She concluded her remarks by mentioning the meal they were going to enjoy later that day, with huge oysters and even huger lobsters. Then she called on Ponter Boddit to say some more.
“Thank you,” said Ponter, moving out to stand in front of everyone. Jock was having a bit of trouble hearing him; the Neanderthals had no notion of microphone stands or loudspeakers for speeches, since voices were picked up by and relayed to Companions without any such extra equipment.
“We have worked hard,” continued Ponter, “to try to find the exact spot on our version of Earth that corresponds to the location of your United Nations headquarters. As you know, we do not have satellites—and so we do not have anything as good as your global positioning system. Our surveyors are still arguing among themselves—we might be off by several tens of meters, although we are hoping to resolve that issue. Still…” He turned and pointed. “See those trees there? We believe that they mark the location of the main entrance to the Secretariat building.” He turned. “And that swamp, over there? That is where the General Assembly is located.”
Jock looked on in amazement. This was New York City—without the millions of people, without the air that made your eyes sting, without the bumper-to-bumper traffic, the thousands of taxis, the jostling crowds, the stench, the noise. This was Manhattan…as it had been only a few hundred years ago, as it had been back in 1626 when Peter Minuit bought it from the Indians for $24, as it had been before it had been paved over and built up and polluted.
The others in the delegation were chatting among themselves; those who were speaking English seemed to be echoing Jock’s thoughts.
Ponter began walking, heading toward the shore of the East River. It was closer than it should have been—but, then again, much of modern Manhattan was recovered land. The Neanderthal knelt by the shore and dipped curved hands into the river, splashing water repeatedly against his broad face.
Jock noted that a few of the others wore bland expressions, the significance lost on them. But it wasn’t lost on him.
Ponter Boddit had just washed his face with raw, untreated, unprocessed, unfiltered, unpolluted water from the East River.
Jock shook his head, hating what his people had done to their world, and wishing there was some way they could start over, with a fresh, clean slate.
Chapter Twenty-eight
“I believe we, the humans of this Earth, should commit ourselves, before another decade has gone by, to launching an international team of women and men to the red planet…”
Mary and Bandra had watched the transmissions from the Exhibitionists on Donakat Island. It was fun seeing Ponter on what amounted to Neanderthal TV, and certainly the project to establish another portal was fascinating.
Ponter had spent some time describing the difficulties with building a portal on the surface; his original quantum computer had been buried deep underground to shield it from solar radiation that might promote decoherence of the quantum registers. But even when Ponter and Adikor had made their breakthrough—literally breaking through into another universe—a second group of Barast researchers in Europe had been attempting to factor similarly large numbers. The members of that team had been female, and they apparently were en route to Donakat by ocean ship to provide their expertise in shielding techniques.
“It looks like you’ve got yourself a good man there,” said Bandra.
Mary smiled. “Thanks.”
“How long have you known him?”
Mary looked away from Bandra’s wheat-colored eyes. “Only since August 3rd.”
Bandra tipped her head, listening to her own Companion translate the date. Mary thought Bandra was going to say something scolding about how short a period of time it was; after all, Mary had never lost an opportunity to tell her sister Christine that she was moving too fast, falling head over heels for one “real find” after another. But instead Bandra said, “You are very lucky to have found him.”
Mary nodded. She was lucky. And, besides, she knew lots of people who had had whirlwind romances before. Yes, she’d known Colm a lot longer than she’d known Ponter by the time Colm proposed and she accepted, but she’d had doubts back then.
She had no doubts now.
When something felt this right, there was no reason to delay.
“Carpe diem, ” said Mary.
Bandra’s translator bleeped.
“Sorry,” said Mary. “That’s Latin—another language. It means ‘seize the day.’ Don’t spend your whole life fretting; just grab the moment, and go for it.”
“A good philosophy,” said Bandra. She got up from the couch. “We should attend to the evening meal.”
Mary nodded, rose, and followed Bandra into the food-preparation area. Bandra had a large vacuum box that stored food without refrigeration, and a laser cooker, which employed the same sort of tunable-laser technology used in the decontamination chambers.
The top of the vacuum box had a square screen set into it, displaying an inventory of the contents so that the seal didn’t have to be broken to determine what was inside. “Mammoth?” said Bandra, looking at the list.
“My goodness, yes!” said Mary. “I’ve been dying to try some.”
Bandra smiled, opened the vacuum box—which hissed when she did so—and selected a pair of chops. She transferred them to the laser cooker and spoke some instructions to it.
“It must be hard, hunting mammoth,” said Mary.
“I’ve never done it myself,” replied Bandra. “Those whose contribution it is to do so say there’s a simple technique.” She shrugged a little. “But, as you would say, the putative evil one lurks in minutiae.”
Mary blinked, trying to decipher Christine’s translation of what Bandra had just said. “‘The devil is in the details,’ you mean.”
“Exactamundo!” said Bandra.
Mary laughed. “I’m going to miss you when I leave.”
Bandra smiled. “I’m going to miss you, too. Whenever you need a place to stay in this world, you’re welcome here.”
“Thank you, but…”
Bandra raised one of her large hands. “Oh, I know. You only plan to come to visit when Two are One, and then you’ll be spending time with Ponter. And I will…”
“I’m so sorry, Bandra. There must be something we can do.”
“Let’s not dwell on it. Let’s just enjoy the time we’ve got before you have to leave.”
“Carpe diem? ” said Mary.
Bandra smiled. “Exactamundo.”
The dinner was excellent; mammoth had a rich, complex flavor, and the maple-sugar salad dressing Bandra prepared was to-die-for.
Mary leaned back in the saddle-seat and sighed contentedly. “It’s a pity you people don’t have wine.”
“Wine,” repeated Bandra. “What is that?”
“A beverage. Alcohol. Fermented grapes.”
“Is it delicious?”
“Well, um, that’s not the point—or, at least, it’s only part of the point. Alcohol affects the central nervous system, at least in Gliksins. It makes us feel mellow, relaxed.”
“I am relaxed,” said Bandra.
Mary smiled. “Actually, so am I.”
The Globe and Mail Ponter had brought Mary had reported the results of a study to determine the funniest joke in the world. That didn’t mean the one that made people laugh the hardest—it wasn’t an attempt to replicate Monty Python’s secret-weapon joke, which would cause anyone who heard it to die laughing. Rather, it was a project to find a joke that cut across cultural lines so that almost all human beings found it funny.