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 students—John, Jim…something like that; the guy wanted to become a genetics prof, he’d said. Cornelius wanted to tell the poor sap to drop out now; there were no decent jobs these days for white men in academe. But instead he just forced a smile and said, “Hello.”
“Great to have you back!” said the student, heading off in the other direction.
Cornelius continued along the sidewalk, fields of grass on one side, a parking lot on the other. He knew where he was going, of course: the Farquahrson Life Sciences Building. But he’d never before noticed what a funny-sounding name that was: it now made him think of Charlie Farquahrson, the hick character Toronto’s Don Harron had played for years on CFRB radio and the U.S. TV series Hee Haw. Cornelius shook his head; he’d always been too…too something …when approaching that building to let such a whimsical thought percolate to the surface.
Walking on autopilot, his feet trod the well-known terrain. But suddenly, with a start, he realized that he’d come to…
It didn’t have a name, and he’d never even bestowed one upon it in his mind. But this was it: the two retaining walls that met at right angles, far from any lighting standard, shielded by large trees. This was the spot, the place where he’d thrown two different women against the wall. This was where he’d shown Qaiser Remtulla who really was in charge. And this was where he’d rammed it into Mary Vaughan.
Cornelius used to walk by here even in broad daylight when he needed a boost, reminding himself that at least some of the time he had been in control. Often, merely the sight of this place used to give him a raging hard-on, but this time his groin didn’t stir at all.
The walls were covered with graffiti. For the same reason Cornelius chose this spot, spray-paint artists liked it, as did lovers who wanted to immortalize their youthful commitment, just as…
He’d long since obliterated it, but, once upon a time, eons ago, his initials and Melody’s had shared a cartoon heart here.
Cornelius blinked that thought away, looked once again at this place, then turned his back on it.
It was much too nice a day to go to work, he thought, heading back home, the day seeming even brighter still.
Chapter Twelve
“It was that questing spirit that lifted the wings of Orville and Wilbur Wright, of Amelia Earhart, of Chuck Yeager…”
As Mary and Ponter emerged from the elevator building at the Debral nickel mine, Mary was astonished to find it was dark, given that it should only be the middle of the afternoon. She looked up and gasped.
“My God. I’ve never seen so many birds!” A great cloud of them was flying overhead, virtually obliterating the sun. Many were making a kek-kek-kek call.
“Really?” said Ponter. “They are a common type.”
“Apparently so!” exclaimed Mary. She continued to look up. “Good Christ,” she said, noting the pinkish bodies and the blue-gray heads. “They’re passenger pigeons!”
“I doubt they could carry a passenger,” said Ponter.
“No, no, no. But that’s what we called them. That, or Ectopistes migratorius. I know them well; I’d been working on recovering DNA from them.”
“I noticed the absence of these birds when I first visited your world. They are extinct there, are they not?”
“Yes.”
“Through the fault of Gliksins?”
Mary nodded. “Yes.” She shrugged. “We hunted them to death.”
Ponter shook his head. “No wonder you had to adopt this thing you call agriculture. Our name for this bird is—Hak, do not translate the next word—quidrat. They are delicious, and we eat them often.”
“Really?” said Mary.
Ponter nodded. “Yes. I am sure you will have some during your stay here.”
As soon as Hak had regained access to the planetary information network, Ponter had had him request a travel cube. That vehicle was now barreling toward them. It was about the size of an SUV, but it worked by large fans mounted on its base and rear, plus a trio of smaller ones for steering. The cube was mostly transparent, and contained four saddle-seats, one of which was occupied by the male driver, a trim member of generation 146.
The travel cube slowed, then settled to the ground, and most of one side flipped up, providing access to the interior. Ponter clambered in, taking the far rear seat. Mary followed him, taking the other rear seat. Ponter spoke briefly to the driver, and the cube rose. Mary watched the driver operate the two main control levers, rotating the cube and setting it on its way toward Ponter’s home.
Mary had strapped on a temporary Companion before leaving the elevator building; all Gliksins who visited the Neanderthal world were required to wear them, constantly monitoring their activities, and transmitting information to the alibi archives. But the damned things itched. Mary found herself sticking a ballpoint pen she’d brought with her underneath the Companion, trying to scratch with it. “Are the permanent ones this uncomfortable?” she asked, looking at Ponter.