“My equations are beautiful,” he would say.

“And they are faithful and honest,” Mere would add, licking her own bowl clean of the sweet oil.

“You are very beautiful,” he proclaimed.

She didn’t entirely believe him, but she smiled as a happy Tilan wife should smile. “Thank you for thinking so.”

“The river is beautiful, too,” he said.

On occasion, she had thought so.

“And the mountains, too.”

“Yes.”

“And our twin suns are very beautiful.”

The suns were falling into one another, soon to destroy this helpless world. But she made an agreeable sound, adding with a bitter humor, “They are the most beautiful suns in our sky, yes.”

“Four beauties,” he pointed out. “All valid. And each example is entirely different from the other three.”

He had a point to make, but she knew better than to ask, “What do you mean?”

“Do you know what I mean?” he inquired.

“Barely.”

“There are many ways to be beautiful.”

“Granted.”

“And many different mathematics describe our universe. They explain the Creation. And each delineates the true shape of Everything.” He finished his tea with a hearty sip, black eyes smiling at his extraordinarily ancient bride. “Using very different means, they answer all of our questions. Our existence is an inescapable residue. Yet there are other realms, too, and about them, the mathematics is much less certain.”

“What other realms?” she asked.

He didn’t answer immediately.

“Do you mean sister worlds?” Unlike humans, Tilans easily believed that the universe was a great quantum stew. A trillion, trillion husbands precisely like him were sitting with their alien wives right now. Some were describing their lovely work. Some were quarreling with their spouses. And some great multitude was right now making love on the tabletop—an image that sprang into Mere’s simple mind, causing her to smile.

“Are there mirror realities?” asked her husband.

He could feel them, couldn’t he?

“But are these other worlds real, or simply shadows of the one existence which is real? Which is us.” He laughed, enjoying his playful brilliance. “Or perhaps we are just one of the shadows cast by what is genuine and true?”

“I don’t like that idea,” she confessed.

“But some equations claim that all possibilities are correct.”

Mere was dubious. “Okay,” she said, “we should carry out tests. In labs, in the sky. Create some experiment where we can tell—”

“We cannot,” he interrupted.

“No?”

“The energies required are prohibitive. The conditions are too extreme. To study the truths of Creation and Everything requires reaching outside our own little reality. And honestly, I doubt if any species commanding any technology could do the kind of work you want to attempt.”

The truth was that Mere didn’t want much of anything just now.

“Is there such a thing as the future?” he asked.

“Not one future,” she replied immediately. “At least that is what I have been told ever since I can remember. Tomorrow is not set. A countless multitude of futures are possible, and each is inevitable.”

Mere sounded Tilan, and to a point, she believed what she said.

“All right,” her husband continued. “But is there one past? One history? One story that leads up to this good moment?”

What did he mean?

“Sometimes my equations claim there is no single past,” he confessed. “What we think of as yesterday is exactly as unknowable and imprecise as what we think of as tomorrow.”

She laughed at her husband. What choice did she have?

But he absorbed her laughter without complaint. “Sometimes, darling … my love … sometimes it seems to me as if we exist as a great assemblage of moments. Imagine time reduced to its smallest, most perfect unit. Then there is no such thing as time. We are a specific arrangement of matter and energy, each one equally precise but endowed with subtly different arrangements of matter and of energy—”

“But what about the past?” she interrupted. “I wasn’t born a few moments ago, like you. I remember things that happened centuries ago.”

“But you don’t recall everything about those times,” he pointed out. “And despite your considerable memory, I would guess that some of what you remember … little details and exactly when the big things happened … well, I could imagine that you can remember no single day with a perfect clarity.”

“What does that mean?”

“The past is fundamentally unknowable. That’s what my work tells me, on certain days.”

“The past is sloppy, you mean.”

“I prefer to consider it rich with potential.” He meant that. Picking up his crystal bowl, he admitted, “This is a difficult subject,” before he began licking out the last sticky bit of sweet oil.

Finally, Mere saw what this lecture was about. She wasn’t smart in the same ways as her husband, but her mind was relentless enough to finally discern what was obvious. “Why just on some days?” she asked.

He paused with his licking. “Pardon?”

“These equations,” she said. “They sound awfully fickle.”

“A good word for it. Yes. Fickle.”

“One day there is a clear past, but the next morning … what? The past becomes vague and crazy now?”

“In a sense,” he agreed. “Although ‘crazy’ is not the best—”

“And some days, these parallel worlds are real. While some days, they’re just shadows. Right?” Then she laughed, her own intuitive nature surfacing for a moment. “Or maybe we’re the shadows, and someone else is real.”

“Different days, different answers,” he claimed.

“Why? Because you work with different equations?”

The moment demanded silence. The black eyes stared across the table, a keen delight fighting to the surface of the round white face. Thousands of years later, in an entirely different portion of the galaxy, Mere would recall the moment with the kind of clarity that convinced her that it was the genuine past, solid and eternal, and residing in that immortal moment of time, she was still sitting with her husband and lover, waiting for him to tell her:

“This is what I have noticed.

“On two different mornings, I can begin with the same thought. The same first equation. The same pen, and the same quality of parchment. My mood is equally relaxed and ready for my day. Yet by the time our suns our setting, my work has taken me to an entirely different conclusion. Even with the same initial steps, I cannot predict what I will make of the universe by the time I rise into sleep again.”

Again, silence and the staring eyes.

Then with a low, plainly awed laugh, he added, “Sometimes I wonder. Perhaps there are many answers to the great questions, and like people drowning at sea, the answers struggle endlessly with one another, fighting for the chance to push through the surface, crazed by that slender, fragile hope of being seen.”

A WARNING WOKE Mere, teasing her away from the Tila.

“The flow is at an end,” the AI declared with a minimum of energy. “As you predicted, and exactly on schedule, the ice river has lost its containment. The polyponds are letting it die.”

She continued to wake herself, lifting her slight metabolism until she found enough vigor to review the telemetry and give a few quick commands. Years ago, when the streakship had approached while returning from the Blue World, Pamir had shoved her scattered pieces of ship in the same useful direction. According to plans drawn up decades ago, Mere and her disheveled home dove into black dusts, effectively vanishing from everyone’s view. The walls of the passageway proved denser than much of the Inkwell. The polyponds had cleared the way for the streakship, but like a Tilan broom sweeping at a dirt floor, they had pushed the dirt out of the way but no farther. Those next few days meant impacts, some of them major. Her original habitat was severely damaged, and she had to partly thaw her body and risk moving to the secondary habitat. From there, she carefully assembled all the pieces of her ship, fashioning a vessel that ended up looking rather different from the original schematics. Impacts and ever-changing circumstances required hard choices. Every surviving system from the first habitat was ripped loose, and then she disassembled what remained, tearing it down to individual atoms that she ionized and flung out ahead of her, slowing her progress at an infinitesimal rate.