assume.”
Reuben chewed his lower lip, thinking. Then he took a deep breath and spoke loudly. “I don’t know where he came from,” said Reuben, putting an arm now around Ponter’s massive shoulders, “and I’m not sure how he got here, but this man’s name is Ponter, and—”
Reuben stopped. Singh looked at him. Reuben knew he could conclude with that; yes, the man’s name was known. He didn’t have to say anything more. He could stop now, and no one would think him crazy. But if he went on—
If he went on, all hell would break loose.
“Can you spell that?” called a reporter.
Reuben closed his eyes, summoning strength from within. “Only phonetically,” he said, now looking at the journalist. “P-O-N-T-E-R. But whichever of you jotted that down the fastest is, I’m sure, the first person ever to render that name in the English alphabet.” He paused again, looked once more at Singh for encouragement, then pressed on. “This gentleman here, we are beginning to suspect, is not Homo sapiens . He may be—well, I think anthropologists are still arguing about what the proper designation for this kind of hominid is, aren’t they? He seems to be what they call either Homo neanderthalensis or Homo sapiens neanderthalensis —at any rate, he’s apparently a Neanderthal.”
“What?” said one of the reporters.
Another just snorted derisively.
And a third—the mining reporter from the Sudbury Star —pursed his lips. Reuben knew that reporter had a bachelor’s in geology; doubtless he’d taken a paleo course or two as part of his studies. “What makes you say that?” he asked skeptically.
“I’ve seen x-rays of his skull. Dr. Singh here was quite sure of the identification.”
“What does a Neanderthal have to do with the destruction of SNO?” asked a reporter.
Reuben shrugged, acknowledging that that was a very good question. “We don’t know.”
“This has got to be a hoax,” said the mining reporter. “It’s got to be.”
“If it is, I’ve been hoodwinked, and so has Dr. Singh.”
“Dr. Singh,” called a reporter, “is this—this person here—is he a caveman?”
“I’m sorry,” said Singh, “but I cannot discuss a patient except with other involved physicians.”
Reuben looked at Singh, agog. “Dr. Singh, please …”
“No,” said Singh. “There are rules …”
Reuben looked down for a moment, thinking. He then turned to Ponter with pleading eyes. “It’s up to you,” he said.
Ponter surely didn’t understand the words, but apparently he grasped the significance of the situation. Indeed, it occurred to Reuben that Ponter might have a good shot at making a run for it, if he were so inclined; although not particularly tall, he was burlier by far than either of the cops. But Ponter’s eyes soon swung in the direction of Singh—and, as Reuben followed the Neanderthal’s line of sight, he realized that Ponter was actually looking at the manila envelope Singh was clutching tightly.
Ponter strode over to Singh. Reuben saw one of the cops put his hand on his holster; he evidently assumed Ponter was going to attack the doctor. But Ponter stopped short, right in front of Singh, and held out a beefy hand, palm up, in a gesture that transcended cultures.
Singh seemed to hesitate for a second, then he relinquished the envelope. There was no illuminated viewing plate in the room, and it was now well after dark. But there was a large window, with light from a lamp in the parking lot streaming in. Ponter moved to the window; he perhaps knew that the cops would have tried to restrain him if he’d gone instead for the glass doors leading outside. He then held one of the x-rays, the side view, up against the glass so that everyone could see it. Camcorders were instantly trained on it, and more still pictures were taken. Ponter then gestured for Singh to come over. The Sikh did so, and Reuben followed. Ponter tapped on the x-ray, then pointed at Singh. He repeated the
Reuben chewed his lower lip, thinking. Then he took a deep breath and spoke loudly. “I don’t know where he came from,” said Reuben, putting an arm now around Ponter’s massive shoulders, “and I’m not sure how he got here, but this man’s name is Ponter, and—”
Reuben stopped. Singh looked at him. Reuben knew he could conclude with that; yes, the man’s name was known. He didn’t have to say anything more. He could stop now, and no one would think him crazy. But if he went on—
If he went on, all hell would break loose.
“Can you spell that?” called a reporter.
Reuben closed his eyes, summoning strength from within. “Only phonetically,” he said, now looking at the journalist. “P-O-N-T-E-R. But whichever of you jotted that down the fastest is, I’m sure, the first person ever to render that name in the English alphabet.” He paused again, looked once more at Singh for encouragement, then pressed on. “This gentleman here, we are beginning to suspect, is not Homo sapiens . He may be—well, I think anthropologists are still arguing about what the proper designation for this kind of hominid is, aren’t they? He seems to be what they call either Homo neanderthalensis or Homo sapiens neanderthalensis —at any rate, he’s apparently a Neanderthal.”
“What?” said one of the reporters.
Another just snorted derisively.
And a third—the mining reporter from the Sudbury Star —pursed his lips. Reuben knew that reporter had a bachelor’s in geology; doubtless he’d taken a paleo course or two as part of his studies. “What makes you say that?” he asked skeptically.
“I’ve seen x-rays of his skull. Dr. Singh here was quite sure of the identification.”
“What does a Neanderthal have to do with the destruction of SNO?” asked a reporter.
Reuben shrugged, acknowledging that that was a very good question. “We don’t know.”
“This has got to be a hoax,” said the mining reporter. “It’s got to be.”
“If it is, I’ve been hoodwinked, and so has Dr. Singh.”
“Dr. Singh,” called a reporter, “is this—this person here—is he a caveman?”
“I’m sorry,” said Singh, “but I cannot discuss a patient except with other involved physicians.”
Reuben looked at Singh, agog. “Dr. Singh, please …”
“No,” said Singh. “There are rules …”
Reuben looked down for a moment, thinking. He then turned to Ponter with pleading eyes. “It’s up to you,” he said.
Ponter surely didn’t understand the words, but apparently he grasped the significance of the situation. Indeed, it occurred to Reuben that Ponter might have a good shot at making a run for it, if he were so inclined; although not particularly tall, he was burlier by far than either of the cops. But Ponter’s eyes soon swung in the direction of Singh—and, as Reuben followed the Neanderthal’s line of sight, he realized that Ponter was actually looking at the manila envelope Singh was clutching tightly.
Ponter strode over to Singh. Reuben saw one of the cops put his hand on his holster; he evidently assumed Ponter was going to attack the doctor. But Ponter stopped short, right in front of Singh, and held out a beefy hand, palm up, in a gesture that transcended cultures.
Singh seemed to hesitate for a second, then he relinquished the envelope. There was no illuminated viewing plate in the room, and it was now well after dark. But there was a large window, with light from a lamp in the parking lot streaming in. Ponter moved to the window; he perhaps knew that the cops would have tried to restrain him if he’d gone instead for the glass doors leading outside. He then held one of the x-rays, the side view, up against the glass so that everyone could see it. Camcorders were instantly trained on it, and more still pictures were taken. Ponter then gestured for Singh to come over. The Sikh did so, and Reuben followed. Ponter tapped on the x-ray, then pointed at Singh. He repeated the
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