Hominids

Louise nodded. “I suppose that’s true.”

“What can we do about it?” asked Mary.

Reuben frowned for a time, as if thinking about how to express something. Finally, he said, “There aren’t many people of my color here in Sudbury. Things are better down in Toronto, I’m told, but even there, black men get hassled by the police from time to time. ‘What are you doing here?’ ‘Is this your car?’ ‘Can we see some ID?’” Reuben shook his head. “You learn something going through that. You learn you’ve got rights. Ponter isn’t a criminal, and he isn’t a threat to anyone. He’s not at a border station, so no one can legally demand that he prove he should be allowed to be in Canada. The government may want to control him, the police may want to keep him under surveillance—but that doesn’t matter. Ponter’s got rights.”

“I certainly agree with that,” said Mary.

“Either of you ever been to Japan?” asked Reuben.

Mary shook her head. So did Louise.

“It’s a wonderful country, but there’re almost no non-Japanese there,” said Reuben. “You can go all day without seeing a white face, let alone a black one—I saw precisely two other blacks during the entire week I was there. But I remember walking through downtown Tokyo one day: I must have passed 10,000 people that morning, and they were all Japanese. Then, as I’m walking along, I see this white guy coming toward me. And he smiles at me—he doesn’t know me from Adam, but he sees that I’m a fellow Westerner. And he gives me this smile, like to say I’m so glad to see a brother—a brother! And I suddenly realize that I’m smiling at him, too, and thinking the same thing. I’ve never forgotten that moment.” He looked at Louise, then at Mary. “Well, old Ponter can search all he wants, all over the world, and he’s not going to see a single face that he recognizes as being like him. That white guy and I—and all those Japanese and me—we have much more in common than Ponter does with any of the six billion people on this globe.”

Mary glanced into the kitchen at Ponter, who was still staring out the window, a balled hand under the middle of his long jaw, propping it up. “What can we do about it?” she asked.

“He’s been almost a prisoner since he arrived,” said Reuben, “first in the hospital, then here, quarantined. I’m sure he needs time to think, to get some mental equilibrium.” He paused. “Gillian Ricci tipped me off in an e-mail. Apparently the same thought I had earlier has now occurred to the brass—or should I say the nickel?—at Inco. They want to question Ponter at length about any other mining sites in his world that he might know about. I’m sure he’ll be glad to help, but he still needs more time to adjust.”

“I agree,” said Mary. “But how can we make sure he gets it?”

“They’re lifting the quarantine tomorrow morning, right?” said Reuben. “Well, Gillian says I can hold another press conference here at 10:00 A.M. Of course, the media will be expecting Ponter to be there—so I think we should get him out before then.”

“How?” asked Louise. “The RCMP has the place surrounded—supposedly to keep us safe from people who might try to break in, but probably just as much to keep an eye on Ponter.”

Reuben nodded. “One of us should take him away, out into the country. I’m his doctor; that’s what I prescribe. Rest and relaxation. And that’s what I’ll tell anyone who asks—that he’s on a medical rest leave, ordered by me. We can probably only get away with that for a day or so before suits from Ottawa descend on us, but I really do think Ponter needs it.”

“I’ll do it,” said Mary, surprising herself. “I’ll take him away.”

Reuben looked at Louise to see if she wanted to stake a claim herself, but she simply nodded.

“If we tell the media that the press conference will be at ten, they’ll start showing up at nine,” said Reuben. “But if you and Ponter head out, through my backyard, at, say, eight, you’ll beat them all. There’s a fence at the back, behind all those trees, but you should have no trouble hopping it. Just make sure no one sees you go.”

“And then what?” said Mary. “We just go walkabout?”

“You’ll need a car,” said Louise.

“Well, mine’s back at the Creighton Mine,” said Mary. “But I can’t take yours or Reuben’s. The cops will surely stop us if we try to drive off. As Reuben said, we’ve got to sneak away.”

“No problem,” said Louise. “I can have a friend meet you tomorrow morning on whatever country road is behind Reuben’s place here. He can drive you to the mine, and you can pick up your car there.”

Mary blinked. “Really?”

Louise shrugged a little. “Sure.”

“I—I don’t know this area at all,” said Mary. “We’ll need some maps.”

“Oooh!” said Louise. “I know exactly who to call, then—Garth. He’s got one of those Handspring Visor thingies with a GPS module. It’ll give you directions to any place, and keep you from getting lost.”

“And he’d loan that to me?” said Mary, incredulous. “Aren’t those things expensive?”

“Well—it’d really be me he’d be doing the favor for,” said Louise. “Here, let me call him and set everything up.” She rose to her feet and headed upstairs. Mary watched her go, fascinated and stu

Ponter, she realized, wasn’t the only one feeling out of place.

Jasmel and Adikor took a travel cube back out to the Rim, back to the house Adikor had shared with Ponter. They didn’t say much to each other on the trip back, partly, of course, because Adikor was lost in thought about Daklar Bolbay’s revelation, and partly because neither he nor Jasmel liked the idea that someone at the alibi-archive pavilion was monitoring every word they said and everything they did.

Still, they had a vexing problem. Adikor had to get back down to his subterranean lab; whatever minuscule chance there was that Ponter might be rescued—or, thought Adikor, although he hadn’t shared this thought with Jasmel, that at least his drowned body might be recovered, exonerating Adikor—depended on him getting down there. But how to do that? He looked at his Companion, on the inside of his left wrist. He could gouge it out, he supposed—being careful not to clip his radial artery as he did so. But not only did the Companion rely on Adikor’s own body for its power, it also transmitted his vital signs—and it wouldn’t be able to do that if it were separated from him. Nor could he do a quick transplant onto Jasmel or somebody else; the implant was keyed to Adikor’s particular biometrics.

The travel cube let them off at the house, and Adikor and Jasmel went inside. Jasmel wandered into the kitchen to find Pabo something to eat, and Adikor sat down, staring across the room at the empty chair that had been Ponter’s favorite spot for reading.

Getting around the judicial scrutiny was a problem—a problem, Adikor realized, in science. There must be a way to circumvent it, a way to fool his Companion—and whoever was monitoring its output.

Adikor knew the life story of Lonwis Trob, the creator of the Companion technology; he’d studied his many inventions at the Academy. But that had been long ago, and he remembered few details. Of course, he could simply ask his Companion for the facts he needed; it would access the required information and display it on its little screen or any wall monitor or datapad Adikor selected. But such a request would doubtless catch the attention of the person watching over him.

Adikor felt himself becoming angry, muscles tensing, heart rate increasing, breathing growing deeper. He thought about trying to mask it, but no—he’d let the person who was watching him know how upset they were making him.