But as first one month and then another passed, Don realized she wasn’t going to be in touch — which, he supposed, might have been just as well, for what could she have said? That she was sorry that Sarah was dead? And yet, wouldn’t there have been, between the lines, too horrible to acknowledge directly but impossible to dismiss from consciousness, a concomitant thought that she was sorry Sarah hadn’t died sooner? Not out of any animus but simply in recognition of the fact that Sarah’s existence was what had ultimately kept Lenore and Don apart?

Every few weeks, he searched the web, looking at references to Sarah. There was so much about her, and even though most of it was quite old, it made it seem, in a strange way, like she was still around.

He never googled himself anymore, though. There was, as Randy Trenholm had said, lots of discussion of the peculiar circumstances of his rollback, and he found reading it made his stomach turn. But every now and then he did put in Lenore’s name, to see what would come up. She had indeed finished her master’s, and, as she’d said she’d hoped to, had now moved to Christchurch, and was working there on her doctorate.

He looked at whatever his searches found: references to her on the University of Canterbury website, citations of a paper she was junior author on, her occasional postings to political newsgroups, and video of her on a panel discussion at a conference in Tokyo. He watched the clip over and over again.

He would never get over the loss of Sarah; he knew that. But he did have to get on with life, and soon enough that life would change totally and completely, in ways he couldn’t begin to guess. McGavin said the womb should be ready in a matter of weeks now. Of course, the gestation would take a while — seven months, according to the message the Dracons had sent.

Lenore had been out of his life for almost a year and a half now. It was too much to hope that she might still be free. And, even if she were free, maybe the whole episode (that was the word she’d use) was something she wanted to put behind her, anyway: the insane time during which she’d fallen for what she’d thought was a contemporary, only to discover to her shock and disgust that he was — that hated term again — an octogenarian.

And yet…

And yet, in the end, she seemed to have more or less come to terms with the reality of what he was, accepting his dual ages, his youthful exterior and his less-youthful interior. It would be a miracle to find someone else who could deal with that, and although this was the age of miracle and wonder, Don didn’t believe in that kind of miracle.

Of course, he thought, a sensible man would contact Lenore by phone or email. A sensible man wouldn’t fly halfway around the planet in the faint hope that he’d be greeted with open arms. But he wasn’t a sensible man; he was a supremely silly one — both the women he’d loved had told him that.

And so…

And so, here he was, on a flight to New Zealand. As he took his seat on the plane, he realized he had a real advantage over the aliens on Sigma Draconis. The Dracons could only broadcast their messages into the darkness, and, unless a reply was sent back, they’d never even know if their signals had been received, and then not for years to come. He at least would see Lenore’s face — and, he expected, that was all he’d need to see: the message it contained when she first laid eyes on him would be unguarded and honest, an unencrypted signal. And yet, what he’d give to know the answer now…

Don had ended up with a window seat. That was perhaps a plum position on a domestic flight, but when one wanted to get up frequently to stretch one’s legs, it meant disturbing, in this case, not one but two fellow passengers, one of whom, the one with the middle seat, adjacent to Don’s, was a man of at least seventy-five. Don all too vividly remembered what it was like to try to haul himself to his feet, especially in a cramped, awkward space, at such an age, and so he mostly endured being trapped, alternating between looking out at the endless vistas of cloud tops and watching a succession of programs on his seat-back monitor.

About four hours into the flight the old man next to him struck up a conversation.

"God eye," he said — and, after a moment, Don’s brain decoded it as "Good day" filtered through an Australian accent. "Name’s Roger." He must be heading home, Don presumed; this flight would continue on to Melbourne after its stop in Auckland, where Don himself would change planes for Christchurch.

"What were you doing in Toronto?" asked Don, after they had confirmed Roger’s pedigree in conversation.

"Actually, I was in Huntsville," Roger said. "You know it?"

"Sure," said Don. "Cottage country."

"Bingo. My daughter lives there. Runs a B-and-B. And she just had a baby girl, so I had to go see."

Don smiled. "Grandkids are great."

Roger looked at him quizzically, but then nodded and said, "That they are, mate."

"Have you been to Canada before?" Don asked.

"This was my fourth trip, but…" His face, so full of delight when he mentioned his new granddaughter, now looked sad, and Don thought he was perhaps going to say it was likely to be his last time. But what he actually said was "It was my first time going on my own. My wife passed away last year."

Don’s heart skipped a beat. "I’m sorry."

"Thanks. A wonderful woman, my Kelly was."

"I’m sure. How long were you married?"

"Fifty years. Fifty years and one week, actually. It was like she’d been holding on, wanting to make that milestone."

Don said nothing.

"I miss her so much," Roger said. "I miss her every day."

Don just listened as Roger talked about his wife, and the fine times they’d had together, and he resisted the almost overwhelming urge to say, "I know," or "Same here," or "That’s just the way it was with Sarah and me."

Finally, though, Roger looked at him with an embarrassed expression. "Sorry," he said. "I guess I’ve been rambling. You’ll have to forgive an old geezer."

"Not at all," said Don.

Roger smiled. He had a roundish head and very little hair, and the rough skin of a man who’d enjoyed being out in the sun much of his life. "You’re a fine young bloke, listening to me go on like that."

Don found he had to suppress a grin. "Thanks."

"So, mate, what’s your story? Why are you going to Oz?"

"Actually, I’m not. I’m heading to New Zealand."

"North Island or South?"

"South."

"Well, they’re both lovely. Lots of sheep, though."

This time Don didn’t suppress his grin. Still, he couldn’t say he’d been there almost sixty years ago, and he didn’t know enough contemporary details to speak convincingly of a more-recent trip, so he simply said, "So I hear."

"What’s bringing you to Kiwi-land? Business or pleasure?"

"Honestly? I’m chasing after a girl."

To his surprise, Roger slapped him on the knee. "Good on you, mate! Good on you!"

"Maybe," said Don. "Maybe not. We broke up over a year ago. She went to Christchurch to study. But I’ve missed her more than I can say."

"She knows you’re coming, though, right?"

Don shook his head and steeled himself for being told he was being foolish.

Roger lifted his eyebrows. "Can you stand a spot of advice from an old man?"

"Best kind I know," Don said.

Roger tilted his head; he’d presumably expected an attempt to deflect his input. But then he nodded sagely. "You’re doing the right thing. The only regrets I have are over the mad, impetuous things I didn’t do."