Free Hybrids by Robert J. Sawyer Page A

when I ask first-year psych students this question, most of them think the odds must be astronomically against getting yet another heads. At some fundamental level, our brains are wired to impute motivation to random events.
That’s
why even those who don’t ever have the kind of experience we just manufactured for you, Mary, still see God’s handiwork in what’s really just randomness.”

Chapter Nine
    “It was that questing spirit that moved some of us to march thousands of miles across the Bering Land Bridge, which linked Siberia and Alaska during the Ice Age…”
    Mary wanted to take a quick look at the Laurentian University bookstore before they headed down to the portal. She’d forgotten to bring any books from her home in Richmond Hill, and of course wouldn’t be able to find reading matter for herself in the Neanderthal universe.
    Also, truth be told, Mary wanted a few minutes alone to try to digest what had transpired in Veronica Shannon’s lab, so she excused herself, leaving Ponter with Veronica, and was now heading down “the bowling alley”—the long, narrow, glass-walled corridor that connected Laurentian’s Classroom Building and the Great Hall. Coming toward her was an attractive young black woman. Mary had never been good about remembering faces, but she saw in the expression of the other woman a brief reaction of recognition, and then, almost at once, that reaction masked.
    Mary had more or less gotten used to that. She’d been in the media a lot since early August when she’d confirmed the man who had been found half-drowned in the Sudbury Neutrino Observatory was a Neanderthal. She continued walking along, then it hit her—
    “Keisha!” Mary said, rotating on her heel, the black woman now having passed her.
    Keisha turned around and smiled. “Hello, Mary,” she said.
    “I almost didn’t recognize you,” said Mary.
    Keisha looked a bit guilty. “I
did
recognize you.” She lowered her voice. “But we’re not supposed to acknowledge anyone we met at the Centre, unless they acknowledge us first. That’s part of ensuring privacy…”
    Mary nodded. “The Centre” was the Laurentian University Rape Crisis Centre, where Mary had gone for counseling after what had happened at York.
    “How are you doing, Mary?” asked Keisha.
    Off in the distance there was a Tim Hortons coffee-anddonuts stand. “Do you have a moment?” asked Mary. “I’d love to buy you a coffee.”
    Keisha looked at her watch. “Sure. Or—or do you want to go upstairs, to, you know, the Centre?”
    But Mary shook her head. “No. No, that’s not necessary.” Still, she was silent as they walked the dozens of meters to the Tim Hortons, contemplating Keisha’s question. How
was
she doing?
    The Tim Hortons chain was one of the few places Mary could sometimes get her favorite brew—coffee with chocolate milk—since they often had open cartons of both chocolate and white milk. She asked for it, and received it. For her part, Keisha requested an apple juice, and Mary paid for them both. They sat at one of the two small tables flush with the corridor’s glass wall—mostly, people got their coffee here and ran off somewhere else.
    “I want to thank you,” said Mary. “You were so kind to me, back then…”
    Keisha had a small jeweled stud in her nose. She tipped her head down, and the jewel caught the sunlight, flashing. “That’s what we’re here for.”
    Mary nodded. “You asked how I was doing,” she said. “There’s a man in my life now.”
    Keisha smiled. “Ponter Boddit,” she said. “I read all about it in
People
.”
    Mary felt her heart jump. “
People
did an article about us?”
    The younger woman nodded. “Last week. Nice photo of you and Ponter at the UN.”
    Good grief
, thought Mary. “Well, he’s been very good to me.”
    “Is he going to take up that offer to pose in
Playgirl
?”
    Mary smiled. She’d almost forgotten about that; the offer had come during Ponter’s first