Humans (18 page)

“But they didn’t domesticate animals, even though you said there were plenty in Europe that could have been. And they didn’t farm.”

“Hello!” said Henry. “Earth to Angela!
No one
domesticated animals when the Neanderthals lived on this Earth. And no one farmed then—not Ponter’s ancestors, and not yours or mine. Farming began in the Fertile Crescent 10,500 years ago. That was long after the Neanderthals had died out—at least, in this time line. Who knows what they would have done had they survived?”

“I do,” said Ponter, simply.

Mary laughed.

“All right,” said Henry. “Then tell us. Your people never developed agriculture, right?”

“That is right,” said Ponter.

Henry nodded. “You’re probably better off without farming, anyway. A lot of bad stuff goes along with agriculture.”

“Like what?” said Mary, being careful, now that Henry had apparently calmed down a bit, to have her voice convey curiosity rather than a challenge.

“Well,” said Henry, “I already alluded to overpopulation. And the effect on the land is obvious: forests are chopped down to make farmland. Plus, of course, there are the diseases that come from domesticated animals.”

Mary saw that Ponter was nodding. Reuben Montego had explained that to them back in Sudbury.

Dieter—who turned out to be pretty sharp for an aluminum siding guy—nodded. “And there’s more to it than just physical diseases; there are cultural diseases. Slavery, for instance: that’s a direct product of agriculture’s need for labor.”

Mary looked at Ponter, feeling uncomfortable. That was the second reference to slavery Ponter had heard here in Washington. Mary knew she had some ’splaining to d o…

“That’s right,” said Henry. “Most slaves were plantation workers. And even when you don’t have literal slavery, agriculture gives rise to what amounts to the same thing: share cropping, peonage, and so on. Not to mention the class-based society, feudalism, landowners, and all that; they’re all directly a product of agriculture.”

Angela shifted in her chair. “But even when it came to hunting, the archeological record showed our ancestors were much better at it than were the Neanderthals,” she said.

Ponter had looked lost during the discussion of agriculture and feudalism. But he had clearly understood Angela’s last statement. “In what way?” he asked.

“Well,” said Angela, “we don’t see any evidence of efficiency in your ancestors’ approach to hunting.”

Ponter frowned. “How do you mean?”

“Neanderthals only killed animals one at a time.” As soon as the words were out, Angela clearly realized she’d made a mistake.

Ponter’s eyebrow went up. “How did your ancestors hunt?”

Angela looked uncomfortable. “Well, um…what we used to do, was, well, we used to drive whole herds of animals off cliffs, killing hundreds at once.”

Ponter’s golden eyes were wide. “But—but that is so…so
profligate,”
he said. “Surely even your large populations could not make use of all that meat. And, besides, it seems cowardly to kill like that.”

“I—I don’t know that I’d put it that way,” said Angela, reddening. “I mean, we think of it as foolhardy to put yourself at unnecessary risk, so—”

“You jump out of airplanes,” said Ponter. “You dive off cliffs. You turn punching and hitting into an organized sport. I have seen this all on television.”

“We don’t
all
do those things,” said Mary, gently.

“All right, then,” said Ponter. “But in addition to hazardous sports, I have seen other behaviors that are common. He gestured toward the bar. “Smoking tobacco, drinking alcohol, both of which I am given to understand are dangerous, and”—he nodded at Henry—“both of which, incidentally, are products of agriculture. Surely those activities qualify as ‘unnecessary risks.’ How can you kill animals in such a cowardly fashion, but then take such risks as—oh, oh, wait. I see. I think I see.”

“What?” said Mary.

“Yes, what?” asked Henry.

“Give me a moment,” said Ponter, clearly pursuing an elusive thought. A few seconds later, he nodded, having captured what he was after. “You Gliksins drink alcohol, smoke, and engage in hazardous sports to demonstrate your
residual capacity
. You are saying to those around you, see, here, during flush times, I can run myself down substantially, and still function well, thereby proving to prospective mates that I am not currently operating at the peak of my abilities. Therefore, in lean times, I will obviously have the excess strength and endurance to still be a good provider.”

“Really?” said Mary. “What a fascinating notion!”

