McGavin shifted in the chair.

"Besides, you have a full-time job," said Don. "Hell, you’ve jot multiple full-time jobs: president of your company, running four charitable foundation, all the public speaking you do…"

The rich man nodded. "True. But if not me, then who?"

Don cleared his throat. "Me."

"You? But weren’t you a — what was it? — a DJ, or something?"

"I was a recording-engineer/producer," Don said. "But that was my first career. It’s time I started to embark on my second."

"With all due respect," McGavin said, "surely there should be a search committee."

"I’m the search committee," Sarah said. "And I’ve made my choice."

"Seriously, Sarah, there should be a formal selection procedure," McGavin said.

"There already has been: the Dracon questionnaire. Using that, they chose me, and I choose Don. But we need your help."

McGavin did not look happy. "I’m a businessperson," he said, spreading his arms.

"What’s in it for me?"

Don glanced at Sarah, and he saw her wrinkles contort. McGavin’s comment made clear that his survey responses couldn’t possibly be close to Sarah’s — or to Don’s.

But she had an answer ready for him. "You’ll reap any biotech benefits that come from this — not just from studying alien DNA, but from the designs for the womb and the incubator, the formulas for the alien food-stuffs, and so on."

McGavin frowned. "I’m used to fully controlling those operations I’m involved with," he said. "Will you sell me the decryption key? You can name your price…"

But Sarah shook her head. "We’ve already determined that the one thing I might want your money can’t buy."

McGavin was quiet for a time, considering this, then: "You’re talking about a lot of technology. I mean, sure, DNA synthesis is easy; there are commercial labs that can spit out any sequences we order up. But fabricating the artificial womb, and so forth — that may take a while."

"That’s all right," Don said. "I need time to prepare, anyway."

"How?" said McGavin. "How would you prepare for something like this?"

Don shrugged. At this stage, he knew, he was just guessing. "I suppose I’ll look at those models we do have: cross-fostering of chimpanzee babies into human homes, feral children, and so on. None of that is exactly comparable, but it’ll give me a place to start. And…"

"Yes?"

"Well, I made this list years ago: twenty things I want to do before I die. One of them was visit the Dalai Lama. Not that that’s likely, but I figure I should prepare…"

He paused, surprised to hear himself using such an unfamiliar word. "… spiritually for something like this."

"Well, that’s easy enough to arrange," said McGavin.

"You… you know the Dalai Lama?"

McGavin smiled. "You’ve heard that old saw about six degrees of separation ? The moment you met me, your score went to two degrees for just about every famous person. We’ll set it up."

"Wow. Um, thanks. I just, you know, want to do a good job at…"

"At raising aliens," McGavin said, shaking his head, as if the idea were still sinking in.

Don tried to make it sound less portentous. "Think of it as Dr. Spock meets Mr. Spock."

McGavin looked at him blankly; he’d doubtless heard of the Vulcan, but the pediatrician’s heyday had been well before his time.

"So," said Sarah, "will you help us?"

McGavin didn’t look happy. "I really wish you’d let me control this; no offense, but I’ve got a lot more experience managing major undertakings."

"Sorry," said Sarah. "It’s got to be this way. Are you with us?"

McGavin frowned, considering. "All right," he said, looking it Sarah, then back at Don. "I’m in."

Chapter 41

A few days later, Don went up to the study, looking for Sarah, but she wasn’t there.

He continued down the corridor and peeked into the dark bedroom, and dimly made her out, lying on the bed.

"Sarah…" he said softly. It was a tough judgment call: too quiet and she wouldn’t hear him regardless of whether she was awake, and too loud and he’d awaken her if she was sleeping.

Sometimes, though, you do get the right balance. "Hi, sweetheart," she said. But her voice was weak, low.

He moved quickly to the side of the bed and crouched down. "Are you okay?"

She took a few seconds to reply, his pounding pulse counting each one off. "I’m…

I’m not sure."

Don looked back over his shoulder. "Gunter!" he called. He could hear the Mozo’s footsteps coming up the stairs with metronome precision. He turned back to Sarah.

"What’s wrong?"

"I feel… dizzy," she said. "Weak…"

Don swung to look at Gunter’s solicitous blue face, which was now looming over him. "How is she?"

"Her temperature is 38.1," said Gunter, "and her pulse is 84 and somewhat erratic."

Don took her thin hand in his. "My God…" he said. "We should get you to the hospital."

"No," said Sarah. "No, it’s not necessary."

"Yes, it is," said Don.

Her voice grew a little firmer. "What do you say, Gunter?"

"You’re not in immediate danger," the robot said. "But you would be wise to see your physician tomorrow."

She nodded, almost imperceptibly.

"Is there anything I can do for you right now?" Don asked.

"No," said Sarah. She paused, and he was about to say something else, when she added, "But…"

"Yes?"

"Sit with me a bit, dear."

"Of course." But before he could do anything, Gunter was off like a shot. Moments later, he returned carrying the wheeled stenographer’s chair Sarah used at her workstation in the study. The Mozo placed it next to the bed, and Don sat on it.

"Thank you," said Sarah, to the robot.

The Mozo nodded, his mouth looking like a flatlining EKG.

In the morning, Sarah sat on the couch in the living room, writing on her datacom with a stylus, drafting her reply to the aliens; Cody McGavin had promised to arrange for it to be sent.

So the Dracons would know her message was from their intended recipient, she would ultimately encrypt it using the same key that had decrypted the Dracons’ message to her. For now, she was using the English-like notation system she’d developed; later, she’d have a computer program translate the message into Dracon ideograms:

!! [Sender’s] [Lifespan] ‹‹ [Recipient’s] [Lifespan]

[Recipient’s] [Lifespan]

[Sender’s] [Lifespan] = [End]

As she jotted down the pseudocode, a more colloquial version ran through her head: I’ve figured out that my lifespan is much shorter than yours. Your life goes on and on, but mine is near its end.

She would go on to tell the Dracons that although she couldn’t personally do what they’d asked, she’d found a worthy successor, and that they should look forward to receiving reports from their representatives here.

She looked at the words and symbols she’d written so far; the datacom had converted her shaky handwriting into crisp, clean text.

But mine is near its end…

Almost ninety years of life, sixty years of marriage. Who could say it was too little?

And yet…

And yet.

A thought came to her, from so many years ago, from her first date with Don, when they’d gone to see that Star Trek film — the one with the whales; he’d know which number it was. Funny how she could remember things from long ago, but had trouble with more-recent stuff; she vividly recalled how the film began, with a screen proclaiming:

The cast and crew of Star Trek wish to dedicate this film to the men and women of the spaceship Challenger whose courageous spirit shall live to the 23rd century and beyond…

Sarah also remembered the other Shuttle disaster, the one in 2003, when Columbia had disintegrated on reentry.