But all that those other people could do was guess.

I had an opportunity to go and see — to find out for sure.

We were back in the conference room on the fifth floor of the Curatorial Centre, but there were no video cameras present this time. It was just me and a tiny alien dodecahedron — and the projections of two extraterrestrial beings.

Hollus stood quietly at one side of the room. T’kna was standing at the other side, the conference table between them. T’kna’s utility belt was green today, rather than yellow, but it still sported the same galaxy-of-blood icon.

“Greetings,” I said, once the Wreed’s projection had stabilized.

The sound of tumbling rocks, then the mechanical voice: “Greetings reciprocated. Of this one you desire something?”

I nodded. “Advice,” I said, tipping my head slightly. “Your counsel.”

The Wreed was motionless, listening.

“Hollus told you I have terminal cancer,” I said.

T’kna touched his belt buckle. “Sorrow expressed again.”

“Thanks. But, look, you guys have offered me a chance to go with you to Betelgeuse to meet whatever is out there.”

A pebble hitting the ground. “Yes.”

“I will be dead soon. I’m not certain precisely when, but — but surely within a couple of months. Now, should I spend those last few months with my family, or should I go with you? On the one hand, my family wants every minute they can have with me — and, well, I guess I understand that being with me when I . . . when I pass on is part of bringing closure to our relationships. And, of course, I love them greatly, and wish to be with them. But, on the other hand, my condition will deteriorate, becoming an increasing burden on them.” I paused. “If we lived in the States, maybe there would be a monetary issue — the last few weeks of one’s life, spent in a hospital, can run up enormous bills down there. But here, in Canada, that doesn’t figure into the equation; the only factors are the emotional toll, on me and on my family.”

I was conscious that I was expressing my problem in mathematical terms — factors, equations, monetary issues but that’s the way the words had come tumbling out, without any preplanning by me. I hoped I wasn’t completely baffling the Wreed.

“And of me you ask which choice you should make?” said the translator’s voice.

“Yes,” I said.

There was the sound of rocks grinding, followed by a brief silence, and then: “The moral choice is obvious,” said the Wreed. “It always is.”

“And?” I said. “What is the moral choice?”

More sounds of rocks, then: “Morality cannot be handed down from an external source.” And here all four of the Wreed’s hands touched the inverted pear that was its chest. “It must come from within.”

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

The Wreed wavered and vanished.

That night, while Ricky watched TV in the basement, Susan and I sat again on the couch.

And I told her what I’d decided.

“I’ll always love you,” I said to Susan.

She closed her eyes. “And I will always love you, too.”

No wonder I liked Casablanca so much. Would Ilsa Lund go with Victor Laszlo? Or would she stay with Rick Blaine? Would she follow her husband? Or would she follow her heart?

And were there things bigger than her? Bigger than Rick? Bigger than both of them? Were there other factors to consider, other terms in the equation?

But — let’s be honest — was there anything bigger involved in my case? Sure, God might be at the heart of the matter — but if I went, it wouldn’t change anything, I’m sure . . . whereas Victor’s continued resistance to the Nazis helped save the world.

Still, I’d made my decision.

As difficult as it was, I’d made my decision.

But I’d never know if it was the right one.

I leaned over and kissed Susan, kissed her as if it were the last time.

33

“Hi, sport,” I said as I came into Ricky’s room.

Ricky was sitting at his desk, which had a world map laminated into its surface. He was drawing something with pencil crayons, his tongue sticking out and up from the corner of his mouth in the quintessential childhood look of concentration. “Dad,” he said, acknowledging me.

I looked around. The room was messy but not a disaster. Some dirty clothes were on the floor; I usually remonstrated him for that, but would not do so today. He had several small plastic dinosaur skeletons that I’d bought for him, and a talking Qui-Gon Jinn action figure he’d received for Christmas. And books, lots of children’s books: our Ricky was going to grow up to be a reader.

“Son,” I said, and I waited patiently for him to give me his full attention. He was completing one of the elements of his drawing — it looked like an airplane. I let him do so; I knew how gnawing unfinished business could be. At last he looked up, seeming surprised that I was still there. He lifted his eyebrows questioningly.

“Son,” I said again, “you know Daddy’s been awfully sick.”

Ricky put down his pencil crayon, realizing we were moving onto serious ground. He nodded.

“And,” I said, “well, I think you know that I’m not going to get better.”

He pursed his lips and nodded bravely. My heart was breaking.

“I’m going to go away,” I said. “I’m going to go away with Hollus.”

“Can he fix you?” Ricky said. “He said he couldn’t, but . . .”

Rick didn’t know that Hollus was female, of course, and I hardly wanted to go off on tangents now. “No. No, there’s nothing he can do for me. But, well, he’s going on a trip, and I want to go with him.” I’d been on numerous trips before — to digs, to conferences. Ricky was used to me traveling.

“When will you be coming back?” he asked. And then, his face all cherubic innocence, “Will you bring me something?”

I closed my eyes for a moment. My stomach was churning.

“I, ah, I won’t be coming back,” I said softly.

Ricky was quiet for a moment, digesting this. “You mean — you mean you’re going off to die?”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry to be leaving you.”

“I don’t want you to die.”

“I don’t want to die, either, but . . . but sometimes we don’t have any choice in things.”

“Can I — I want to go with you.”

I smiled sadly. “You can’t, Ricky. You have to stay here and go to school. You have to stay here and help Mommy.”

“But . . .”

I waited for him to finish, to complete his objection. But he didn’t. He simply said, “Don’t go, Daddy.”

But I was going to leave him. Whether this month, on Hollus’s starship, or a couple more months down the road, lying in a hospital bed, tubes in my arm and nose and the back of my hand, EKG monitors softly bleeping in the background, nurses and doctors scuttling to and fro. One way or the other, I was going to leave. I had no choice about leaving, but I did have a say in when and how.

“Nothing,” I said, “is harder for me than going.” There was no point in telling him I wanted him to remember me like this, when really I wanted him to remember me as I was a year ago, seventy pounds heavier, with a reasonably full head of hair. But, still, this was better than what I would soon become.

“Then don’t go, Daddy.”

“I’m sorry, sport. Really, I am.”

Ricky was as good as any kid his age at begging and wheedling to get to stay up late, to get a toy he wanted, to get to eat some more candy. But he realized, it seemed, that none of that would work here, and I loved him all the more for his six-year-old wisdom.

“I love you, Daddy,” he said, tears coming now.

I bent down, lifting him from his chair, raising him up to my chest, hugging him to me. “I love you, too, son.”

Hollus’s starship, the Merelcas, looked nothing like what I’d expected. I’d grown used to movie spaceships with all sorts of detailing on their hulls. But this ship had a perfectly smooth surface. It consisted of a rectangular block at one end and a perpendicular disk at the other, joined by two long tubular struts. The whole thing was a soft green. I couldn’t tell which end was the bow. Indeed, it was impossible to get any sense of its scale; there was nothing that I could recognize — not even any windows. The ship could have been only a few meters long, or kilometers.