“I understand it, because my kind does the same thing—but in other ways. When we hunt—”

Mary got it in a flash. “When hunting,” she said, “you
don’t
take the easy way out. You don’t drive animals off cliffs, or throw spears at them from a safe distance—something my ancestors did, but yours did not, at least on this version of Earth. No, here your people engaged in close-quarters attacks on prey animals, fighting them one-on-one, and thrusting spears into them by hand. I guess it
is
the same thing as smoking and drinking: look, honey, I can bring down supper with my bare hands, so if things get tough, and I have to hunt in safer ways, you can be sure I’ll still bring home the bacon.”

“Exactly,” said Ponter.

Mary nodded. “It makes sense.” She gestured at a thin man sitting on the opposite side of the bar. “Erik Trinkaus, there, found that many Neanderthal fossils showed the same sort of upper-body injuries we find in modern rodeo riders, as if they’d been bucked by animals, presumably while in close combat with them.”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” said Ponter. “I have been thrown by a mammoth now and again, and—”

“You’ve what?”
said Henry.

“Been thrown by a mammoth…”

“A
mammoth?”
repeated Angela, agog.

Mary grinned. “I can see we’re going to be here a while. Let me get everyone another round…”

“Excuse me, Ambassador Prat,” said the young male aide, entering the lounge at the United Nations. “A diplomatic pouch has arrived for you from Sudbury.”

Tukana Prat glanced at the ten esteemed Neanderthals who were variously sitting down, looking out the huge window, or lying on their backs on the floor. She sighed. “I’ve been expecting this,” she said to them in their language, then, letting her Companion translate, she thanked the aide and took the leather pouch with the Canadian coat of arms tooled into it.

Inside was a memory bead. Tukana opened the faceplate on her Companion and inserted the bead. She told her Companion to play the message through its external speaker, so that everyone in the room could hear.

“Ambassador Tukana Prat,” said Councilor Bedros’s furious voice, “what you’ve done is inexcusable. I—
we
—the High Gray Council—insist that you and those you duped into traveling with you return at once. We’re”—he paused, and Tukana thought she could hear him swallow, presumably trying to calm down—“we’re very concerned about the safety of all of them. The contributions they make to our society are inestimable. You, and they, must return to Saldak immediately upon receipt of this message.”

Lonwis Trob shook his ancient head. “Young whippersnapper.”

“Well, there’s no way they’re going to close the portal with us on this side,” said Derba Jonk, the stem-cell expert.

“That much is certain,” said Dor Farrer, the poet, grinning.

Tukana nodded. “I want to thank you all again for agreeing to come with me here. I assume no one wants to heed Councilor Bedros’s request?”

“Are you kidding?” said Lonwis Trob, his blue mechanical eyes turning to Tukana. “I haven’t had so much fun in ten months.”

Tukana smiled. “All right,” she said. “Let’s go over our schedules for tomorrow. Krik, you are to perform in the morning on a video program called
Good Morning America;
they’re covering the expenses to have an ice-horn flown down overnight from the portal, and, yes, they understand that it has to be kept frozen. Jalsk, the U.S. track team for something called ‘the Olympics’ is coming to New York to meet you tomorrow; that will take place at the New York University athletics center. Dor, a Gliksin named Ralph Vicinanza, who is what they call a literary agent, wants to take you out for a midday meal. Adjudicator Harbron and Scholar Klimilk, you’re lecturing at the Columbia Law School tomorrow afternoon. Borl, you and a UN official are to appear on something called
The Late Show with David Letterman,
which will be recorded in the afternoon. Lonwis, you and I are scheduled to speak tomorrow night at the Rose Center for Earth and Space. And, of course, there are a slew of meetings we have to attend here at the United Nations.”

Kobast Gant, the AI expert, smiled. “I bet my old buddy Ponter Boddit is glad we’re here. It must be taking some of the pressure off him; I know how he hates to be the center of attention.”

Tukana nodded. “Yes, I’m sure he can use some rest, after what happened to him…”

Ponter, Mary, and the ever-present FBI man finally left the hotel bar and headed toward the bank of elevators. They were alone; no one else was waiting for a ride, and the night clerk at the front desk, dozens of meters away, was seated, quietly reading a copy of
USA Today
while munching on one of the free Granny Smith apples the hotel provided.

“It’s past the end of my shift, ma’am,” said Carlos. “Agent Burstein is on duty on your floor, and he’ll keep an eye on you up there.”

“Thank you, Carlos,” said Mary.

He nodded, and spoke into a small communications device. “Foxy Lady and Beef cake are on their way up.” Mary smiled. When told they were to be assigned code names by the FBI—which was
so
cool—she’d asked if she could choose them. Carlos turned his attention back to Mary and Ponter. “Good night, ma’am. Good night, sir.” But of course he didn’t leave the hotel; he just stepped a discreet distance away and waited until the elevator arrived.

