"But science — and in particular, evolutionary science, which is Dawkins’s forte — is largely about tracing lineages, and filling in the stages. If you took a comparable view of evolution, you’d have to say that wondering whether birds really evolved from dinosaurs is a dumb question to bother with, as is wondering whether Lucy was one of our ancestors, since the only truly interesting question is how the original, common ancestor of all life came into being. That’s wrong; it’s one interesting question, but it’s hardly the only one worth asking. Whether we live in a created universe is an inherently interesting question, and it’s worthy of scientific investigation. And if a creator does exist, or if a race becomes such a creator itself, that immediately raises the moral question of what, if any, accountability or obligation the creations have to that creator — and the flipside, and the part that I think we don’t spend nearly enough time debating, which is what if any accountability or obligation our possible creator has to us," Don took a big step sideways, and looked up at the dark sky. "Hey, God," he said, "be careful with your aim…"

"No, seriously," said Sarah. "Technology gives a species the power to prevent life, to create life, to take life on scales small and large; technology ultimately gives the power to be what we would call Gods, and, even if our definition of science is blind to it, it raises the possibility that what we are is the result of the work of some other being that would, by virtue of having created us, also deserve that term God. Doesn’t mean we have to worship it — but it does mean that we, and any other technologically advanced race, will have to deal with ethical questions related both to potentially being Gods ourselves and potentially being the children of Gods."

They jogged across the street, beating an oncoming car. "And so the aliens from Sigma Drac wrote to us asking for our advice?" asked Don. He shook his head.

"Heaven help them."

Sarah had said one of the appeals of becoming young again would be having time to read all the great books. Don couldn’t quite say that the book he was looking at now — a thriller of the type that would have been sold in drug-store spinner racks when he’d been young the first time — was great, but it was a pleasure to be able to read for hours without getting eye fatigue, and without having to put on his cheaters.

Still, eventually, he did get bored with the book, and so he had his datacom scan the TV listings for anything that might interest him, and—

"Hey," he said, looking up from the list the device had provided, "Discovery is showing that old documentary about the first message."

Sarah, seated on the couch, looked over at him; he was leaning back in the chair.

"What old documentary?" she said.

"You know," he said, a little impatiently, "that hour-long thing they did when you sent the initial reply to Sigma Draconis."

"Oh," said Sarah. "Yeah."

"Don’t you want to watch it?"

"No. I’m sure we’ve got a recording of it somewhere, anyway."

"Doubtless in some format we can’t read anymore. I’m going to put it on."

"I wish you wouldn’t," she said.

"Oh, come on!" said Don. "It’ll be fun." He looked at the panel above the fireplace.

"TV on; Discovery Channel." The picture was razor-sharp and the colors vibrant.

Don had forgotten they’d had high-definition TV that long ago; he found lots of older shows unwatchable now, because they’d been videotaped in low-res.

The documentary was already under way. Some aerial footage of the Arecibo radio telescope was being shown, and the voice of a Canadian actor — was it Maury Chaykin? — was doing the narration. Soon, that was replaced with a potted history of SETI: the Drake equation, Project OZMA, the Pioneer 10 plaque, the Voyager records — which, it was duly noted, this being the Canadian version of Discovery Channel, had been designed by Toronto’s own Jon Lomberg. Don had forgotten how much of the documentary wasn’t about Sarah and her work. Maybe he’d go into the kitchen to get a drink, and—

And suddenly, there she was, on the screen, and—

And he looked over at his wife, seated on the couch, then back at the monitor, then shifted his gaze between the two once more. She was steadfastly staring at the fireplace, it seemed, not the magphotic panel above it, and she was red in the face, as if embarrassed, because—

Because she looked so much younger, so much less frail, on the monitor. After all, this had been recorded thirty-eight years ago, back when she was forty-nine. It was a sort of rollback, a regressing to a younger state; oh, to be sure, not nearly as far back as he had gone, but still a bitter taste of what might have been.

"I’m sorry, sweetheart," he said, softly, and then, more loudly, into the air: "TV off."

She looked over at him, her face expressionless. "I’m sorry, too," she said.

As the day wore on, Sarah went up to Carl’s old room, to work through the giant stack of papers Don had brought her from the University.

Don, meanwhile, went down to the basement. He and Sarah had almost given up on using the rec room as they’d gotten older. The stairs down to it were particularly steep, and there was a banister only on the wall side. But he now had no trouble going down there, and, on these hot summer days, it was the coolest place in the house.

Not to mention the most private.

He sat on the old couch there, and looked about, a fluttering in his stomach. History had been made here. Right over there, Sarah had figured out the meat of the original message. And history might be made in this house again, if she could decrypt the Dracons’ latest transmission. Perhaps someday there’d be a plaque on their front lawn.

Don was holding his datacom tightly in his hand, and its plastic shell was now moist with his perspiration. Although he’d fantasized about seeing Lenore again, he knew that could never happen. But she’d made him promise to call, and he couldn’t just ignore her, couldn’t leave her hanging. That would be wrong, mean, petty. No, he had to call her up and say good-bye properly. He’d tell her the truth, tell her there was someone else.

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, opened the datacom, snapped it immediately shut, and then, at last, opened it once more, gingerly, as though lifting the lid on a coffin.

And he spoke to the little device, telling it who he wanted to contact, and—

Rings. The tolling of a bell. And then—

A squeaky voice. "Hello?"

"Hi, Lenore," he said, his heart jackhammering. "It’s Don."

Silence.

"You know, Don Halifax."

"Hello," Lenore said again, this time her tone icy cold.

"Look, I’m sorry I haven’t called you, but…"

"It has been three days."

"Yes, I know, I know, and I’m sorry. I really did mean to call. I didn’t want you to think I was one of those guys who… well, you know, one of those guys who doesn’t call."

"Could have fooled me," she said.

He cringed. "I’m sorry. You deserve way better—"

"Yes, I do."

"I know. But, look, I—"

"Didn’t you have a good time?"

"I had a great time," he said. And he had — just about the only time he’d been happy for weeks now. Not just the sex, but just being with someone who could keep up with him, and—

Lenore sounded relieved. "Good. ’Cause, I did too. You… you’re really something."

"Um, thanks. So are you. But, um…"

"Look," she said, her tone conveying that she was making a special dispensation, "I’m busy at the food bank tomorrow. But I’m free on Sunday. Maybe we could get together then?"

No, thought Don.

"What did you have in mind?" he said, astonished to hear himself speak the words.