
Mary stripped naked—she was losing her self-consciousness about nudity in this world that had never had any religion to impose such taboos—and went through the tuned-laser decontamination process, coherent beams at precise wavelengths passing through her flesh to zap foreign molecules within her body. Already, similar devices were being built in Mary’s world to treat many forms of infection. Sadly, though, since tumors were made of the patient’s own cells, this process couldn’t cure cancers, such as the leukemia that had taken Ponter’s wife, Klast, two years ago.
No—not “taken.” That was a Gliksin term, a euphemism that implied she’d gone somewhere, and at least by the standards of these people, she hadn’t. As Ponter himself would say, she no longer existed.
And not “Ponter’s wife,” either. The term was
yat-dija
—“woman-mate.” When in the Neanderthal world, Mary really did try to think in Neanderthal terms; it made it easier to deal with the differences.
The lasers danced over—and through—Mary’s body until the square light above the door changed color, signaling that she should leave. Mary stepped out and began changing into Neanderthal clothes, while Ponter took his turn in the chamber. He’d fallen ill with equine distemper while in Mary’s world the first time—members of
Homo sapiens
were immune to it, but
Homo neanderthalensis
individuals were not. This process made sure they weren’t bringing the
Streptococcus equii
bacterium, or any other nasty germs or viruses, across with them; everybody who passed through the portal was subjected to it.
No one who had any choice would live where Cornelius Ruskin did. Driftwood was a rough neighborhood, full of crime and drugs. Its only appeal for Cornelius was that it was an easy walk to the York University campus.
He took the elevator down the fourteen floors to the grungy lobby of his building. Still, despite everything, he had a certain—well, affection was too strong a word, but a certain gratitude for the place. After all, living within walking distance of York saved him the cost of a car, driver’s insurance, and a university parking permit—or the alternative, the monthly $93.50 for a Toronto Transit Commission Metro-Pass.
It was a beautiful day with a clear blue sky. Cornelius was wearing a brown suede jacket. He continued up the road, past the convenience shop that had bars on its windows. That seedy little store had a giant rack of porno mags and dusty tin cans of food. It was where Cornelius bought his cigarettes; fortunately he’d had half a carton of du Mauriers in his apartment.
Cornelius crossed onto the York campus, walking by one of the residence towers. Students were milling about, some still in short sleeves, others wearing sweatshirts. He suspected he might be able to get testosterone supplements at York. Why, he could even devise a genetics project that might require them. That certainly would be an incentive to go back to his old job, but…
But things
had
changed in Cornelius. For one thing, the nightmares had finally ended, and he was now sleeping like a rock. Instead of lying awake for an hour or two, tossing and turning, fuming over all the things that were wrong in his life—all the slights, all his anger at having no one in his life—instead of lying awake, tortured by all that, he’d fall asleep within moments of putting his head to the pillow, sleep soundly through the night, and wake refreshed.
True, for a while, he hadn’t wanted to get out of bed, but he was over that now. He felt…not energetic, not ready for the daily fight for survival. No, he felt something he hadn’t felt for years, since the summers of his childhood, when he was away from school, away from the bullies, away from the daily beatings-up.
Cornelius Ruskin felt
calm
.
“Hello, Dr. Ruskin,” said a perky male voice.
Cornelius turned. It was one of his Eukaryotic Genetics
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