Mary suddenly felt a bit flush, although she knew it was actually less warm here than it had been in the bar. And, no, it wasn’t that she was nervous about the fact that she’d be alone with Ponter in the elevator. A strange man—yes, that would probably creep her out for the rest of her life. But Ponter? No. Never.

Still, Mary
did
feel warm. She found her eyes searching for anything other than Ponter’s golden brown irises. She looked at the LEDs indicating what floors the five elevators were on; she looked at the framed notice above the call button advertising the hotel’s Sunday brunch; she looked at the emergency notice for firefighters.

One of the elevators arrived, and its doors opened with an interesting drumroll sound. Ponter made a gallant after you gesture with his arm, and Mary entered the lift, waving goodbye to Carlos, who nodded solemnly. Ponter followed her in and looked at the control panel. He was fine at reading numerals—the Neanderthals might never have developed an alphabet, but they did have a decimal counting system, including a place holder sign for zero. He reached over and tapped the square labeled 12, and smiled as it illuminated.

Mary wished her room wasn’t also on the twelfth floor. She’d already had the conversation with Ponter about why there was no thirteenth floor. But if there
had
been a thirteenth floor, maybe she would have been on that one instead. It didn’t matter; she wasn’t superstitious—although, she reflected, Ponter would say she
was
. By his definition, everyone who believed in God was superstitious.

Still, if she’d been on another floor—
any
other floor—then their good night would be short and sweet. Just a jaunty wave and a “See you tomorrow” from whichever of them happened to get out first.

The boxy LED 8 above the doors lost a segment, becoming a 9.

But this way,
thought Mary,
there would have to be more.

She felt the elevator come to a stop, and the doors shuddered open. Waiting there was Agent Burstein. Mary nodded at him. She half hoped he would fall in beside Ponter and walk along the corridor with them, but he seemed content to stay by the elevator station.

And so, Ponter and Mary headed down the corridor, past the alcove with the ice machine, past room after room, until…

“Well,” said Mary, heart pounding. She fished in her purse for her card key, “this one is mine.”

She looked at Ponter. Ponter looked at her. He never got his key out early; it was always the last thing he thought of, coming from a world where few doors had locks, and those that did opened to signals from Companions.

Ponter said nothing. “So,” she said, awkwardly, “I guess this is good night.”

Ponter was still silent as he reached over and touched her hand, deftly extracting the card key. He pressed it into the lock and waited for the LED to flash. He then reached for the handle and opened the door, letting it swing wide.

Mary found herself looking over her shoulder, checking to see if the corridor was empty. Of course, there was the ever-present FBI man. She was hardly comfortable about that, but at least it wasn’t one of the paleoanthropologists…

Ponter’s hand now slid up Mary’s arm, slowly, gently, and reached her shoulder. He then moved it oh so gently to the side of her face, sweeping her hair behind her ear.

And then, it finally happened.

His face came in toward hers, and his mouth touched her mouth, and Mary felt a wave of pleasure sweep over her body. His arms were around her now, and hers around him, and—

And Mary couldn’t really say who was leading, but they danced sideways together, still embracing, through the door, and Ponter gently kicked it shut with his foot.

Suddenly, Ponter reached down and swept Mary up in his arms, carrying her, as if she were no heavier than a child, past the bathroom and over to the queen-sized bed, where he gently laid her down on top of the sheets.

Mary’s heart was pounding even harder than before. She hadn’t felt this way for twenty years, not since her very first time with Donny when his parents were away for the weekend.

Ponter hovered over her for a second, his eyebrow lifted questioningly, giving her a chance to stop things from going further. Mary smiled a little and reached up, slipping her arms around his massive neck, pulling him down toward her.

For a moment, Mary expected them to act out one of those scenes she’d seen so many times in movies but had never had the chance to play in real life, clothes magically melting off them as they rolled over and over on the sheets.

But that was not to be. Mary realized that Ponter really had no idea about undoing buttons, and was fumbling horribly, although she did enjoy the feeling of his knuckles bouncing against her breasts as he tried.

For her part, Mary had hoped to do a little better, having been instructed by Hak after the shooting in how to open the shoulder seals on a Neanderthal shirt. But the last time she’d done that, it had been broad daylight. Now, though, she and Ponter were mostly in the dark. Neither of them had turned on the room lights when they’d come in; the only illumination was what spilled in through the windows, whose heavy brown curtains weren’t drawn.

