“Fifteen minutes?” repeated Tukana.
Reuben laughed. “An artist here once said that in the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes.”
“Ah,” said Ponter. “What sort of artist?”
Reuben was clearly trying to suppress a grin. “Um, well, he was best known for painting pictures of soup cans.”
“It sounds,” said Ponter, “as though fifteen minutes might have been more than his fair share.”
Reuben laughed again. “I’ve missed you, my friend.”
A team from the LCDC arrived, followed shortly by one from the CDC. One woman from each organization became the first members of Homo sapiens sapiens to travel to the Neanderthal universe. Periodically, one or the other would stick her head through the end of the tunnel and ask for some equipment to be passed through to the other side.
Ponter tried to wait patiently, but it was frustrating. A whole alien world awaited them! Both he and Tukana had already given multiple samples of blood and tissues, as well as undergoing complete physical examinations by Reuben.
Despite the quarantine, Ponter and Tukana were not without visitors. The first nonmedical one was a pale Gliksin woman with short brown hair and small round glasses. “Hello,” she said, with what Ponter recognized from his time with Lou Benoît as a French-Canadian accent, “My name is Hélène Gagné. I’m with Canada’s Department of Foreign Affairs and International Trade.”
Tukana stepped forward. “Ambassador Tukana Prat, representing the High Gray Council of—well, of Earth.” She nodded at Ponter. “My associate, Scholar—and Envoy—Ponter Boddit.”
“Greetings,” said Hélène. “Delighted to meet you both. Envoy Boddit, we promise things will go a little more smoothly than on your last visit.”
Ponter smiled. “Thank you.”
“Before we proceed further, Madam Ambassador, I’d like to ask you a question. I understand the geography of your world and this one are the same, correct?”
Tukana Prat nodded.
“All right,” said Hélène. She was carrying a small briefcase. She opened it, and removed a simple world map that showed only landforms but no borders. “Can you show me where you were born?”
Tukana Prat took the map, glanced at it, and pointed at a spot on the west coast of North America. Hélène handed her a felt-tipped marker, its cap removed. “Can you mark the spot—as precisely as possible, please?”
Tukana looked surprised at the request, but did so, putting a red dot on the northern tip of Vancouver Island. “Thank you,” said Hélène. “Now, will you sign next to that spot?”
“Sign?”
“Umm, you know, write out your name.”
Tukana Prat did so, drawing a series of angular symbols.
Hélène removed a notary’s seal from the briefcase and embossed the map, then added her own signature and date. “All right, that’s what we were hoping would be the case. You were born in Canada.”
“I was born in Podnilak,” said Tukana.
“Yes, yes, but that’s in what corresponds to Canada—to Vancouver Island, British Columbia, to be precise—on this world. That makes you, by all established law, a Canadian. And we already know that Envoy Boddit was born near Sudbury, Ontario. So, if you and Envoy Boddit don’t object, the first thing we’re going to do after you leave quarantine is bestow Canadian citizenship on the two of you.”
“Why?” asked Tukana Prat.
But before Hélène could answer, Ponter spoke up. “This matter was raised during my first trip. One requires documents to travel between nations on this version of Earth. The most important one”—he paused, while Hak reminded him of the name—“is a passport, and you cannot have a passport without a citizenship.”
“That’s right,” said Hélène. “We took a fair bit of heat from other governments, particularly the U.S., when you were last here because you were kept entirely in Canada. Well, once you’re released from here, we’ll take you to Ottawa—that’s Canada’s capital—where you will be made citizens under Section 5, Paragraph 4, of the Canadian Citizenship Act, which lets the minister grant citizenship to anyone in extraordinary circumstances. Don’t worry: it won’t affect your ability to remain citizens of whatever jurisdiction is appropriate in your world; Canada has always recognized dual citizenship. But when you travel outside of Canada, you will be registered as Canadian diplomats, and therefore afforded full diplomatic immunity and courtesy. That will let us cut through all sorts of red tape until formal relations are opened between each of our nations and your world.”
“Each of your nations?” said Tukana. “We have a unified worldwide government now. Do you not have the same thing?”
Hélène shook her head. “No. We have something called the ‘United Nations’—we’ll be taking you to the UN headquarters right after you have a state dinner with our prime minister in Ottawa. But it isn’t a world government; it’s just a forum in which individual national governments can discuss matters of mutual concern. As time goes on, your government will have to be formally recognized by each of the nations that compose the UN.”
“And how many of those are there?” asked Tukana.
Ponter smiled. “You are not going to believe this,” he said.
“There are currently a hundred and ninety-one member states,” said Hélène. “So you see, it will take years for your government to negotiate treaties and so forth with each of those nations. But Canada, of course, already has treaties with all of them, so by becoming Canadian diplomats, at least in name, you can travel to any of these countries and speak with their government leaders.”
Tukana looked baffled. “I am sure that is all as it should be.”
“It is.”
“Great,” said Ponter. “When do we get out of here?”
“Soon, I hope,” said Hélène. “I can’t leave the SNO chamber myself now, until the two of you are cleared. But the doctors seem impressed by what they’ve seen of your decontamination technology.”
That news delighted Ponter, since it sounded like they’d be released shortly—he’d spent almost all of his last trip to Canada quarantined, after all, and didn’t look forward to more of the same, especially deep underground.
That afternoon, Tukana retired to the second of the two rooms in the quarantine suite. Like many people of her generation, she seemed to enjoy a nap. Ponter busied himself practicing his English with Hak’s help until Reuben Montego returned, accompanied by a short, hairy, beige male Gliksin, his appearance quite a contrast to Reuben’s dark skin and completely shaved head. “Hey, Ponter,” said Reuben. “This is Arnold Moore, a geologist.”
“Hello,” said Ponter.
Arnold extended his hand, which Ponter took. “Dr. Boddit,” he said, “it’s a real pleasure to meet you. A real pleasure!”
Boredom had taken its toll; Ponter could not resist a little sarcasm. “Are you sure it is safe to touch me?”
But the comment was lost on Arnold. “Oh, I’ve been wanting to come down from the first moment I heard you were here! This is an absolute treat. An absolute treat!”
Ponter smiled wanly. “Thank you,” he said.
“Please,” said Arnold, indicating the chair Ponter had risen from. “Please sit down.”
Ponter did so, and Arnold turned around another chair and straddled it, with his arms crossed on top of the chair’s upright part, which was now in front of him. Ponter felt his eyebrow going up; that looked like a more comfortable way to sit. He got up again and rotated his own chair, sitting on it in a similar fashion. It wasn’t as nice as a proper saddle-seat, but this posture certainly was an improvement.
Reuben excused himself and headed off to confer with the immunologists who were crawling all over the facility.
“I have a question to ask you,” said Arnold.
Ponter nodded for him to continue.
“We’ve noted something unusual happening to this version of Earth,” said the geologist, “and I was wondering if you could tell me if the same thing is happening on your version?”