But, still, the images that haunted Mary surely had a face, white-skinned, blue-eyed, features twisted into anger and hatred.

And now, Cornelius realized, it mattered little that no one would likely ever be able to identify his role in Reuben and Jock’s deaths. Mary had already told the world that Jock Krieger had made some mistake in designing his virus, that he’d been hoisted on his own petard, the victim of his own creation.

And, truth be told, Cornelius didn’t feel too bad about the death of Krieger, who, after all, had been planning genocide for the Neanderthals.

But an innocent man was dead, too, this doctor—this real doctor, this healer, this saver of lives, this Reuben Montego.

Cornelius let go of his chair’s arms and lifted his hands to see if they were still shaking. They were. He grabbed hold of the armrests again.

“An innocent man,” he said aloud, although there was no one but him around to hear it. He shook his head.

As if there could be any such thing…

But, then again, maybe there was.

The obituaries and appreciations of Reuben Montego that had already appeared online spoke glowingly of him. And his girlfriend, Louise Benoît, whom Cornelius had met at the Synergy Group, was absolutely devastated by his death, saying over and over again what a kind and gentle man he’d been.

Yet again, Cornelius had caused great sadness to a woman.

He knew he’d have to do something soon about his castration. Other changes, after all, would shortly begin to occur: his metabolism would slow, fat would begin to pile up on his body. He’d already noticed that his beard came in more slowly, and he was feeling listless much of the time—listless, or depressed. The obvious solution was to start testosterone treatments. Testosterone was a steroid, he knew, produced mainly in the testicles’ Leydig cells. But he also knew it could be synthesized from more readily obtainable steroids, such as diosgenin; doubtless there was a black market in it. Cornelius had tried to ignore the drug dealing going on near his old apartment in Driftwood, but surely if he’d wanted to find a dealer for testosterone, he could locate one there, or somewhere here in Rochester.

But no. No, he did not want to do that. He did not want to go back to being his old self, to feeling that way.

There was no going back for him.

And…

And no going forward, either.

He lifted his hands. They weren’t shaking anymore; they weren’t shaking at all.

He wondered what people would say about him after he was gone.

He’d followed all the recent debate about religious worldviews in the press. If people like Mary Vaughan were right, he’d know—even in death, he’d know. And maybe, just maybe, his having saved the Neanderthal world from the likes of himself would count for something.

Of course, if the Neanderthals were right, death would be oblivion, a simple cessation of being.

Cornelius hoped the Neanderthals were right.

He didn’t want to leave any evidence of the mutilation he’d suffered. He couldn’t care less what happened to Ponter Boddit, but he didn’t want his own family to ever know what he’d done in Toronto.

Cornelius Ruskin headed out to the garage, and began siphoning gasoline from his car’s tank.

“Well, Bandra, what do you think?” asked Mary.

Bandra was wearing Gliksin clothes—taupe Nikes, stone-washed blue jeans, and a loose green shirt, all bought at the same Mark’s Work Wearhouse that had provided Ponter’s new clothes during his first visit to Mary’s world. She placed her hands on her wide hips and looked around in astonishment. “It…it is unlike any dwelling I have ever seen.”

Mary looked around the large living room as well. “This is the kind of house most people live in—at least, here in North America. Well, actually, this is an exceptionally nice house, and most people live in big cities, not out in the country.” She paused. “Do you like it?”

“It will take some getting used to,” said Bandra. “But, yes, I do like it very much. It’s so big!”

“Two stories,” said Mary. “Thirty-five hundred square feet, plus basement.” She gave Bandra’s Companion a second to do the conversion, then smiled. “And there are three bathrooms.”

Bandra’s wheat-colored eyes went wide. “The lap of luxury!”

Mary smiled, recalling the slogan of the hair dye she used. “We’re worth it.”

“And you say the surrounding land is ours, as well?”

“Yup. All 2.3 acres.”

“But…but can we afford it? I know here everything has a cost.”

“We certainly couldn’t afford this much land anywhere near Toronto. But here, outside Lively? Sure. After all, Laurentian University will be paying us both well, as academic salaries go.”

Bandra sat down on the living-room couch and gestured toward the dark wood curio cabinets, filled with little carvings. “The furnishings and decorations are beautiful,” she said.

“It’s an unusual mix,” said Mary. “Canadian and Caribbean. Of course, Reuben’s family will want some of the things, and I’m sure Louise will want a few, as well, but we’ll get to keep most of them. I bought the house furnished.”

Bandra looked down. “I wish I had met your friend Reuben.”

“You’d have liked him,” said Mary, sitting next to Bandra on the couch. “He was a terrific person.”

“Won’t it make you sad, though?” asked Bandra. “Living here?”

Mary shook her head. “Not really. See, this is where Ponter, Louise, Reuben, and I were all quarantined together during Ponter’s first visit to my world. It’s where I got to know Ponter, where I started to fall in love with him.” She pointed across the room, at some heavy built-in bookcases, filled with mystery novels. “I can picture him, right there, using the edge of that far bookcase as a scratching post, shimmying left and right. And we had so many wonderful conversations on this very couch. I know I’ll only be with him four days a month from now on, and mostly in his world, not mine, but it’s like, in a way, that this is his home, too.”

Bandra smiled. “I understand.”

Mary patted her knee. “And that’s why I love you. Because you do understand.”

“But,” said Bandra, grinning now, “it won’t be just the two of us much longer. It’s been a long time since I’ve lived in a house with a baby in it.”

“I hope you’ll help me,” said Mary.

“Of course. I know what ninth-daytenth feedings are like!”

“Oh, I don’t mean that…although I certainly would be grateful! No, what I mean is I hope you’ll help me in bringing up Ponter and my daughter. I want her to know and appreciate both cultures, Gliksin and Barast.”

“True synergy,” said Bandra, smiling widely. “Two really becoming One.”

Mary smiled back at her. “Exactamundo.”

The call came two days later, about six in the evening. Mary and Bandra had finished their first full day at Laurentian, and were relaxing in their house, the house that had been Reuben’s. Mary was stretched out on the couch, finally finishing the Scott Turow novel she’d started ages ago, back before the first opening of the interuniversal portal. Bandra was reclining in the La-Z-Boy that had come with the place, the very one Mary had slept in during the quarantine. She was reading a book of her own on a Neanderthal datapad.

When the two-piece phone on the little table next to the couch rang, Mary folded down the paperback’s page, sat up, and lifted the handset. “Hello?”

“Hello, Mary,” said a female voice with a Pakistani accent. “It’s Qaiser Remtulla from York calling.”

“My goodness, hello! How are you?”

“I’m fine, but—but I’m calling with sad news. You remember Cornelius Ruskin?”

Mary felt her stomach clench. “Of course.”

“Well, I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you, but I’m afraid he’s passed away.”