But it wasn’t the same. Physical relations between two men—or two women, for that matter—although equally signs of love, were entertainment, fun. But sex was the act of potential procreation.

There was no way Daklar, or any woman, could become pregnant during this Two becoming One. All the women, living together, inhaling each other’s pheromones, had their menstrual cycles synchronized. It wouldn’t be possible for any of them to get pregnant at this time of month. Yes, next year, when generation 149 was to be conceived, the High Gray Council would change the dates of Two becoming One so that they coincided with the time of maximum fertility.

Still, even if there was no chance of Daklar conceiving, it had been a long while since…

“Let’s take the kids over to Darson Square and get something to eat,” said Daklar.

Ponter felt his eyebrow rolling up his browridge. The kids. No question as to which kids. His kids.

Her kids.

Their kids.

She certainly knew the way to endear herself. Asexual overture would have left him flustered, unsure. But an outing with the kids…

It was just what he needed.

“Sure,” he said. “Sure thing.”

Ponter beckoned Megameg over to them, and they went off to find Jasmel—which was easy enough, since her Companion and Hak could communicate with each other. Lots of children were still out playing, but many adults had adjourned into homes for lovemaking. A few adults—men and women both—remained outdoors.

Ponter hadn’t really seen much in the way of children over in the Gliksin world, but he’d gathered that they weren’t left alone like this. Gliksin society was doubly wounded. First, they’d never had a purging of their gene pool, eliminating the most undesirable psychological traits. And, second, no Lonwis Trob had ever appeared to liberate them: without Companion implants and alibi recorders, Gliksins were still subject to personal assault, and, based on what little he’d seen on the Gliksin video system, children were common targets.

But here, in this world, children could roam freely day and night. Ponter wondered how parents stayed sane in the Gliksin universe.

“There she is!” said Daklar, spotting Ponter’s daughter before he himself did. Jasmel and Tryon were looking at a display of flensing implements set up in an outdoor booth.

“Jasmel!” called Ponter, waving. His daughter looked up, and he was delighted to see an instant smile, not a look of disappointment that her time with Tryon was being interrupted.

Ponter and Daklar closed the distance. “We were thinking of going to Darson Square, maybe get some buffalo to eat.”

“I should really spend a little time with my own parents,” said Tryon, whether picking up a hint from Ponter’s posture or actually wanting to do what he said, Ponter couldn’t say. Tryon leaned over and licked Jasmel’s face. “See you tonight,” he said.

“Let’s go,” said Megameg, reaching up and taking Ponter’s hand with her left one and Daklar’s hand with her right one. Jasmel fell in next to Ponter, and he put an arm around her shoulders, and the four of them headed off together.

Although Mary would have preferred a chance to sleep on it, Jock Krieger’s offer was really a no-brainer for her: it was simply too good to pass up.

And today was the only departmental meeting before the beginning of the academic year. Not everybody would be in attendance—some faculty members would still be at their cottages, or simply steadfastly refusing to come to the university prior to the first Tuesday in September. But most of her colleagues would be there, and this would be the best opportunity to arrange for them to cover her classes. Mary knew she was lucky: she’d been a woman at the right time, when York and many other universities were correcting historical imbalances in hiring practices, especially in the sciences. She’d had no trouble getting first a tenure-track position, and ultimately actual tenure, while many males of her age were still eking out an existence with sessional teaching assignments.

“Welcome back, everyone,” said Qaiser Remtulla. “I hope you all had great summers?”

There were nods from the dozen people sitting around the conference table. “That’s good,” said Qaiser. She was a Pakistani woman of fifty, dressed in a smart beige blouse and matching slacks. “Of course,” she said, grinning now, “I’m sure no one had quite so exciting a holiday as our Mary.”

Mary felt herself blushing, and Cornelius Ruskin and a couple of the others applauded briefly. “Thanks,” she said.

“But,” continued Qaiser, “if we can work it out, Mary would like to take a leave of absence.”

Across the table from her, Cornelius sat up straight. Mary smiled; he knew what was coming, and was ready to leap at his opportunity.

“Mary’s set to teach the 2000-level Genetics course; the third-year Regulation of Gene Expression course; and the fourth-year Eukaryotic Genetics course,” said Qaiser. “Plus she’s got two Ph.D. students she’s been supervising: Daria Klein, who’s doing work on ancient human DNA, and Graham Smythe, who is—what’s he doing again, Mary?”

“A reevaluation of songbird taxonomy, based on mitochondrial DNA studies.”

“Right,” said Qaiser, nodding. She looked out over her half glasses. “If anyone is interested in picking up any extra course work…”

By the first syllable of “anyone,” Cornelius Ruskin’s hand was in the air. Mary felt sorry for poor Cornelius. He was thirty-five or thirty-six, and had had his Ph.D. in genetics for eight years. But there were no full-time jobs for white males in the department. Ten years ago, he’d have been well on his way to tenure; today, he was picking up $6,000 per half course and $12,000 per full course, and living in a dump of an apartment building in Driftwood, a nearby neighborhood even students avoided—his “penthouse in the slums,” Cornelius called it.

“I’ll take Regulation,” Cornelius said. “And Eukaryotic Genetics.”

“You can have Eukaryotics and the 2000-level introductory course,” said Qaiser. “Can’t give all the plums to the same person.”

Cornelius nodded philosophically. “Deal,” he said.

“Well, in that case,” said Devon Greene, another white male, another sessional instructor, “can I have the Regulation of Gene Expression course?”

Qaiser nodded. “It’s all yours.” She looked at Karen Clee, a black woman the same age as Mary. “Can you take—let’s see—how ’bout Ms. Klein?”

The sessional instructors couldn’t supervise Ph.D. students; those duties had to go to full-time faculty. “I’d rather have the bird guy,” said Karen.

“Okay,” said Qaiser. “Who wants Ms. Klein?”

No response.

“Let me put it this way,” said Qaiser. “Who wants Ms. Klein and Mary’s old office?”

Mary smiled. She did have prime office space, with a nice view overlooking the greenhouse.

“Sold!” said Helen Wright.

“There it is,” said Qaiser. She turned to Mary and smiled. “It looks like we’ll be able to muddle through without you this year.”

After the departmental meeting, Mary returned to her lab. She wished that Daria and Graham, her grad students, were in today; she really owed them personal explanations.

And yet what explanation could she give? The obvious one—a great job offer in the United States—was only part of the story. Mary had had overtures from U.S. universities in the past; it wasn’t as though she had never been courted before. But she’d always turned them down, telling herself that she preferred Toronto, that she found its climate “invigorating,” that she’d miss the CBC and the wonderful live theater and Caribbana and Sleuth of Baker Street and Yorkville and Le Sélect Bistro and the ROM and smoke-free restaurants and the Blue Jays and The Globe and Mail and socialized medicine and the Harbourfront Reading Series.