Don smiled. "You are a very wise man."

Roger chuckled. "Live long enough and you’ll be one, too."

After changing planes, Don finally made it to the airport in Christchurch around 5:00 a.m. local time. He hated having to pay for a night’s hotel when he wasn’t checking in until almost dawn, but the alternative would be trying to rendezvous with Lenore in a disheveled, wild-eyed, sleep-deprived state, and he felt enough like a crazy person doing this already.

He’d booked the cheapest hotel he could find online, and took a taxi over to it. His room was small by North American standards but it had a little balcony. After he’d washed up a bit, he stepped out onto it. Even though it was summer here, he could see his own breath in the crisp early-morning air.

Almost all the lights were off in the surrounding buildings. He went back into his room for a moment and killed the lights there, then returned to the balcony and let his tired eyes adjust to the dimness.

You can’t be married to an astronomer for sixty years without learning some constellations, but Don saw almost nothing familiar in this moonless sky, although there were two stars brighter than all the others. Alpha Centauri and Beta Centauri — just about all he could remember from his brief trip here all those years ago, except…

He scanned about, and — yes, there they were, impossibly large: the Clouds of Magellan, two smudges against the darkness. He stood there for a time, shivering, looking at them.

By and by, the sun started to come up, the horizon growing pink, and—

And suddenly there was a cacophony of bird songs: trills and tweets unlike any he ever heard back in Canada. An unfamiliar sky, bizarre background sounds: he might as well be on an alien world.

He went back inside, set an alarm for five hours hence, lay down, and closed his eyes, wondering what the new day would hold.

When Don got up, he used his datacom to check his email. There was the usual daily progress report from Cody McGavin: all was going well with fabricating the womb.

The alien DNA sequences had now been synthesized, too, done in bits and pieces at four separate commercial labs, then reassembled through a version of the whole-genome shotgun technique that had been used half a century earlier to make the first map of the Homo sapiens genome. Soon, McGavin said, everything would be ready to start growing the embryos.

Don had thought about trying to intercept Lenore as she was leaving from or arriving at her flat; it had been easy enough to find out where she lived. But some might view what he was doing as the ultimate act of stalking; she might be quite disconcerted if he showed up unannounced there. Besides, for all he knew, she was living with someone, and he didn’t want a confrontation with a jealous boyfriend.

And so he decided to go see her at the university. It took nothing but a few questions asked of his datacom to reveal the astronomy grad-student colloquium schedule. Before leaving the hotel, he got a little money from the cash machine in the lobby; Don remembered all the predictions of a cashless society, but that, too, had failed to pan out, mostly because of concerns over privacy.

Although he received crisp new bills, a much younger version of King William appeared on them than Don was used to from the banknotes back home; it was as though His Royal Highness had had a little rollback of his own down here.

The robot-driven taxi let him off at the entrance to the campus, by a big sign:

Strange words, alien text. But a Rosetta stone was provided as a matching sign on the opposite side of the roadway:

A river ran through the campus, and he walked along one of its banks toward the building a passerby told him housed the astronomy department, a new-looking red-brick affair half-sunk into a hillside. Once he got inside, he started looking for the right room, although he had trouble figuring out the sequence of room numbers.

He stumbled upon the astronomy-department office and stuck his head in the door.

There was a Maori man of about thirty at a desk, his face covered by intricate tattoos. "Hi," said Don. "Can you please tell me where room 42-2146 is?"

"Looking for Lenore Darby?" asked the man.

Moths danced a ballet in Don’s stomach. "Um, yes."

The man smiled. "Thought so. You’ve got a Canadian accent. Anyway, go down the hall, turn right at the next corridor, and it’ll be on your left."

Don had twenty minutes until the colloquium would be over. He thanked the man then made a pit stop in a washroom, and checked for anything in his teeth, fixed his hair, and straightened his clothes. And then he headed to the classroom. The door was closed, but it had a little window and he chanced a peek through it.

His heart jumped. There was Lenore, standing at the front of the room; apparently it was her turn to present to the colloquium. As if to underscore that time had passed and many things might be different, he noted that she’d cut her red hair much shorter than he was used to seeing it. And she looked older, although she was still in that range of years during which that meant more grown-up, not more decrepit.

The room was a small lecture theater, with a steep bank of chairs facing a central stage. There was a podium, but Lenore wasn’t hiding behind it. Instead she stood confidently, in full view, in the middle of the stage. Perhaps a dozen other people were in the room. All he could see of them were the backs of their heads. Some had gray hair; presumably they were faculty members. Lenore was using a laser pointer to indicate things within a complex graphic on the room’s front wall screen. He couldn’t make out what she was saying, but the squeak was unmistakable.

Don sat on the floor beside the door, waiting for the session to end. He felt a surge of adrenaline when the door swung open — but it was only some guy wearing an All Blacks T-shirt stepping out to use the washroom.

Finally other classrooms along the same hallway started opening, but the door to Lenore’s room remained maddeningly shut. Don got up off the floor and dusted off the seat of his pants. He was just about to look through the window when the door swung open again. He stepped to one side, the way people used to with subway doors in Toronto.

When there was a lull, he looked into the room again. Lenore was down at the front, her back to him, talking with the final remaining person, a slim young man. Don watched until, at last, the man nodded and started walking up the stairs. Lenore, meanwhile, was doing something at the podium.

Don took a deep breath, hoping it would calm him, and he went through the door.

He got only four steps down before Lenore looked up, and—

—and her eyes went wide, almost fully circular, and her mouth dropped open, forming another circle, and he continued down, feeling shakier than he’d ever felt even before the rollback.

She clearly couldn’t believe what she was seeing, and she looked as though she was trying to convince herself that this was someone who just happened to bear a strong resemblance to Don. It had been a long time since she’d seen him, after all, and—

"Don?" she said at last.

He smiled, but could feel the corners of his mouth quivering. "Hello, Lenore."

"Don!" She practically shouted the name, and a giant grin grew across her face.

He found himself running down the remaining stairs, and she was coming up them, taking two in each stride, and suddenly they were in each other’s arms. He so desperately wanted to kiss her — but just because he was being greeted like an old friend didn’t mean she’d welcome that.