A couple of Exhibitionists always sat in on Council sessions, but the item to be announced today was of wide interest, and even Exhibitionists who normally only attended sporting events or poetry readings were in attendance.
High Council president Pandaro rose to address the assembled group. She used a carved wooden cane to help support herself as she did so. “We have studied the issues Scholar Huld and Scholar Boddit have put before us,” she said. “And we have pored over Scholar Boddit’s lengthy narrative of his trip to the Gliksin world, and the limited physical evidence we have from it.”
Ponter fingered the small gold object he sometimes wore around his neck. He’d hated giving it up for analysis, and was delighted to have it back. Mare had handed it to him just before he’d left her world, a pair of overlapping mutually perpendicular gold strips, one longer than the other.
“And, after this deliberation,” Pandaro continued, “we believe the potential value in gaining access to another version of Earth, and another kind of humanity, with scientific expertise and goods to trade, is too great to ignore.”
“It’s a mistake!” shouted a man’s voice from the opposite seating gallery. “Don’t do it!”
Councilor Bedros, next to President Pandaro, fixed a steady gaze on the person who had shouted out. “Your opinion was noted if you bothered to vote in the poll on this matter. Regardless, it is the job of this Council to make decisions, and you will do us the courtesy of waiting until you hear ours.”
Pandaro continued. “The High Gray Council,” she said, “by a fourteen-to-six margin, recommends that Scholars Huld and Boddit attempt to reopen the portal to the parallel universe, with reports to be made to this Council every ten days, and with the decision to continue this work subject to review every three months.”
Ponter rose, and made a little bow. “Thank you, President.” Adikor was on his feet, too, now, and the two men embraced.
“Save that for later,” said Pandaro. “Let’s get down to the marrow of the security and health issues…”
Chapter Eight
“Welcome to the Synergy Group, Professor Vaughan.”
Mary smiled at Jock Krieger. She hadn’t really known what to expect by way of facilities. The Synergy Group, it turned out, was housed in—well, a house: an old-money mansion in the Seabreeze section of Rochester, right on the shore of Lake Ontario. Ponter would have liked this place: Mary had seen a heron walking along the sandy beach, and ducks, geese, and swans in the harbor, which was lined with pleasure craft.
“Let me show you around,” continued Krieger, ushering Mary farther into the old house.
“Thanks,” said Mary.
“We’ve got twenty-four people on staff currently,” said Krieger, “and we’re still growing.”
Mary was stunned. “Twenty-four people all working on Neanderthal immigration issues?”
“No, no, no. Synergy is involved in a lot more than just that. The DNA project is a particularly high priority, because it’s something we may need right away if the portal ever opens again. But here at Synergy we’re studying all aspects of the Neanderthal situation. The U.S. government is particularly interested in the Companion implants, and—”
“Big Brother is watching,” said Mary.
But Krieger shook his head. “No, my dear, nothing like that. It’s simply that, if we believe what Ponter said, the Companion implants can make a 360-degree detailed recording of everything that’s going on around an individual. Now, yes, we do have four sociologists here evaluating whether the particular uses the Neanderthals put that kind of monitoring to might ever have any applicability in this world—although frankly, I doubt it; we value privacy too much. But, again, if the portal reopens, we want to be on an even footing. If their emissaries can effortlessly record everything they see and hear at all times, obviously we’d like our emissaries to their world to have the same advantage. It’s all about trade, after all—fair trade.”
“Ah,” said Mary. “But Ponter said his Companion wasn’t able to transmit anything to the alibi archives from here; none of the images from his visit were recorded.”
“Yes, yes, a minor technological problem, I’m sure. A recorder could be built on this side.”
They had been walking down a long corridor and had now reached its end. Krieger opened a door. Inside were three people—a black man, a white man, and a white woman. The black man was leaning way back in a chair, tossing crumpled up pieces of paper at a wastebasket. The white guy was staring out at the beach and Lake Ontario beyond. And the woman was pacing back and forth in front of a whiteboard, a felt-tipped marker in hand.
“Frank, Kevin, Lilly, I’d like you to meet Mary Vaughan,” said Krieger.
“Hi,” said Mary.
“Are you in imaging?” asked the one who must be Lilly.
“Sorry?”
“Imaging,” said Frank, and “Imaging,” repeated Kevin—or perhaps it was the other way around. “You know,” added the black man, helpfully, “photography and all that.”
Krieger explained. “There’s a reason we’re in Rochester,” he said. “Kodak, Xerox, and Bausch & Lomb all have their headquarters here. As I said, replicating the Companion technology is a priority; there’s no city in the world that has more experts on imaging and optics.”
“Ah,” said Mary. She looked at the three occupants of the room. “No, I’m a geneticist.”
“Oh, I know you!” declared the black man. He got up out of his chair, the chair’s back making a relieved sound as it resumed a normal position. “You’re the woman who spent all that time with NP.”
“NP?”
“Neanderthal Prime,” said Krieger.
“His name is Ponter,” said Mary, somewhat miffed.
“Sorry,” said the black man. He extended his hand. “I’m Kevin Bilodeau, formerly with the skunkworks at Kodak. Listen, we’d love to pick your brain about the Companion implant. You saw it up close. What sort of arrangement of lenses did it have?”
“There was only one,” said Mary.
“You see!” crowed Lilly, looking accusingly at the man who, by process of elimination, must be Frank.
“Ponter said it used sensor fields to record images,” said Mary.
“Did he say what sort of sensors?” “Did he mention charge-coupled devices?” “Holography—did he say anything about holography?” “What sort of resolution did the sensors have?” “Did he mention a pixel count?” “Can you describe—”
“People!” said Jock loudly. “People! Mary’s going to be with us for a good, long time. You’ll have plenty of opportunity to chat with her. She’s still getting the orientation tour.”
The three apologized, and they all made small talk for a few moments, then Krieger led Mary out of the room. “They’re certainly enthusiastic,” she said, once the door was closed.
Krieger nodded. “Everyone here is.”
“But I don’t see how they can accomplish what you’ve asked. I mean, I’ve heard of reverse engineering, but without a sample of a Companion implant, how can they hope to duplicate it?”
“Just knowing that it’s possible may be enough to get them going in the right direction.” Krieger opened the door on the opposite side of the hall, and Mary felt her eyes going wide.
“Louise!” she exclaimed.
Sitting at a worktable, a notebook computer open in front of her, was Louise Benoît, the physics postdoc who had saved Ponter’s life when he’d first appeared inside the heavy-water tank at the heart of the Sudbury Neutrino Observatory.