Robert Sawyer - Hybrids

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:

Fresh air!

Times Square!

You are my wife!

Goodbye, city life!

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.”

“Protists or protoctists,” said Mary, “depending on who you ask.”

“Yes. Well, each emerged separately from the primordial prebiologic world.”

“You have proof of that?” said Mary. “We generally hold that life only emerged once on this world, some four billion years ago.”

“But the four types of life are so different…” said Ponter. And then he shrugged. “Well, you are the geneticist, notI. The point of this trip is to meet our experts in such matters, so you should ask one of them about this. One of you-I do not know which-has a lot to learn from the other.”

Mary never ceased to be amazed at how Neanderthal science and her own brand of the stuff differed on so many fundamental matters. But she didn’t want to lose track of the more important issue that The more important issue. Interesting, thought Mary, that she considered a moral conundrum more important than a basic scientific truth. “We were talking about the end of evolution. You’re saying that your kind continues to evolve because it consciously weeds out bad genes.”

“‘Weeds out’?” repeated Ponter, frowning. “Ah-an agricultural metaphor. I think I understand. Yes, you are right. We continue to improve our gene pool by getting rid of undesirable traits.”

Mary stepped over a large muddy puddle. “I could almost buy that-but you do it not just by sterilizing criminals, but also their close relatives, too.”

“Of course. Otherwise, the genes might persist.”

Mary shook her head. “And I just can’t abide that.” Hak bleeped. “ Abide, ” repeated Mary. “Tolerate. Stand.”

“Why not?”

“Because…because it’s wrong. Individuals have rights.”

“Of course they do,” said Ponter, “but so do species. We are protecting and improving the Barast species.”

Mary tried not to shudder, but Ponter must have detected it regardless. “You react negatively to what I just said.”

“Well,” said Mary, “it’s just that so often in our past, people here have made the same claim. Back in the 1940s, Adolf Hitler set out to purge our gene pool of Jews.”

Ponter tipped his head slightly, perhaps listening to Hak remind him through his cochlear implants of who the Jews were. Mary imagined the little computer saying, “You know, the ones who weren’t gullible enough to believe in that Jesus story.”

“Why did he want to do that?” asked Ponter.

“Because he hated the Jews, pure and simple,” said Mary. “Don’t you see? Giving someone the power to decide who lives and who dies, or who breeds and who doesn’t, is just playing God.”

“‘Playing God,’” repeated Ponter, as if the phrase was appealingly oddball. “Obviously, such a notion would never occur to us.”

“But the potential for corruption, for unfairness…”

Ponter spread his arms. “And yet you kill certain criminals.”

“We don’t,” said Mary. “That is, Canadians don’t. But Americans do, in some states.”

“So I have learned,” said Ponter. “And, more than that, I have learned there is a racial component to this.” He looked at Mary. “Your various races intrigue me, you know. My people are northern-adapted, so we tend to stay in approximately the same latitudes, no matter where we are in terms of longitude, which I guess is why we all look pretty much alike. Am I correct in understanding that darker skin is an adaptation to more equatorial climes?”

Mary nodded.

“And the-what do you call them? On the eyes of those such as Paul Kiriyama?”

It took a moment for Mary to remember who Paul Kiriyama was-the grad student who, along with Louise Benoit, had saved Ponter from drowning in the heavy-water tank up ahead at the Sudbury Neutrino Observatory. Then it took another moment for her to remember the name for what Ponter was referring to. “You mean the skin that covers part of Asian eyes? Epicanthic folds.”

“Yes. Epicanthic folds. I presume these are to help shield the eyes from glare, but my people have browridges that accomplish much the same thing, so, again, it is a trait we never developed.”

Mary nodded slowly, more to herself than to Ponter. “There’s been a lot of speculation, you know, on the Internet and in newspapers, about what happened to your other races. People assume that-well, that with your belief in purging the gene pool, that you wiped them out.”