“Why’d you stop?”

Molly looked at the floor. Her voice was small. “The gonorrhea scarred my fallopian tubes. I can’t get pregnant the normal way anymore; if I’m ever going to do it, it’ll have to be via in vitro fertilization, and, well, that costs money. Around ten grand per attempt, last time I looked. My health insurance doesn’t cover it, since the blocked tubes weren’t a congenital condition. But I’ve been saving up.”

“Oh,” said Pierre.

“I — ah, I thought you should know…” She trailed off, and then shrugged again. “I am sorry.”

Pierre looked at his slice of pizza, now growing cold. He absently picked a green pepper off it; they were only supposed to be on half, but a stray one had ended up on one of his slices. “I would never say it’s for the best,” said Pierre, “but I guess I’m old-fashioned enough to think a child should have both a mother and a father.”

Molly did meet his eyes, and held them. “My thought exactly,” she said.

At two o’clock in the afternoon, Pierre entered the Human Genome Center office — and found to his surprise that a party was going on. Joan Dawson’s usual supply of home-baked goodies hadn’t been enough; someone had gone out and bought bags of nachos and cheesies, and several bottles of champagne.

As soon as Pierre entered, one of the other geneticists — Donna Yamashita, it was — handed him a glass. “What’s all the excitement about?” asked Pierre over the noise.

“They finally got what they wanted from Hapless Hannah,” said Yamashita, grinning.

“Who’s Hapless Hannah?” asked Pierre, but Yamashita had already moved away to greet someone else. Pierre walked over to Joan’s desk. She had a dark liquid in her champagne glass. Probably diet cola; as a diabetic, she wasn’t supposed to drink alcohol. “What’s happening?” said Pierre. “Who is Hapless Hannah?”

Joan smiled her kindly smile. “That’s the Neanderthal skeleton on loan from the Hebrew University at Givat Ram. Dr. Klimus has been trying to extract DNA from the bone for months, and today he finally finished getting a complete set.”

The old man himself had moved nearer — and for once there was a smile on his broad, liver-spotted face. “That’s right,” he said, his voice cold and dry. He glanced sideways at a chubby man Pierre recognized as a UCB paleontologist. “Now that we have Neanderthal DNA, we can do some real science about human origins, instead of just making wild guesses.”

“That’s wonderful,” replied Pierre above the din of people milling about the small office. “How old was the bone?”

“Sixty-two thousand years,” said Klimus triumphantly.

“But surely the DNA would have degraded over all that time,” said Pierre.

“That’s the beauty of the site where Hapless Hannah was found,” said Klimus. “She died in a cave-in that completely sealed her in — she was an actual, honest-to-goodness cave-woman. Aerobic bacteria in the cave used up all the oxygen, so she’d spent the last sixty thousand years in an oxygen-free environment, meaning her pyrimidines didn’t oxidize. We’ve recovered all twenty-three pairs of chromosomes.”

“What a lucky break,” said Pierre.

“It sure is,” said Donna Yamashita, who had suddenly appeared again at Pierre’s elbow. “Hannah will answer a lot of questions, including the big one about whether Neanderthal was a separate species — Homo neanderthalensis — or just a subspecies of modern humanity — Homo sapiens neanderthalensis, and—”

Klimus spoke over top of her. “And we should be able to tell whether Neanderthals died out without leaving any descendants, or whether they crossbred with Cro-Magnon, and therefore mixed their genes with ours.”

“That’s terrific,” said Pierre.

“Of course,” said Klimus, “there’ll still be many questions unanswered about Neanderthals — fine details of physical appearance, culture, and so on. But, still, this is a remarkable day.” He turned his back on Pierre, and in an unexpected display of exuberance, tapped the side of his champagne glass with his Mont Blanc pen. “Everybody — everybody! Your attention, please! I’d like to propose a toast — to Hapless Hannah! Soon to become the best-known Neanderthal in history!”

Pierre’s lab looked like just about every other lab he’d ever seen: a poster of the periodic table on one wall; a well-used copy of the Rubber Bible lying open on a desk; lots of glass labware set up on retort stands; a small centrifuge; a UNIX workstation with Post-it notes stuck to the bezel around the monitor; an emergency shower station, in case of chemical spills; a glass-enclosed work area under a fume hood. The walls were that sickly yellow-beige that seems so common in university environments. The lighting was fluorescent; the floor, tiled.

Pierre was working at one of the counters that lined all four walls of the room, staring at DNA autorads positioned over an illuminated panel built into the countertop. He was wearing a stained white lab coat, but it wasn’t buttoned up, so his Quebec Winter Carnival T-shirt was visible underneath. He’d never been more shocked than when an American student had mistaken the Bonhomme on the shirt for the giant Stay-Puft marshmallow man from Ghostbusters — something akin to confusing Uncle Sam with Colonel Sanders.

Burian Klimus appeared in the doorway, looking most put out.

Standing next to the old man was an attractive Asian-American woman with black hair that had been teased into a frizzy halo around her face.

“That’s him,” said Klimus.

“Mr. Tardivel,” said the woman. “I’m Tiffany Feng, from Condor Health Insurance.”

Pierre nodded at Klimus. “Thanks for bringing her up, sir,” he said. The ancient geneticist scowled, then shambled away.

Tiffany was in her late twenties. She was carrying a black attache case, and was dressed in a blue jacket and matching pants. Her white blouse was open more than one might expect at the top. Pierre was amused; he suspected Tiffany dressed differently when going to see a prospective male customer than she did when the customer was female.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” said Tiffany. “Traffic was murder coming across the bridge.” She handed him a yellow-and-black business card, then looked appreciatively around the lab. “You’re obviously a scientist.”

Pierre nodded. “I’m a molecular biologist, working on the Human Genome Project.”

“Really?” said Tiffany. “What a fascinating area!”

“You know about it?”

“Sure. We’ve had some great lectures on it at work.” She smiled.

“Anyway, I understand you’re interested in talking about insurance options.”

Pierre motioned for Tiffany to take a seat. “That’s right,” he said. “I’m from Canada, so I’ve never bought health insurance before. For a little while longer I’ll still meet the Quebec residency test, but—”

Tiffany shook her head. “I’ve helped several Canadians over the years.

Your provincial health plans cover you only to the dollar value that the same services would cost in Canada, where prices for medical services are set by the government. Here, there are no price controls. You’ll find that most procedures are more expensive, and your Quebec plan won’t cover the extra. Plus, the provincial plans provide for medical treatments, but not such things as private hospital rooms.” She paused. “Do you have any insurance under the faculty-association plan?”

Pierre shook his head. “I’m not faculty. I’m just a visiting researcher.”

She moved her attache case up onto the lab bench and opened it. “Well, then you’ll need a comprehensive package. We offer what we call our Gold Plan, which provides for one hundred percent of all your emergency hospital bills, including ambulance transfers, and anything else you might need, such as wheelchairs or crutches. Plus, it also covers all your routine medical needs, such as annual physical checkups, prescriptions, and so on.” She handed him a gold-embossed trifold brochure.