They had rolled so that Mary was on top now, and she maneuvered until she was sitting up, straddling Ponter’s chest. She reached for the top button on her blouse. It came free easily, and Mary looked down. She could see her little gold crucifix—the one she’d bought recently to replace the one she’d given Ponter on his first visit—sitting against the inverted triangle of white flesh the opening in her shirt exposed.

She undid a second button, and the shirt fell open wider, revealing parts of her plain white bra.

Mary looked down at Ponter, trying to read his expression, but he was looking at her chest, such as it was, and the overhang of his browridge made it impossible for her to see his eyes. Was he looking at her with pleasure, or with dismay? She had no idea how buxom Neanderthal women usually were, but judging by Ambassador Prat, they had a lot of body hair, and Mary’s chest was hairless.

And then, in the half darkness, she heard Ponter speak, in his own voice, “You are beautiful.”

Mary felt the concern, the inhibition, draining from her. She undid the remaining buttons and then reached behind her back and unclasped her bra. She let it slide off her breasts, and Ponter’s hands moved up her stomach, reaching them, cupping them, weighing them in his hands. And then he pulled her down, shimmying her down his torso, and his wide mouth found her left breast, and Mary gasped, and he sucked its entirety into his mouth and teased and caressed it with his tongue.

And then his mouth shifted to her right breast, his tongue tracing a wet path across the flatness between the two of them, and he found her other nipple and drew it between his lips and sucked gently on it, and Mary felt electricity running up and down her spine.

Although Ponter was still fully clothed, Mary could feel his erection pressing against her thigh. She was suddenly desperate to see it; she’d seen him naked before, when they were quarantined together at Reuben’s house, but never when he was aroused. She pushed herself up with her arms, her nipple slipping from between Ponter’s lips, and shifted herself down his frame so that her hands were free to work upon his waist. But she was flummoxed about how to undo his pants; he’d shed his medical belt as soon as he arrived in the room, but his pants lacked a clasp—although the bulge of his penis was certainly obvious.

Ponter laughed, reached down, and did something to the garment, and suddenly it was loose about his waist. He arched his back and pulled it down over his hips, and—

And apparently Neanderthals didn’t wear underwear.

Ponter was massive—thick and long. He was uncircumcised although his purpling glans was sticking well past the foreskin just now. Mary ran the flat of her hand slowly down the length of his penis, feeling it move with each beat of his heart.

She then shifted off of him, and helped pull his pants the rest of the way down. His feet were enclosed in pouches attached to the pant legs, belted tight in two places, but he quickly dealt with those. Now, he was naked from the waist down—and Mary was naked from the waist up. She slipped her legs off the bed, and stood up, quickly kicking off her shoes and unfastening her skirt, which she let drop to the floor. Ponter’s eyes were locked on her body, and she saw them go wide. Mary looked down and laughed; she was wearing simple beige panties and in the dim light it looked as though she was completely smooth and featureless down there. She hooked her thumbs into the elastic waistband, and pulled the panties down, revealing—

She’d heard that it was fashionable these days for women to trim away much of their pubic hair; she’d once heard Howard Stern refer to what was left as a “landing strip.” But Mary did nothing but neaten up the edges when she shaved her legs, and for the first time, she realized, Ponter was seeing thick body hair on a Gliksin female. He smiled, clearly delighted by the discovery, and rolled off the bed, standing as well. He touched the shoulders of his upper garment in a certain way, and they split open like Bruce Banner’s shirt, falling apart, and dropping to the carpeted floor.

And now they were standing, with a meter between them, both completely naked, except for Ponter’s Companion and the bandage on Ponter’s shoulder, where he’d been shot. Ponter closed the distance between them, taking Mary again in his arms, and they tumbled sideways onto the bed.

Mary wanted him inside her—but not yet, not so soon. They had lots of time, and whatever tiredness had originally prompted Mary to call it a night had completely evaporated. But, still, how did Neanderthals make love? What, if anything was taboo, or considered disgusting? She decided to let Ponter lead, but he, too, was hesitating, presumably concerned by the same question, and finally Mary found herself doing something she’d never initiated before, working her tongue down Ponter’s muscular, hairy torso, across the washboard contours of his stomach. After a moment’s hesitation, giving Ponter a chance to stop her should he wish, she opened her mouth wide and slid it over his penis.