Robert Sawyer - Hybrids

And, despite them coming literally from different worlds, Bandra was certainly the kind of friend she would choose: warm, witty, giving, and brilliant-someone she could share a silly joke with, as well as discuss the latest breakthroughs in science.

After a bit, Bandra brought out a partanlar set-the same game Mary had played with Ponter. Ponter’s board had been made of polished wood, with the alternating squares stained either light or dark. As befitted a geologist, Bandra’s was made of polished stone, the squares black or white.

“Oh, good!” said Mary. “I know this game! Ponter taught me.”

In chess and checkers, players sat opposite each other, each trying to move their armies of pieces toward the other’s side of the board. But partanlar didn’t have that directionality of play-there was no advancing or retreating. And so Bandra set the board up on a little table in front of one of the couches, and then sat on the couch, leaving plenty of room for Mary to sit beside her.

They played for about an hour-but it was the pleasant something-to-do kind of play that Mary liked, not the competitive let’s-see-who’s-better competition Colm favored. Neither Mary nor Bandra really seemed to care who won, and they each took delight in the other’s clever moves.

“It’s fun having you around,” said Bandra.

“It’s fun being here,” said Mary.

“You know,” Bandra said, “there are those of my kind who don’t approve of the contact between our worlds. Councilor Bedros-remember him from the Voyeur? — is one such. But even if there are-another phrase of yours I like-even if there are a few bad apples, they do not spoil the bunch. He is wrong, Mare. He is wrong about your people. You are proof of that.”

Mary smiled again. “Thank you.”

Bandra hesitated for a long moment, her eyes shifting from Mary’s left to her right and back again. And then she leaned in and made a long, slow lick up Mary’s left cheek.

Mary felt her entire spine tighten. “Bandra…”

Bandra dropped her gaze to the floor. “I’m sorry…” she said softly. “I know it’s not your way…”

Mary placed her hand under Bandra’s long jaw, and slowly lifted her face until she was facing Mary.

“No,” Mary said. “It’s not.” She looked into Bandra’s wheat-colored eyes. Her heart was racing.

Carpe diem.

Mary leaned in closer, and, as she brought her lips into contact with Bandra’s, she said, “This is.”

“ And although our Neanderthal cousins will be welcome to join us in this grand Mars adventure, should they so choose, it is something it seems few of them will desire…”

Cornelius Ruskin knocked on the office door. “Come in,” called the familiar female voice with its slight Pakistani accent.

Cornelius took a deep breath, then opened the door. “Hi, Qaiser,” he said, waking into the office.

Professor Qaiser Remtulla’s metal desk was at right angles to the doorway, the long edge against one wall, the left short edge underneath her window. She was wearing a dark green jacket and black pants. “Cornelius!” she declared. “We were getting quite worried about you.”

Cornelius couldn’t manage a smile, but he did say, “That’s very kind.”

But Qaiser’s round face creased into a small frown. “I wish you’d called to let me know you’d be in today, though. Dave Olsen has already come in to teach your afternoon class.”

Cornelius shook his head a bit. “That’s fine. In fact, that’s what I want to talk to you about.”

Qaiser did what just about every academic has to do when a visitor comes: she got up from her own swivel chair and took the pile of books and papers off the one other chair in the room. In her case, it was a metal-framed stacking chair with orange vinyl cushions. “Have a seat,” she said.

Cornelius did just that, crossing his legs at the ankles and He shook his head again, wondering if he’d ever get used to the sensation. He’d spent his whole life subtly aware of the pressure on his testicles whenever he sat like this, but there was no such feeling anymore.

“What can I do for you?” prodded Qaiser.

Cornelius looked at her face: brown eyes, brown skin, brown hair, a trio of chocolate shades. She looked to be about forty-five, ten years older than he was. He’d seen her crying in anguish, seen her begging him not to hurt her. He didn’t regret it; she had deserved it, but…

But.

“Qaiser,” he said, “I’d like to take a leave of absence.”

“There are no paid leaves for sessional instructors,” she replied.

Cornelius nodded. “I know that. I-” He’d rehearsed all this, but now hesitated, wondering if it was really the right approach. “You know I’ve been sick. My doctor says I should take a…a rest leave. You know, some time off.”

Qaiser’s features shifted to concern. “Is it something serious? Is there anything I can do to help?”

Cornelius shook his head. “No, I’ll be fine, I’m sure. But I–I just don’t feel up to being in the classroom anymore.”

“Well, the Christmas break is coming up in a few weeks. If you could just stick it out until then…”

“I’m sorry, Qaiser. I really don’t think I should.”

Qaiser frowned. “You know we’re shorthanded as is, what with Mary Vaughan having left.”

Cornelius nodded but didn’t say anything.

“I have to ask,” said Qaiser. “This is a genetics department, after all. There are lots of things here that potentially could have made you sick, and…well, I have to worry about the health of the students and the faculty. Is your problem related to any chemicals or specimens you encountered here?”

Cornelius shook his head again. “No. No, it’s nothing like that.” He took a deep breath. “But I can’t stay here any longer.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” A few weeks ago, he’d have been unable to discuss this topic without getting apoplectic, but now…

He shrugged a bit.

“Because you’ve won.”

Qaiser’s eyebrows pulled together. “Pardon?”

“You’ve won. The system here-it’s won. It’s beaten me.”

“What system?”

“Oh, come on! The hiring system, the promotion system, the tenure system. There’s no place for a white man.”

Qaiser apparently couldn’t meet his eyes. “It’s been a difficult issue for the university,” said Qaiser. “For all universities. But you know, despite the presence of me and a few others, the genetics department is still way below the university’s guidelines in terms of number of tenure-stream positions held by women.”

“You’re supposed to have forty percent,” said Cornelius.

“Right, and we’re nowhere near that-not yet.” Qaiser’s voice took on a defensive note. “But, look, even so, it should be half, and-”

“Half,” repeated Cornelius; he said it so calmly it surprised him, and apparently surprised Qaiser, too, since she immediately stopped talking. “Even when only twenty percent of the applicants are female?”

“Well, all right, then-but, anyway, the target isn’t half. It’s just forty percent.”

“How many tenured or tenure-track positions are there in this department?”

“Fifteen.”

“And how many are held by females?”

“Currently? Counting Mary?”

“Of course counting Mary.”

“Three.”

Cornelius nodded. He’d gotten back at two of them; the third was in a wheelchair, and Cornelius hadn’t been able to bring himself to…

“So the next three tenure-track openings have to go to women, don’t they?” he said.

“Well, yes. Assuming they’re qualified.”

Cornelius surprised himself; those last three words would have set him off before. But now…