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she gave me with her own hands a glass of champagne and a triangle of toast loaded with caviar. Also something that might have been a smile. She did not tell me her name or show the faintest interest in knowing mine.
     
    Outside the windows, snow continued to fall—big fat flakes. By three o’clock it was ankle deep. The guests brushed off their Mercedeses and BMWs and drove away. Henry and Amerigo vanished. Garbo and I were left alone in the chilly foyer.
     
    “I’m told you and Henry and my husband have things to talk about,” she said. “So I’m going to disappear.”
     
    She did so without further ado, drifting up the double staircase and leaving behind a smile as if it were another point of toast and caviar. What was I supposed to do now? How would I find Henry and Amerigo? I was feeling worse by the minute, coughing, sneezing, burning with fever.
     
    Amerigo appeared. He offered his arm.
     
    “Henry awaits,” he said, then marched me through lofty rooms to the library, where Henry was indeed waiting for us, goblet of springwater in hand.
     
    Hanging on the wall behind the desk was a large oil portrait of a man in Cinquecento costume.
     
    “Your seafaring ancestor?” I asked.
     
    “My father certainly thought so,” he said. “This was his place. Would you like something to drink?”
     
    I shook my head. To make sure I meant it, he tempted me with coffee, tea, San Pellegrino water.
     
    “Lemonade?” he said. “Hot lemonade?”
     
    Again I declined.
     
    Amerigo said, “Henry tells me you’re his amanuensis in this new thing of his.”
     
    I had never before heard the word amanuensis spoken aloud. “Nothing as fancy as that,” I said. “How do you fit in?”
     
    “I am the mission pharmacist. I own a little drug company in Milan.”
     
    I started to speak, failed to get a word out, cleared my throat, coughed spasmodically. My earlier symptoms were getting worse. Amerigo instantly fetched a box of Kleenex and a glass of water.
     
    “You don’t get to go on the spaceship with that cold, young lady,” he said, wagging a finger.
     
    He then spoke at length about the many kinds of pills and serums his company, Vespucci S.p.A., made and sold.
     
    “The Vespucci are still making discoveries,” he said. “And going on great voyages. Our crew will be well protected.”
     
    “Maybe the better approach would be to select a crew that doesn’t get sick,” I croaked.
     
    Henry pounced. “What do you mean by that?”
     
    “Select people whose DNA suggests they have little or no chance of developing a fatal condition. Once in space, and effectively in permanent quarantine, you could breed a replacement population that was even healthier than the original crew. Smarter, too. As I understand it, embryos are easier to work with than adults—fewer cells, therefore simpler procedures.”
     
    Henry and Amerigo looked appalled.
     
    Amerigo said to Henry, “She knows?”
     
    Knew what?
     
    By now I was coughing uncontrollably. I excused myself. In the lavatory mirror, I looked as awful as I felt—tangled hair, swollen nose, red eyes, chapped lips, chalky skin. No wonder Garbo had quarantined me from her other guests and fled up the stairway. I was still wearing the gizmo that measured my heart rate and blood pressure when I ran. I pressed the button. Blood pressure one sixty over ninety, heart rate ninety-two. Head stuffy, stomach sour, curiosity activated.
     
    We talked some more—aimlessly, it seemed. The snow continued to accumulate. I felt worse by the minute. The last thing I wanted to do was sleep in this house. I asked Henry to take me home. We left immediately, tires crunching. It was dark, winter-dark. Snow swirled hypnotically in the headlights. Sunday-evening traffic was heavy, as weekenders streamed back to Manhattan. My stomach grew queasier. I figured out how the front passenger seat worked and tilted it back, meaning to sleep or at least feign sleep.
     
    At this moment,