The pilot had clearly been told to meander in, giving them the grand tour. They were flying west now, over Wards Island, which was dotted around its periphery with buildings that looked like cottages.

The helicopter continued on. It was as if Central Park had expanded right across the width of Manhattan, from East River Drive to Henry Hudson Parkway.

“Donakat Island makes up the ‘Center’ of the city we call Pepraldak,” said Ponter. “In other words, it’s female territory. In Saldak, there are many kilometers of countryside separating the Rim from the Center. Pepraldak’s ‘Rim’ and ‘Center’ are simply separated by what you call the Hudson River.”

“So the men live in New Jersey?”

Ponter nodded.

“How do they get across? I don’t see any bridges.”

“Travel cubes can fly over water,” said Ponter, “so they use those in summer. In winter, the river freezes, and they simply walk over.”

“The Hudson River doesn’t freeze over.”

Ponter shrugged. “It does in this world. Your activities modify your climate more than you think.”

The chopper had now turned south, and was flying along the river. They quickly came to a slight jog in its course, meaning they must now be passing the untamed wilderness of Hoboken. Jock looked out to the left. The island was there, all right: hilly—didn’t Manhattan mean “Island of Hills”?—dotted with lakes…and utterly devoid of skyscrapers. There were clearings containing brick buildings, but none taller than four stories. Jock turned his attention back to the right side. What would have been Liberty State Park was all forest. Ellis Island was there, as was Liberty Island, but of course there was no statue on it. That was just as well, thought Jock; he didn’t really want to see a 150-foot-tall Neanderthal, although—

Jock could hear shouts going up from those around him as others spotted the same thing he just had. There were two right whales in Upper New York Bay; they must have swum up The Narrows from the Atlantic. Each was about forty feet long, with a dark gray back.

The chopper turned east, flying over water between Governors Island and Battery Park, then heading along the East River. Jock could see hundreds of arboriculture houses along the shoreline, and—“What’s that?”

“An observatory,” said Ponter. “I know you put your big telescopes in hemispherical enclosures, but we prefer these cubic structures.” Jock shook his head. Imagine it ever being dark enough in Greenwich Village to look at the stars!

“Is there much wildlife?” asked Jock.

“Oh, yes. Beavers, bears, wolves, foxes, raccoons, deer, otters—not to mention quail, partridge, swans, geese, turkeys, and of course millions of passenger pigeons.” Ponter paused. “It’s too bad it’s autumn; in the spring, you’d see roses and many other wildflowers.”

The chopper was quite low now as it continued up the East River, the blue waters roiling in the downdraft from the blades. They came to where the river bent to the north, and the pilot continued to follow its course for another couple of miles then brought the craft in for a landing on a wide open field of tall grass, surrounded by orchards of apple and pear trees. Councilor Bedros got out first, then Ponter and Adikor, then the secretary-general. Jock followed him, and the rest of the group followed Jock. The air was sweet and clean, crisp and cool; the sky overhead was a blue Jock knew from Arizona summers, but had never seen in the Big Apple.

A contingent of local female officials and two local silver-clad Exhibitionists were on hand, and again speeches were made, including remarks by a woman introduced as the president of the local Gray Council. She was, Jock guessed, about his own age—which would make her what? Part of generation 142, he supposed. She had shaved off all her head hair except for a long silver ponytail protruding directly from her occipital bun; Jock thought she looked repellent, even for a Neanderthal.

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.

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.”