"Really?" I said.

"Certainly. I love to travel. Don't you?"

"Well, yes, I guess, but…"

"What?"

"I've never been out of North America. See, I can't — I couldn't — fly. The pressure changes in an aircraft: they were afraid they'd set off my Katerinsky's syndrome. It was only a small likelihood, but my doctor said I shouldn't risk it unless the trip was absolutely necessary." I thought briefly of the other me, on the way to the moon; he'd almost certainly survive the trip, of course. Spaceplanes were completely self-contained habitats; their internal pressure didn't vary.

"That's sad," said Karen. But then she brightened. "But now you can travel anywhere!"

I laughed bitterly. "Travel! Christ, I can barely walk…"

Karen's mechanical arm touched mine briefly. "Oh, you will. You will! People can do anything. I remember meeting Christopher Reeve, and—"

"Who's he?"

"He played Superman in four movies. God, he was handsome! I had posters of him up on my bedroom walls when ] was a teenager. Years later, he was thrown off a horse and injured his spinal cord. They said he'd never breathe on his own again, but he did."

"And you met him?"

"Yes, indeed. He wrote a book about what happened to him; we'd shared a publisher back then, and we had dinner together at BookExpo America. What an inspiration he was."

"Wow," I said. "I suppose being a famous writer, you meet lots of interesting people."

"Well, I didn't bring up Christopher Reeve to name-drop."

"I know, I know. But who else have you met?"

"Let's see … what names would mean something to someone your age…? Well, I met King Charles before he died. The current Pope, and the one before him. Tamora Ng. Charlize Theron. Stephen Hawking. Moshe—"

"You met Hawking?"

"Yes. When I was giving a reading at Cambridge."

"Wow," I said again. "What was he like?"

"Very ironic. Very witty. Of course, communicating was an ordeal for him, but—"

"But what a mind!" I said. "Absolute genius."

"He was that," Karen said. "You like physics?"

"I love big ideas — physics, philosophy, whatever."

Karen smiled. "Really? Okay, I've got a joke for you. Do you know the one about Werner Heisenberg being pulled over by a traffic cop?"

I shook my head.

"Well," said Karen, "the cop says, 'Do you know how fast you were going?' And, without missing a beat, Heisenberg replies, 'No, but I know where I am!' "

I burst out laughing. "That's terrific! Wait, wait — I've got one. Do you know the one about Einstein on the train?"

It was Karen's turn to shake her head.

"A passenger goes up to him and says, 'Excuse me, Dr. Einstein, but does New York stop at this train?' "

Karen laughed out loud. "You and I are going to get along just fine," she said. "Are you a professional physicist?"

"Nah. I was never good enough at math to make it. I did a couple of years at the University of Toronto, though."

"And?"

I lifted my shoulders a bit. "Have you been to Canada often?"

"Over the years, from time to time."

"And do you drink beer?"

"When I was younger," said Karen. "I can't anymore. I mean, I couldn't, even in my old body … not for a decade or more."

"Have you heard of Sullivan's Select? Or Old Sully's Special Dark?"

"Sure. They — oh! Oh, my! Your name is Jacob Sullivan, right? Is that your family?"

I nodded.

"Well, well, well," said Karen. "So I'm not the only one with a secret identity."

I smiled wanly. "Karen Bessarian earned her fortune. I just inherited mine."

"Still," said Karen, "it must have been nice. When I was young, I was always worrying about money. Even had to go to the food bank now and then. It must have been relaxing knowing you'd never have problems in that area."

I shrugged a bit. "It was a double-edged sword. On the one hand, when I went to university, I could study whatever I wanted, without worrying about whether it was going to lead to a job. I was probably the only guy on campus who took Quantum Physics, History of Drama, and Intro to the Pre-Socratics."

Karen laughed politely.

"Yeah," I said. "It was fun — a little of this, a little of that. But the downside of having all that money was that I just wasn't inclined to be treated like garbage. U of T's got a great graduate reputation, but it's an absolute factory at the undergrad level. Put it this way: if you walk every day by the Sullivan Library and your last name is Sullivan, you're not inclined to be pushed around."

"I suppose," said Karen. "I never like to use the word 'rich' in relation to myself; it sounds like bragging. But. well, all of Immortex's clients are rich, so I guess it doesn't matter. But, of course, I never thought I was going to be wealthy. I mean, most writers aren't; it's a very tough life, and I've been very, very lucky." She paused, and there was that twinkle in her artificial eye again. "In fact, you know what the difference is between a large pepperoni pizza and most full-time writers?"

"What?"

"A large pepperoni pizza can feed a family of four."

I laughed, and so did she. "Anyway," she said, "I didn't begin to get rich until I was in my late forties. That's when my books started to take off."

I shrugged a little. "If I'd had to wait until my late forties to be rich, I wouldn't be here. I'm only forty-four now." Only. Christ, I'd never thought of it as only before.

"I — please don't take this the wrong way — but in retrospect, I'm glad I started poor," said Karen.

"I suppose it builds character," I said. "But I didn't ask to be rich. In fact, there were times I hated it, and everything my family stood for. Beer! Christ, where's the social conscience in making beer?"

"But your family donated that library to the university, you said."

"Sure. Buying immortality. It's—"

I paused, and Karen looked at me expectantly.

After a moment, I shrugged again. "It's exactly what I've just done, isn't it?" I shook my head. "Ah, well. Anyway, it goes to your head sometimes, having all that money when you're young. I, um, I was not the best person early on."

"Paris the Heiress," said Karen.

"Who?"

"Paris Hilton, granddaughter of the hotel magnate. You would have been just a toddler when she was briefly famous. She — well, I guess she was like you: inherited a fortune, had billions in her twenties. She lived what we writers call a dissipated life."

" 'Paris the heiress,' " I repeated. "Cute."

"And you were Jake the Rake."

I laughed. "Yeah, I suppose I was. Lots of parties, lots of girls. But…"

"What?"

"Well, it's pretty hard to know if a girl really likes you for you, when you're rich."

"Tell me about it. My third husband was like that."

"Really?"

"Absolutely. Thank God for pre-nups." Her tone was light. If she'd been bitter once, enough time had apparently passed to let her now joke about it. "You'll have to only date women who are rich in their own right."

"I suppose. But, you know, even—" Damn it, I hadn't meant to say that aloud.

"What?"

"Well, you never know about people — know what they're really thinking. Even before I was rich, I — there was this girl named Trista, and I thought she … I thought we …"

Karen raised her artificial eyebrows, but said nothing. It was clear I could go on, or not, as I wished.

And, to my great surprise, I did wish. "She seemed to really like me. And I was totally in love with her. This was, like, when I was sixteen. But when I asked her out, she laughed. She actually laughed in my face."

Karen's hand briefly touched my forearm. "You poor thing," she said. "Are you married now?"

"No."

"Ever been?"

"No."

"Never found the right person?"

"It's, um, not exactly like that."