"I'll be all right."

"'Cause if you don't want to be alone, Michiko and I can come over."

"No, that's okay. Franco della Robbia is still here at CERN; I'll spend some time with him."

"Okay," said Lloyd. "Okay." Another pause. "Look, I've got to — "

"I know," said Theo. "Bye."

"Bye."

Lloyd replaced the handset in its cradle.

He'd never met Dimitrios Procopides; indeed, Theo didn't speak of him very often. No surprise there; Lloyd rarely mentioned his sister Dolly at work, either. When it all came down to it, it was just one more death in a week of countless deaths, but…

"Poor Theo," said Michiko. She shook her head gently back and forth. "And his brother — poor guy."

He looked at her. She'd lost her own daughter, but for now, at this instant, she found room in her heart to grieve for a man she'd never met.

Lloyd's heart was still racing. The words he'd been about to say before the phone rang still echoed in his head. What was he thinking now? That he wanted to continue to play the field? That he wasn't ready to settle down? That he had to know that white woman, find her, meet her, and make a sensible, balanced choice between her and Michiko?

No.

No, that wasn't it. That couldn't be it.

What he was thinking was: I am an idiot.

And what he was thinking was: She's been incredibly patient.

And what he was thinking was: Maybe the warning that the marriage might not automatically last was the best damned thing that could have happened. Like every couple, they'd assumed it would be till death did they part. But now he knew, from day one, in a way that no one else ever had, not even those others like him who were children of broken homes, that it wasn't necessarily forever. That it was only permanent if he fought and struggled and worked to make it permanent every waking moment of his life. Knew that if he was going to get married, it would have to be his first priority. Not his career, not the damned elusive Nobel, not peer-review, not fellowships.

Her.

Michiko.

Michiko Komura.

Or — or Michiko Simcoe.

When he'd been a teenager, in the 1970s, it looked like women would forever dispense with the silliness of taking someone else's name. Still, to this day, most did adopt their husbands' last names; they'd already discussed this, and Michiko had said that it was indeed her intention to take on his name. Of course, Simcoe wasn't nearly as musical as Komura, but that was a small sacrifice.

But no.

No, she shouldn't take his name. How many divorced women carried not their birth names but the cognomen of someone decades in their past, a daily reminder of youthful mistakes, of love gone bad, of painful times? Indeed, Komura wasn't Michiko's maiden name — that was Okawa; Komura was Hiroshi's last name.

Still, she should retain that. She should remain a Komura so that Lloyd would be reminded, day in and day out, that she wasn't his; that he had to work at their marriage; that tomorrow was in his hands.

He looked at her — her flawless complexion, her beguiling eyes, her oh-so-dark hair.

All those things would change with time, of course. But he wanted to be around for that, to savor every moment, to enjoy the seasons of life with her.

Yes, with her.

Lloyd Simcoe did something he hadn't done the first time — oh, he'd thought about it then, but had rejected it as silly, old-fashioned, unnecessary.

But it was what he wanted to do, what he needed to do.

He lowered himself onto one knee.

And he took Michiko's hand in his.

And he looked up into her patient, lovely face.

And he said, "Will you marry me?"

And the moment held, Michiko clearly startled.

And then a smile grew slowly across her face.

And she said, almost in a whisper, "Yes."

Lloyd blinked rapidly, his eyes misting over.

The future was going to be glorious.

Ten Days Later: Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Gaston Beranger had been surprisingly easy to convince that CERN should try to replicate the LHC experiment. But, of course, he felt they had nothing to lose and everything to gain if the attempt failed: it would be very hard to prove CERN's liability for any damage done the first time if the second attempt produced no time displacement.

And now it was the moment of truth.

Lloyd made his way to the polished wooden podium. The great globe-and-laurel-leaf seal of the United Nations spread out behind him. The air was dry; Lloyd got a shock as he touched the podium's metal trim. He took a deep breath, calming himself. And then he leaned into the mike. "I'd like to thank — "

He was surprised that his voice was cracking. But, dammit all, he was speaking to some of the most powerful politicians in the world. He swallowed, then tried again. "I'd like to thank Secretary-General Stephen Lewis for allowing me to speak to you today." At least half the delegates were listening to translations provided through wireless earpieces. "Ladies and gentiemen, my name is Dr. Lloyd Simcoe. I'm a Canadian currently living in France and working at CERN, the European center for particle physics." He paused, swallowed. "As you've no doubt heard by now, it was, apparently, an experiment at CERN that caused the consciousness-displacement phenomenon. And, ladies and gentlemen, I know at first blush this will sound crazy, but I've come here to ask you, as the representatives of your respective governments, for permission to repeat the experiment."

There was an eruption of chatter — a cacophony of languages even more varied than what one hears at CERN's various cafeterias. Of course, all the delegates had known in advance roughly what Lloyd was going to say — one didn't get to speak in front of the UN without going through a lot of preliminary discussions. The General Assembly hall was cavernous; his eyesight really wasn't good enough to make out many individual faces. Nonetheless, he could see anger on the face of one of the Russian delegates and what looked like terror on the faces of the German and Japanese delegates. Lloyd looked over at the Secretary-General, a handsome white man of seventy-two. Lewis gave him an encouraging smile, and Simcoe went on.

"Perhaps there is no reason to do this," said Lloyd. "We seem to have clear evidence now that the future portrayed in the first set of visions is not going to come true — at least not exactly. Nevertheless, there's no doubt that a great many people found real personal insight through the glimpses."

He paused.

"I'm reminded of the story A Christmas Carol, by the British writer Charles Dickens. His character Ebenezer Scrooge saw a vision of Christmas Yet to Come, in which the results of his actions had led to misery for many other people and himself being hated and despised in death. And, of course, seeing such a vision would have been a terrible thing — had the vision been of the one, true immutable future. But Scrooge was told that, no, the future he saw was only the logical extrapolation of his life, should he continue on the way he had been. He could change his life, and the lives of those around him, for the better; that glimpse of the future turned out to be a wonderful thing."

He took a sip of water, then continued.

"But Scrooge's vision was of a very specific time — Christmas day. Not all of us had visions of significant events; many of us saw things that were quite banal, frustratingly ambiguous, or, indeed, for almost a third of us, we saw either dreams or just darkness — we were asleep during that two-minute span twenty-one years from now." He paused and shrugged his shoulders, as if he himself did not know what the right thing to do was. "We believe we can replicate the experience of having visions; we can offer all of humanity another glimpse of the future." He raised a hand. "I know some governments have been leery of these insights, disliking some of the things revealed, but now that we know the future is not fixed, I'm hoping that you will allow us to simply give this gift, and the benefit of the Ebenezer Effect, to the peoples of the world once more. With the cooperation of you men and women, and your governments, we believe we can do this safely. It's up to you."