They were in Sol’s home, a strange and cluttered collection of memorabilia from her long life, and Ellis felt it was the most normal home he’d visited so far. For one thing, there were books—actual paper books—and an old tablet computer. She had hats, and sunglasses, and pens. A dresser, a closet, a clock, and a coatrack with coats. Sol’s most beloved possession was mounted on the wall above a faux fireplace and was a photo of a real woman. Asian eyes wreathed in short black hair looked out from the silver frame.

“That’s Network Azo,” Sol told him. “Savior of the world. People were always waiting on God back then. My mother was very religious and told me not to put stock in Azo, that she was just another person and would eventually break my heart. People always felt that way then. No faith at all in people, just in old stories and books.”

A whistle erupted from the kitchen, and Sol held up a finger. “Tea!” she shouted and rushed off.

Ellis watched her scurry out of the room in her flower-print dress, thinking how much like an old woman she acted and yet she still looked like she was twenty-five. Sol was in fact beautiful. Different from the others, with facial features not quite to the final stage, the real difference was that Sol had hair—hair she kept short and black.

“How do you like your tea?” Sol called.

“Really more of a coffee guy.”

“Cream and honey it is then.”

She returned with an old-fashioned silver tray and dainty porcelain cups that steamed. “Don’t you just love authentic tea? I mean steeped, not made. I shouldn’t say that in front of her, though.” Sol pointed at the portrait above the fireplace. “But I think even Azo would still appreciate the effort it takes to run hot water through leaves. She believed in hard work.”

Sol took a sip and smacked her lips in a most undignified manner. “Ah…that’s the stuff.”

She waited until Ellis tried his. The color of caramel, it tasted almost like a mocha latte.

“Good, right?”

He smiled.

Sol looked back up at the picture. “She never did, you know. Net Azo never did disappoint me. My mother was wrong. My mother was always trying to find fault with others. Everyone used to do that. They hated the idea of heroes for some reason. Used to say they wanted them, but always sought to destroy any who tried. They hated the future too—which is what accounted for everyone being so disappointed, I think. When you expect tomorrow to be concrete, even if it isn’t, you feel it is because that’s somehow better than being wrong. But I never did. I knew Azo was a true hero. She was perfect. Abraham Lincoln freed the American slaves, but Network Azo freed everyone.”

“You had a mother?” Ellis asked.

He was looking down at the little beige cocker spaniel sleeping on the floor, its big ears splayed out like Dumbo. The animal showed gray around its muzzle and hadn’t moved during the entire visit. It only opened its eyes briefly when they had arrived. Perhaps Sol had the oldest dog too.

“Uh-huh. Back when I was born we still had surrogate parents. The ISP provided the DNA pattern, but I was raised by Arvice Chen in the affluent Predat Sector. She wanted a daughter, but got me instead.”

“No father?”

Sol shook her head. “Marriage was an oddity by that time. People were all moving underground. It was a whole new world.”

She took another sip, then set the cup back on the saucer, where it made a petite click. “Lots of changes were happening at the time. No one who has it good ever appreciates change, you know. Like my mother—she hated change. Hated having to leave the sky and go to an early grave, as she called it. I honestly don’t know why she volunteered to raise me. She certainly wasn’t a forward-thinking woman. Maybe she thought she could influence the future through me. She imagined the future would be worse than the past, some awful disaster. Most people did. And just to be fair—it did look that way. The Great Tempest had come, and millions of people were swept away. The Apocalypse, my mother had called it—ever heard of that?”

Ellis nodded. “People said the same things in my day.”

Sol smiled. “I like you, Mr. Rogers. You like my tea?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve got good taste too.” She winked. “So, what’s it like traveling through time?”

“Disorienting.”

“I can believe that.” Sol bobbed her head.

“The whole trip was really just a blur for me. Kinda felt sick afterward. I wouldn’t suggest it.”

Sol smiled at him. No wrinkles at all, but Ellis thought she had old eyes. After his visit to the ISP he imagined they weren’t original, but maybe there was truth to the adage about eyes being windows to the soul.

“Is the future everything you’d hoped for?”

Ellis laughed, and she laughed with him. “No,” he said. “I can honestly say I never expected this.”

All the windows of Sol’s home were covered by sheer curtains. That might have added to the homey feel. Ellis’s mother had done the same thing. What caught his eye was how they moved. The curtains rippled and billowed as if in an intermittent breeze wafting past an open sash. Occasionally they split apart, and Ellis could see flowers in a window box: violets, azalea, and chrysanthemums—old-fashioned flowers.

“I’ll bet you didn’t. I heard about your campaign to get a woman, and it sounds like you’re getting your wish granted.”

“Really?”

“That’s the rumor. I’d advise against it, but I suppose you know more about women than I do. Were you married?”

“Yeah. Almost thirty-five years.”

“Not very long. Did something happen?”

Ellis was surprised, until he remembered whom he was talking to. “How old are you?”

“See, if you were to ask a woman that, legend has it you’d get slapped.” Sol remained silent, showing a little coy smile. Just when he was certain she wouldn’t answer, she asked, “When were you born?”

“May 5th, 1956.”

“Let’s put it this way…” Sol tapped her lower lip. “You’re four hundred and four years older than me.”

Ellis started working it out. Sol was 1,718 years old—nearly two thousand years herself—only she hadn’t skipped any of it. She was a Mel Brooks and Carl Reiner comedy routine come to life.

“You look shocked. You come in here with this crazy story of flying through time on a set of plastic boxes, and you’re looking at me funny because I can still remember when people had sex? How you making out with that, anyway? I’m guessing you might be experiencing some withdrawal.” Sol gestured at the books. “I read, you know. So few do these days. I like the old paper books, as you can tell. Hard to get. Most of the things I have were antiques when I was born. The books I created from patterns I put together myself and based on the few genuine relics. So little survived the Great Tempest. Everyone relies on holos and grams. That’s the one thing my mother gave me that I appreciate. She taught me to read. Sex is in almost all the books. Men especially have a need for it—a failing sometimes. A lot of the books call it a natural drive. I don’t know if I buy that. Can it be a natural drive if you can choose not to? Eating is a natural drive, but I can’t abstain from it.”

Sol scanned her bookshelves, and so did Ellis. She had a fine collection. Plenty of history books, which must be like photo albums for her. One was titled The Age of Storms, another The Empty Holo. Most of the titles and authors he didn’t know and guessed the books had been written in the intervening millennia, but he did spot Dickens, Poe, Dante, Cervantes, Austen, Hemingway, and Kafka. Ellis smiled when he saw Orwell, Jules Verne, and Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land. He also noted King, Patterson, Steel, Roberts, and was particularly pleased to see Michael Connelly—a title he’d never seen before. And there were at least twelve books with the name of Solas the author. These appeared to be a variety of fiction, memoirs, and history texts. “In books it seems as though men needa woman, physically. Is that true? Are you dying?”