"But the U.S. doesn't allow gay marriages — I remember when the constitutional amendment was passed, outlawing them."

Karen nodded. "The U.S. doesn't allow a lot of things. Believe me, many of us are uncomfortable with the continued drifting to the right."

"But you are against multiple marriages."

"Yes, I am, I suppose. But I'm not sure I can articulate why. I mean, I've seen lots of single moms do just fine — including my sister, may God rest her soul. So certainly my definition of family isn't limited to two parents."

"What about single dads? What about single gay dads?"

"Yeah, sure, that's fine."

I nodded in relief; old people can be so conservative. "So, what's wrong with multiple marriages?"

"I guess I think you can really only have the level of commitment that constitutes a marriage in a couple. Anything bigger than that waters it down."

"Oh, I don't know. Most people have an infinite supply of love; just ask anyone who comes from a big family."

"I guess," she said. "I take it you're in favor of multiple marriages?"

"Sure. I mean, I don't have any interest in one myself, but that's not the point. I've know several triads over the years, and two quads. They're all genuinely in love; they've got stable, long-term relationships. Why shouldn't they be entitled to call what they have a marriage?"

"Because it's not. It just isn't."

I certainly didn't want to start an argument, so I didn't say anything further. Looking back at the TV, I saw the anchor was now doing a story on the death of former U.S.

President Pat Buchanan, who had passed away yesterday at a hundred and six.

"Good riddance," said Karen, looking at the screen.

"Happy to see him go?" I said.

"Aren't you?"

"Oh, I don't know. He certainly was no friend of Canada, but, you know, his 'Soviet Canuckistan' nickname for us became a rallying cry for my generation. 'Live up to the name,' and all that. I think Canada became even more left-wing just to spite him."

"So maybe you're just in favor of multiple marriages because it'll be another distinction between our two countries," said Karen.

"Not at all," I said. "I told you why I'm in favor of it."

"Sorry." She glanced at the screen. The piece about Buchanan's death was over, but apparently she was still dwelling on it. "I'm happy he's dead, because I see it as maybe the end of an era. It was the judges he packed the Supreme Court with, after all, who overturned Roe v. Wade, and I can't forgive him for that. But he was twenty years older than me — his values came from a different generation. And now he's gone, and I'm thinking maybe there's some hope for change. But…"

"Yes?"

"But I'm not going away, am I? Your friends who want to have their relationship recognized as a group marriage will have to contend with people like me, set in their ways, sticking around forever, standing in the way of progress." She looked at me.

"And it is progress, isn't it? My parents never understood about gay marriage. Their parents never understood about desegregation."

I looked at her with new eyes — figuratively, and, of course, literally. "You're a philosopher at heart," I said.

"Maybe so. All good writers are, I imagine."

"But I guess you're right, to some degree, anyway. They call it the retire-or-expire factor in academia…"

" 'Retire or expire'?" said Karen. "Oooh, I like that! And I certainly saw something similar in Georgia, where I grew up, in relation to civil rights: great strides weren't made by changing people's minds — no one slaps himself on the forehead and exclaims, 'What a fool I've been all these years!' Rather, progress was made because the worst racists — the ones who remembered the good ole days of segregation or even slavery — died off."

"Exactly," I said.

"But, you know, people's beliefs do change over time. There's the long-established fact that people become more politically conservative as they get older — not that it happened to me, thank God. When I found out what Tom Selleck's politics were, I was appalled."

"Who's Tom Selleck?"

"Sigh," said Karen. Apparently she hadn't learned to make the sound yet. "He was a gorgeous hunk of an actor; played Magnum P.I. I had posters of him in my bedroom when I was a teenager."

"I thought you had posters of … who was it? That Superman guy?"

Karen grinned. "Him, too."

We'd both been ignoring the TV, but now the sports came on. "Oooh!" said Karen.

"The Yankees won. Terrific!"

"You like baseball?" I said, feeling my eyebrows lift this time — there was a definite jerk as they did so; I'd have to get Porter to file down whatever they were catching on.

"Absolutely!"

"Me, too," I said. "I wanted to be a pitcher when I was a kid. It wasn't in the cards, but…"

"You a Blue Jays fan?" asked Karen.

I grinned. "What else?"

"I remember when they won back-to-back World Series."

"Really? Wow."

"Yup. Daron and I had just gotten married back then. He and I used to watch the World Series together every year. Big bowls of popcorn, lots of soda, the works."

"What was it like — those two times Toronto won? How did people react?"

The sun was rising; light spilled into the room.

Karen smiled. "Let me tell you…"

We transferred from the spaceplane to the moonship, a metallic arachnid designed only for use in vacuum. I had my own small sleeping compartment — like one of those coffin hotels in Tokyo. When I was out of it, I was enjoying being weightless, although Quentin was still nattering on about moonbuses and other things that interested him. If only he were a baseball fan…

"Now, remember, folks," said one of the Immortex staff on the third morning of our flight, "the moonbase we're about to land at is not High Eden. Rather, it's a multinational private-sector R D facility. It wasn't built for tourists, and it wasn't built for luxury — so don't be disappointed. I promise you, you'll be pleased when you get to High Eden."

I listened, thinking High Eden indeed better be good. Of course, I'd taken the virtual tour, and read all the literature. But I'd miss — hell, I already was missing — Clamhead, and Rebecca, and my mother, and…

And, yes, even my father. I'd thought him a burden, I thought I'd feel relief to hand off worrying about him to the other me, but I found myself very sad at the prospect of never seeing him again.

Tears float in zero-gravity. It's the most astonishing thing.

I went to see Dr. Porter about the problem with thoughts I intended to keep private being spoken aloud.

"Ah, yes," he said, nodding. "I've seen that before. I can make some adjustments, but it's a tricky mind-body interface problem."

"You've got to fix it. Unless I explicitly decide to do something, it shouldn't happen."

"Ah," said Porter, his eyebrows working with glee, "but that's not how humans work — not even biological ones. None of us consciously initiate our actions."

I shook my head. "I've studied philosophy, doc. I'm not prepared to give up on the notion of free will. I refuse to believe that we live in a deterministic universe."

"Oh, indeed," said Porter. "That's not what I meant. Say you walk into a room, see someone you know, and decide to extend your hand in greeting. Of course, your hand doesn't instantly shoot out; first, stuff has to happen in your brain, right? And that stuff — the electrical change in the brain that precedes voluntary action — is called the readiness potential. Well, in a biological brain the readiness potential begins 550 milliseconds — just over half a second — prior to your hand beginning to move. It really doesn't matter what the voluntary act is: the readiness potential occurs in the brain 550 milliseconds before the motor act begins. Okay?"