Cornelius hated to think of himself as such, but it was true; he knew it was: for males who lacked the power and status to reproduce in the normal way. It made no difference that he’d been unfairly denied that status; the fact was that he didn’t have it, and couldn’t get it—not in the world of academe.

He still hated the policies that had held him back. He was as much an expert on ancient DNA as Mary Vaughan was—he’d been with the Ancient Biomolecules Centre at Oxford, for Christ’s sake!

It was unfair, totally and completely—like goddamned “slave reparations,” people who never did anything wrong themselves being asked to cough up huge amounts of cash for people whose long-dead ancestors had been wronged. Why should Cornelius suffer for the sexist hiring policies of generations gone by?

He had spent years being livid over this.

But now…

Now…

Now, he was just angry: an anger that, for the first time in as long as he could remember, seemed to be under control.

There was no doubt why he was feeling so much less furious. Or was there? After all, it hadn’t been that long since Ponter had cut off his balls. Was it really reasonable for Cornelius to be feeling different so quickly?

The answer, apparently, was yes. As he continued searching the web, he found an article from the New Times in San Louis Obispo, interviewing Bruce Clotfelter, who had spent two decades jailed for child molestation before undergoing surgical castration. “‘It was like a miracle,’ Clotfelter said. ‘The next morning, I realized I had gone through the night without those horrible sexual dreams for the first time in years.’ ”

The next morning…

Jesus Christ, just what was the half-life of testosterone, anyway? A few keystrokes, a couple of mouse clicks, and Cornelius had the answer: “The half-life of free testosterone in the blood is only a few minutes,” said one site; another pegged the figure at ten minutes.

Some more spelunking took him to the Geocities page of a person born male who underwent castration, with no hormonal treatments before or for years after. He reported: “Four days after my castration…it seemed that waiting for traffic lights and other little annoyances did not bother me so much…

“Six days post castration I returned to work. This workday was unusually hectic…and yet I still felt so calm when the day was all over. I was definitely feeling the effects of castration and most certainly felt better all the time without testosterone.

“Ten days post castration I felt as a feather floating around everywhere. I just kept feeling better and better. For me the serenity was the strongest of the castration effects, followed by the decrease in libido.”

Immediate change.

Overnight change.

Change in a matter of days.

Cornelius knew—knew! —he should be furious about what Ponter had done to him.

But he was finding it difficult to be furious about anything …

There was a very good reason for wanting to establish a new interuniversal portal at United Nations headquarters. The existing portal was located two kilometers underground, 1.2 kilometers horizontally from the nearest elevator on the Gliksin side, and three kilometers from the nearest elevator on the Barast side.

It would take Mary and Ponter a couple of hours to get from the surface in her world to the surface in his. They began by donning hardhats and safety boots, and riding down the mining elevator at Inco’s Creighton Mine. The hardhats had built-in lamps, and hearing-protection cups that could be swung over the ears if needed.

Mary had brought two suitcases, and Ponter was effortlessly carrying them for her, one in each hand.

Five miners rode most of the way down with them, getting off one level above where Mary and Ponter were to exit. That was just fine by Mary; she was always uncomfortable in this lift. It reminded her of the awkward journey she’d had in it once before with Ponter, explaining why, back then, despite his obvious attraction to her, and hers to him, she’d been unable to respond to his touch.

Once on the 6800-foot level, they began the long trudge out to the Sudbury Neutrino Observatory site. Mary was never a great one for exercise, but it was actually even worse for Ponter, since the temperature this far below the Earth’s surface was a constant forty-one degrees Celsius, much too warm for him.

“I will be glad to be back home,” said Ponter. “Back to air I can breathe!”

Mary knew he wasn’t referring to the oppressive air here in the mine. Rather, he was looking forward to being in a world that didn’t burn fossil fuels, the smell of which had assaulted his massive nose most places he went here, although Reuben’s place, out in the country, had been quite tolerable, he’d said.

Mary was reminded of the theme song to one of her favorite shows when she was a kid:

She hoped she would fit in on Ponter’s world better than Lisa Douglas had in Hooterville. But it was more than just leaving the hustle and bustle of a world of six billion souls for one of just a hundred and eighty-five million…million people; you couldn’t use the word “souls” when tallying Barasts, since they didn’t believe they had any.

The day before they’d left Rochester, Ponter had been interviewed on the radio; the Neanderthals were very much in demand as guests wherever they happened to be. Mary had listened with interest as Bob Smith had questioned Ponter about Neanderthal beliefs on WXXI, the local PBS station. Smith had spent a fair bit of time on the Neanderthal practice of sterilizing criminals. As they walked down the long muddy tunnel, the topic of the interview came up.

“Yes,” said Mary, in response to Ponter’s question, “you were fine, but…”

“But what?”

“Well, those things you said—about sterilizing people. I…”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry, Ponter, but I really can’t condone that.”

Ponter looked at her. He was wearing a special orange hardhat that the nickel mine had put together for him, shaped to accommodate his Neanderthal head. “Why not?”

“It’s…it’s inhuman. And I guess I am using that word advisedly. It’s just not a suitable thing for human beings to do.”

Ponter was quiet for a time, looking at the drift’s walls, which were covered with wire mesh to prevent rock bursts. “I know there are many on this version of Earth who do not believe in evolution,” he said at last, “but those who do must understand that human evolution has—how would you say it?—ground to a halt. Since medical techniques allow almost every human to live to reproductive age, there is no longer any…any…I am not sure what your phrase is.”

“‘Natural selection,’ ” said Mary. “Sure, I understand that; without selective survival of genes, no evolution can occur.”

“Exactly,” said Ponter. “And yet evolution made us what we are, turning the four basic, original lifeforms into the complex, diverse varieties exhibited today.”

Mary looked over at Ponter. “The four original lifeforms?”

He blinked. “Yes, of course.”

“What four?” said Mary, thinking perhaps she’d at last detected a hint of creationism underlying Ponter’s worldview. Could it be Neander-Adam, Neander-Eve, Neander-Adam’s man-mate, and Neander-Eve’s woman-mate?

“The original plant, animal, fungi, and—I do not know your name—the group that includes slime molds and some algae.”