I consciously suppressed my natural inclination to blink. They'd been married in the 1980s, and this was the 2040s. If Karen hadn't aborted the child, he or she would be something like sixty now … and that child, too, would likely be en route to the funeral of the man who had been its father.

I could almost feel the swirling of timelines, the fog of lives that might have gone differently. If Karen hadn't ended that pregnancy all those decades ago, she might have stayed with Daron for the good of her child … meaning she'd probably never have written DinoWorld and its sequels; it was her second husband who had encouraged her to write. And that would have meant she'd never have been able to afford Immortex's services. She'd just be an old, old lady, hampered by bad joints.

We pulled into the parking lot of the funeral home. There were lots of empty places; Karen took one of the handicapped spaces.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"What? Oh." She put the car in reverse. "Force of habit. Back when I could drive before, we were entitled to use those spots — my poor Ryan needed a walker." She found another place to park, and we got out. I thought Toronto was hot in August; here, it was like a blast furnace, and drenchingly humid.

Another couple — ah, that loaded word! — was up ahead of us, entering the building.

They clearly heard our footfalls, and the man held the door for us, turning around as he did so.

His jaw dropped. Damn, I was getting tired of being stared at. I forced what I hoped was a particularly theatrical smile and caught the door. Karen and I walked in. There were three grieving families today; a sign in the lobby directed us to the correct room.

The casket was open. Even from this distance, I could see the corpse, trying to feign the look of life.

Right. Like I should talk.

Of course, all eyes were soon on us. A woman who must have been in her eighties — the same age that Karen herself still was — rose from a pew and came over to us. "Who are you?" she said, looking at me. Her voice was reedy, and her eyes were red.

The question, of course, occupied a lot of my thoughts these days. Before I could reply, though, Karen said, "He's with me."

The crab-apple head before us turned to face Karen. "And who are you?"

"I'm Karen," she said.

"Yes?" prodded the woman, the single syllable dry, demanding.

Karen seemed reluctant to use her last name. Here, surrounded by real Bessarians — Bessarians by birth, and by enduring marriages — perhaps she didn't feel entitled to it. But at last she spoke again. "I'm Karen Bessarian."

"My … God," said the woman, her eyes narrowing as she studied Karen's youthful, synthetic face.

"And you are…?" asked Karen.

"Julie. Julie Bessarian."

I didn't know if she was Daron's sister or another of Daron's widows, although Karen presumably did; she'd certainly remember the names of her ex-sisters-in-law, if any.

Karen held out her hands, as if to take Julie's in sympathy, but Julie just looked at them. "I always wondered what you looked like," Julie said, returning her gaze to Karen's face.

Another widow, then. Karen tilted her head back slightly, defiantly. "Now you know," she replied. "In fact, this isn't all that far off what I was like back when Daron and I were together."

"I — I'm sorry," said Julie. "Forgive me." She looked over at her dead husband, then back at Karen. "I want you to know, in the fifty-two years we were married, Daron never said a bad word about you."

Karen smiled at that.

"And he was so very happy for all your success."

Karen's head nodded a bit. "Thank you. Who's here from Daron's family?"

"Our children," said Julie, "but you wouldn't know them, I don't think. We had two daughters. They'll be back shortly."

"What about his brother? His sister?

"Grigor died two years ago. That's Narine over there."

Karen's head swiveled to have a look at another old woman, supported by a walker, chatting with a middle-aged man. "I'd — I'd like to say hello," Karen said. "Offer my condolences."

"Of course," said Julie. The two of them moved away, and I found myself walking forward, to the front of the room, looking down on the face of the dead man. I hadn't consciously thought about doing that — but when it became apparent what my body was up to, I didn't veto the action, either.

I don't say all my thoughts are charitable or appropriate, and I often enough wish they had never occurred to me in the first place. But they do, and I must acknowledge them. That man, there, in the coffin, had done what I would never do: feel Karen's flesh, join with her in real, animal passion. Yes, it had been sixty years ago … long before I was born. And I didn't resent him for it; I envied him.

He seemed calm, lying there, arms crossing his chest. Calm — and old, wrinkled, face deeply lined, head almost entirely bald. I tried to regress his countenance, to see if he'd been handsome in his youth, wondering if such ephemeral concerns had ever mattered to Karen. But I really couldn't tell what he'd looked like at twenty-one, the age he'd been when he'd married her. Ah, well; perhaps it was best not to know.

Still, I couldn't take my eyes off his face, the sort of face I'd never have now. But more than appearance separated us, for this man — this Daron Bessarian — was dead, and … I was still trying to make sense of it … I likely would never be.

"Jake?"

I looked up from my reverie. Karen was approaching in a series of very small steps; Julie had taken Karen's artificial arm for support, seemingly now at ease with being in contact with it.

"Jake," repeated Karen, as she drew nearer, "forgive me for not introducing you earlier. This is Julie, Daron's wife" — a small kindness, that, not to say "second wife."

"I'm terribly sorry for your loss," I said.

"He was a good man," said Julie.

"I'm sure he was."

Julie was silent for a moment, then: "Karen has told me about what's been done to the two of you." She gestured with a thin, gnarled hand at my body. "I'd heard a little about such things, of course — I still watch the news, although it mostly depresses me. But, well, I never thought I'd ever meet anyone who had enough money to…"

She trailed off, and I had nothing to say in response, so I just waited for her to go on, which, at last, she did.

"Sorry," Julie said. She looked over at the coffin, then back at me. "I wouldn't want what you've got, anyway — not without my Daron." She touched my synthetic forearm with her flesh one. "But I do envy you. Daron and I only had fifty years together. But the two of you! To have so much time still to come!" Her eyes grew moist again, and she looked back at her dead husband. "Oh, how I envy you…"

I'd heard someone quip shortly after I arrived on the moon that one advantage of lunar life was that there were no lawyers here. But, of course, that's not entirely true: my newfound friend Malcolm Draper was a lawyer, even if he was now, by his own testimony, a retired one. Still, he was the obvious person to seek out for advice about my predicament. I called him on the internal High Eden phone system — the only one we residents had access to. "Hey, Malcolm," I said, when his distinguished face appeared on the screen. "I need to talk to you. Got a minute?"

He raised his grizzled eyebrows. "What's up?"

"Can we meet somewhere?" I said.

"Sure," said Malcolm. "How about the greenhouse?"

"Perfect."

The greenhouse was a room fifty meters on a side and ten meters tall, full of tropical plants and trees. It was the only place in High Eden where the air was humid. The huge assortment of flowers seemed colorful even to me; I couldn't imagine the riot of hues and shades Malcolm must be seeing. Of course, the plants weren't just here to make residents feel less homesick; they were also an integral part of the air-recycling system.