"You mean ask some person in the future?" Keith said.

"How can we possibly do that?"

The Ib's mantle twinkled. "Now that is a question for good Jag," he said. "If material from the future can exit the shortcut in the past, can we then send something from the past into the future?"

Jag was quiet for a second, thinking. But then he moved his lower shoulders. "Not as far as I can tell. Every computer simulation I've done shows that any object entering the shortcut in the present gets shunted to another present-day shortcut. Assuming the rogue stars are being sent back by conscious design, I don't know how whoever is controlling the shortcuts is doing it, and I have no idea how to send something forward."

"Ah, good Jag," said Rhombus, "forgive me, but there is of course one way to send something forward."

"And what's that?" Keith asked.

"A time capsule," said the Ib. "You know: just make something that will last. Eventually, without our doing anything special, it will end up in the future through the natural passage of time."

Jag and Keith looked at each other. "But — but Jag says the stars are coming from billions of years in the future," Keith said.

"In fact," said the Waldahud, "if I had to guess, I would say they come from something like ten billion years from now."

Keith nodded, turning back to face Rhombus. "That's double the current age of any of the Commonwealth homeworlds."

"True," said the Ib. "But, forgive me, despite what you Humans think, neither Earth nor the other homeworlds were created by deliberate design. Our time capsule would be."

"A time capsule that would last ten billion years…" said Jag, clearly intrigued. "Perhaps… perhaps if it were made out of extremely hard material, like… like diamond, but without the cleavage planes. But even if we made such a thing, there is no guarantee that anyone would ever find it. And, besides, this part of the galaxy will rotate around the core forty-odd times before then.

How do we possibly keep the object from drifting away from during all that time?"

Lights danced on Rhombus's sensor web. "Well, assume that this particular shortcut will continue to exist for the next ten billion years; that's a fair assumption, since it's here now, and must also still exist at the time the star was pushed through it. So, make our time capsule self-repairing — the nanotech lab should be able to come up with something — and have it hold position near this shortcut."

"And then just hope that someone will notice it when they come by here in the future to use the shortcut?" asked Keith.

"It may be more than that, good Keith," said Rhombus.

"It may be that they come by here to build the shortcut. The shortcuts may have been created in the future, and had their exit points extruded into the past. If their real purpose is to shunt stars back here, then that's a likely scenario."

Keith turned to Jag. "Objections?"

The Waldahud lifted all four shoulders. "None."

He turned back to Rhombus. "And you think this will work?"

A tiny flash of light on the Ib's sensor web. "Why not?"

Keith thought about it. "I suppose it's worth a try. But ten billion years — all of the Commonwealth races might be extinct by then. Hell, they'll probably be extinct by then."

Lights moved up Rhombus's web; a nod of assent. "So we'll have to contrive our message in symbolic or mathematical language. Ask our good friend Hek to devise something. As a radio astronomer involved with searching for alien intelligence, he's an expert in designing symbolic communication. To use an expression that both your people and mine share, this project will be right up his alley."

The bridge was bustling with activity, and there was plenty of work to be done. But Jag and Hek were visibly flagging.

Although they didn't do the theatrical yawns humans were famous for, their nostrils were dilating rhythmically, a physiological response that amounted to the same thing.

Keith thought for a moment that he could pull an allnighter. Hell, he'd done that often enough at university.

But university had been a quarter century ago, and he had to admit that he, too, was exhausted.

"Let's call it a night," he said, rising from his workstation.

The indicators on it went dark as he did so.

Rissa nodded and rose as well. The two of them headed toward one of the bridge's hologram-shrouded walls. The door opened, exposing the corridor beyond. They headed down toward the elevator station. A car was waiting for them — PHANTOM had routed one there as soon as they had started down the corridor. Keith got in, followed by Rissa. "Deck eleven," he said, and PHANTOM chirped an acknowledgement. They turned around, just in time to catch sight of Lianne Karendaughter jogging down the corridor toward them. PHANTOM saw her, too, of course, and held the elevator door open until she arrived. Lianne smiled at Keith as she got in, then called out her floor number. Rissa affixed her gaze on the wall monitor that showed the current level's deck plan. Keith had been married to Rissa too long not to be sensitive to her body language. She didn't like Lianne — didn't like her standing this close to Keith, didn't like being in a confined space with her.

The elevator began to move. On the monitor, the arms of the floor plan began to contract. Keith breathed deeply — and realized, perhaps for the first time, that he missed the subtle smell of perfume. Another concession to the damn pigs, and their hypersensitive noses. Perfume, cologne, scented aftershave — all were banned aboard Starplex.

Keith could see the reflection of Rissa's face in the monitor screen, see the tight lines at the corners of her mouth, see the tension, the hurt.

And Keith could also see Lianne. She was shorter than he was, and her lustrous blond hair half shielded her exotic, young face. If they'd been alone, Keith might have chatted with her, told her a joke, smiled, laughed, maybe even touched her arm lightly as he made a comment. She was so — so alive; talking to her was invigorating.

Instead, he said nothing. The deck-number indicator continued to count down. Finally, the car hummed to a stop on the floor containing Lianne's apartment.

"Good night, Keith," said Lianne, smiling up at him.

"Good night, Rissa."

"Good night," replied Keith. Rissa nodded curtly.

Keith was able to watch her walk down the corridor for a few seconds before the door closed behind her. He'd never been to her apartment.

He wondered how she had it decorated.

The elevator continued to ascend briefly and then it stopped again.

The door opened, and Keith and Rissa walked the short distance to their apartment.

Once they were inside, Rissa spoke — and Keith could hear in her voice that said she was speaking against her better judgment. "You're quite fond of her, aren't you?"

Keith weighed all the possible answers. He had too much respect for Rissa's intelligence to try to get away with saying, "Who?" After a moment's hesitation, he decided simple honesty was the best policy.

"She's bright, charming, beautiful, and good at her job. What's not to like?"

"She's twenty-seven," said Rissa, as if that were an indictable offense.

Twenty-seven! thought Keith. Well, there it was. A concrete number.

But — twenty-seven. Jesus Christ . . He took off his shoes and socks, and lay down on the couch, letting his feet air out.

Rissa sat down opposite him. Her face was a study in thought, as if she were deciding whether to pursue the topic further. Evidently she chose not to, and instead changed the subject. "Boxcar came to see me today."

Keith wriggled his toes. "Oh?"

"She's quitting."

"Really? Got a better offer somewhere else?"

Rissa shook her head. "She's going to discorporate next week. She was assessed a penalty of one sixteenth of her lifespan because she wasted some people's time almost six hundred years ago."