Sarah reached forward and set her glass down on the granite desktop, next to where McGavin was leaning. Her hand was shaking. "That… that costs a fortune," she said.

"I have a fortune," said McGavin simply.

"But… but… I don’t know," said Sarah. "I’m — I mean, does it work?"

"Look at me," said McGavin, spreading his arms again. "I’m sixty-two years old, according to my birth certificate. But my cells, my telomeres, my free-radical levels, and every other indicator say I’m twenty-five. And, if anything, I feel younger even than that."

Don’s jaw must have been hanging open in surprise. "You thought I’d had a facelift, or something like that?" McGavin said, looking at him. "Plastic surgery is like a software patch. It’s a quick, kludgy fix, and it often creates more problems than it solves. But rejuvenation, well, that’s like a code rewrite — it’s a real fix. You don’t just look young again; you are young." His thin eyebrows climbed his wide forehead. "And that’s what I’m offering you. The full-blown rejuvenation treatment."

Sarah looked shocked, and it was a moment before she spoke. "But… but this is ridiculous," she said at last. "Nobody even knows if it really works. I mean, sure, you look younger, maybe you even feel younger, but the treatment has only been available for a short time. No one who’s had it yet has lived appreciably longer than a natural lifespan. There’s no proof that this process really extends your life."

McGavin made a dismissive gesture. "There have been lots of rollback tests with lab animals. They all became young again, and then aged forward perfectly normally.

We’ve seen mice and even prosimians live out their entire lengthened lifespans without difficulty. As for humans, well, except for a few oddball indicators like growth rings in my teeth, my physicians tell me that I’m now physiologically twenty-five, and am aging forward naturally from that point." He spread his arms.

"Believe me, it works. And I’m offering it to you."

"Mr. McGavin," Don said, "I really don’t think that—"

"Not without Don," Sarah said.

"What?" said McGavin and Don simultaneously.

"Not without Don," Sarah repeated. Her voice had a firmness Don hadn’t heard for years. "I won’t even consider this unless you also offer the same thing to my husband."

McGavin pushed himself forward until he was standing. He walked behind his desk, turning his back on them, and looked out at his sprawling empire. "This is a very expensive procedure, Sarah."

"And you’re a very rich man," she replied.

Don looked at McGavin’s back, more or less silhouetted against the bright sky. At last, McGavin spoke. "I envy you, Don."

"Why?"

"To have a wife who loves you so much. I understand the two of you have been married for over fifty years."

"Sixty," said Don, "as of two days ago."

"I never…" McGavin began, but then he fell silent.

Don had vague recollections of McGavin’s high-profile divorce, years ago, and a nasty court case to try to invalidate the prenup.

"Sixty years," McGavin continued, at last. "Such a long time…"

"It hasn’t seemed that way," said Sarah.

Don could hear McGavin make a noisy intake of breath and then let it out. "All right," he said, turning around, his head nodding. "All right, I’ll pay for the procedure for both of you." He walked toward them, but remained standing. "So, do we have a deal?"

Sarah opened her mouth to say something, but Don spoke before she could. "We have to talk about this," he said.

"So let’s talk," said McGavin.

"Sarah and I. We have to talk about this alone."

McGavin seemed momentarily peeved, as though he felt they were looking a gift horse in the mouth. But then he nodded. "All right, take your time." He paused, and Don thought he was going to say something stupid like, "But not too much time."

But instead he said, "I’ll have my driver take you over to Pauli’s — finest restaurant in Boston. On me, of course. Talk it over. Let me know what you decide."

The robot chauffeur drove Sarah and Don to the restaurant. Don got out of the car first and carefully made his way over to Sarah’s door, helping her up and out, and holding her arm as they crossed the sidewalk and entered.

"Hello," said the young white woman standing at a small podium inside the door.

"You must be Dr. and Mr. Halifax, no? Welcome to Pauli’s."

She gave them a hand getting out of their parkas. Fur was back in vogue — the pelts lab-grown, without producing the whole animal — but Sarah and Don were of a generation that had come to frown on fur, and neither could bring themselves to wear any. Their nylon-shelled coats from Mark’s Work Wearhouse, his in navy blue, hers beige, looked decidedly out-of-place on the racks in the coat check.

The woman took Don’s elbow, and Don took Sarah’s, a side-ways conga line shuffling slowly to a large booth near a crackling fireplace.

Pauli’s turned out to be a seafood restaurant, and even though Don loved John Masefield’s poetry, he hated seafood. Ah, well; doubtless the menu would have some chicken or steak.

There were the usual accoutrements of such places: an aquarium of lobsters, fishing nets hanging on the walls, a brass diver’s helmet sitting on an old wooden barrel. But the effect was much more upscale than Red Lobster; here everything looked like valuable antiques rather than garage-sale kitsch.

Once they’d managed to get seated, and the young woman had taken their drink order — two decaf coffees — Don settled back against the soft leather upholstery.

"So," he said, looking across at his wife, the crags in her face highlighted by the dancing fire-light, "what do you think?"

"It’s an incredible offer."

"That it is," he said, frowning. "But…"

He trailed off as the waiter appeared, a tall black man of about fifty, dressed in a tuxedo. He handed a menu printed on parchment-like paper bound in leather covers to Sarah, then gave one to Don. He squinted at it. Although this restaurant doubtless had lots of older patrons — they’d passed several on the way to the table — anyone who dined here regularly probably could afford new eyes, and—

"Hey," he said, looking up. "There are no prices."

"Of course not, sir," said the waiter. He had a Haitian accent. "You are Mr. McGavin’s guests. Please order whatever you wish."

"Give us a moment," said Don.

"Absolutely, sir," said the waiter, and he disappeared.

"What McGavin’s offering is…" started Don, then he trailed off. "It’s — I don’t know — it’s crazy."

"Crazy," repeated Sarah, lobbing the word back at him.

"I mean," he said, "when I was young, I thought I’d live forever, but…"

"But you’d made your peace with the idea that…"

"That I was going to die soon?" he said, lifting his eyebrows. "I’m not afraid of the D-word. And, yes, I guess I had made my peace with that, as much as anyone does.

Remember when Ivan Krehmer was in town last fall? My old buddy from back in the day? We had coffee, and, well, we both knew it was the last time we’d ever see or even speak to each other. We talked about our lives, our careers, our kids and grandkids. It was a…" He sought a phrase; found it: "A final accounting."

She nodded. "So often, these last few years, I’ve thought, ‘Well, that’s the last time I’ll visit this place.’ " She looked out at the other diners. "It’s not even all been sad.

There are plenty of times I’ve thought, ‘Thank God I’ll never have to do that again.’

Getting my passport renewed, some of those medical tests they make you have every five years. Stuff like that."

He was about to reply when the waiter reappeared. "Have we decided yet?"

Not by a long shot, Don thought.

"We need more time," Sarah said. The waiter dipped his head respectfully and vanished again.