"Randy, look, it’s getting late. Is there something I can help you with?"

"It’s just that, like I said, you know Cody McGavin—"

"Not really."

"And so I thought maybe you could have a word with him, you know, on my behalf."

"Randy, I don’t—"

"I mean, I’ve got a lot to offer, Don. And a lot of things still to do, but—"

"Randy, honestly, I—"

"Come on, Don. It’s not like you’re special. But he paid for your rollback."

"It was Sarah he wanted to have rollback, and—"

"Oh, I know, but it didn’t work for her, right? That’s what they say, anyway. And, look, Don, I’m really sorry about that. I’ve always liked Sarah."

Randy apparently expected a response, as if having made this obeisance he was now due something in return. But Don remained quiet. After the silence had grown to an uncomfortable length, Randy spoke again. "So, anyway, he did it for you, and—"

"And you think he’ll do it for you, too? Randy, I honestly don’t know how much all the work I had done cost, but—"

"They estimate eight billion on Betterhumans. Most people on I Do Go On think it’s more like ten."

"But," continued Don, firmly, "I didn’t ask for it, and I didn’t want it, and—"

"And that’s pocket change to the likes of Cody McGavin."

"I don’t think that’s pocket change to anybody," said Don, "but that’s beside the point. He can spend his money any way he likes."

"Sure, but now that he’s doling it out to let some of those who aren’t insanely rich have a rollback, well, I thought, you know, maybe…"

"There’s nothing I can do for you. I’m sorry, but—"

The voice was getting more desperate. "Please, Don. I’ve still got a lot to contribute.

If I had a rollback, I could…"

"What?" asked Don, his tone sharp. "Cure cancer? It’s been done. Invent a better mousetrap? Gene-splicers will just make a better mouse."

"No, important things. I’m — you don’t know what I’ve done in the last twenty years, Don. I’ve — I’ve done things. But there’s a lot more I want to accomplish. I just need more time, is all."

"I’m sorry, Randy. Really, I am—"

"If you’d just call McGavin, Don. That’s all I’m asking. Just make one phone call."

He thought about snapping that it had taken forever to get through to McGavin the last time, but that was none of Randy’s business. "I’m sorry, Randy," he said again.

"Damn it, what did you do to deserve this? You’re not that special. You’re not that bright, that talented. You just fucking won the lottery, is all, and now you won’t even help me buy a ticket."

"For Christ’s sake, Randy…"

"It’s not fair. You said it yourself. You aren’t even interested in transhumanism, in life extension. But me, I’ve spent most of my life pursuing that. ‘Live long enough to live forever’ — that’s what Kurzweil said. Just hold on for a few more decades, and we’ll have rejuvenation techniques, we’ll have practical immortality. Well, I did hold on, and it’s here, the techniques are here. But I can’t afford them."

"They’ll come down—"

"Don’t fucking tell me they’ll come down in price. I know they’ll come down in price.

But not in time, damn it. I’m eighty-nine! If you’d just call McGavin, just pull a couple of strings. That’s all I’m asking — for old times’ sake."

"I’m sorry," Don said. "I really am."

"Damn you, Halifax! You’ve got to do this. I— I’m going to die. I’m going—"

Don slammed the handset down and sat quaking in his chair. He thought about going upstairs to see Sarah, but she couldn’t understand what he was going through any more than Randy Trenholm did; he so wished he had someone to talk to. Of course, there were other people who had undergone rollbacks, but they were totally out of his league — the financial gulf separating him from them was so much greater than their shared experience of rejuvenation.

Eventually, he did head upstairs, went through the motions of getting ready for bed, and, at last, he lay down next to Sarah, who had already turned in, and he stared at the ceiling — something he found himself doing more and more these days.

Randy Trenholm was right, in a way. Some people probably should be kept around.

The last of the twelve men who had walked on the moon had died in 2028. The greatest thing the human race had ever done had happened in Don’s lifetime, but no one who had actually ever set foot upon the lunar surface was still alive. All that was left were photos and videos and rocks and a scant few poetic descriptions, including Aldrin’s "magnificent desolation." People kept saying it was inevitable that humans would someday return to the moon. Perhaps, thought Don, he might now live to see that, but, until they did, the actual experience of those small steps, those giant leaps, had passed from living memory.

And, even more tragic, the last survivor of the Nazi death camps — the final witness to those atrocities — had died in 2037; the worst thing humanity had ever done had also passed out of living memory.

Both the moon landing and the Holocaust had their deniers: people who claimed that such wonder, and such horror, never could have happened, that humans were incapable of such technological triumphs, or of such conscienceless evil. And now, every last one of those who could gainsay that from personal experience was gone.

But Donald Halifax lived on, with nothing special to attest to, no important experience to which he alone bore witness, nothing that needed to be shared with future generations. He was just some guy.

Sarah stirred in her sleep next to him, rolling onto her side. He looked over at her in the darkness, at the woman who had done what no one else had ever done: figured out what an alien radio message meant. And, if Cody McGavin was right, she was the best bet to do it again. But she’d be gone all too soon, while he would go on. If the rollback were only going to work for one of them, it should have been her, Don knew. She mattered; he didn’t.

He shook his head, his hair rustling against the pillow. He knew logically that he hadn’t taken the rejuvenation away from Sarah, that its success with him had nothing to do with its failure for her. And yet the guilt was oppressive, like the weight of six feet of earth pressing down upon him.

"I’m sorry," he whispered into the dark, facing the ceiling again.

"For what?" Sarah’s voice startled him. He hadn’t realized she was awake, but now that he turned his head to face her, he could see little reflections of the dim outside lights in her open eyes.

He scooched closer to his wife and gently hugged her to him. He thought about letting the words he’d spoken apply only to his having been short with her earlier that evening, but there was more — so much more. "I’m sorry," he said at last, "that the rollback worked on me but not on you."

He felt her expand in his embrace as she took a deep breath, then contract again as she let it out slowly. "If it could only have worked on one of us," said Sarah, "I’m glad it was you."

He hadn’t been expecting that at all. "Why?"

"Because," she said, "you’re such a good man."

He could think of no reply, and so he just held her. Eventually, her breathing grew regular and noisy. He lay there for hours, listening to it.