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simply went home.”
    When I asked him later if he thought there might actually be something to that suggestion, he shook his head sadly. “No,” he said. “I wish I did.”
    Shortly before he disappeared, Robin was interviewed by Todd Cunningham, the celebrated talk-show host who, at the time, was at the very beginning of his career. Robin looked better in motion than he did in the still pictures. He seemed relaxed, amiable, a guy with a sense of humor. A large smile appeared when Cunningham asked him why he persisted in saying things that left him open to criticism by his colleagues.
    “I'm not sure they're my colleagues,” Robin said.
    “Other scientists, then.” Cunningham smiled in the self-deprecating manner that suggests his guest is twisting the truth, and that had since become his trademark.
    Robin allowed himself to look uncomfortable, but I got the sense he was in complete control. “There's no easy way to say this, Todd, but the reality is that most of us, even physicists, maybe especially physicists, aren't generally open to new ideas. We think every important discovery was made during the Golden Age. That nothing of any significance remains to be found.”
    “You're saying that's wrong?”
    “I hope it's wrong. I really do. I'd hate to think there's nothing left for us to learn.”
    “Do you hope to provide us with a breakthrough somewhere, Chris?”
    “Yes, I do.”
    “And what might that be?”
    “I don't know. If I knew, I'd tell you now.”
    “When will you know?”
    He smiled. “Maybe after Uriel.”
    “Uriel?”
    “When I have something, Todd, I'll be in touch.”
    Cunningham frowned. “What's Uriel, Chris? Are you talking about the angel?”
    “I'll let you know—”
    Alex found an astronomer, a quiet, dark-skinned woman who seemed out of place amid all the jokes and exaggerations. Her name was Silvia, and I suspected she'd been talked into coming. More or less like me. “Silvia,” he said, “what is Uriel?”
    She looked pleased to have someone ask a straightforward question. “It's a dwarf star, Alex. Six and a half light-years from here. Maybe a little less.”
    “Any planets?”
    “A few. Nothing habitable. At least there wasn't the last time I looked.” We could hear laughter in the next room. The end of the evening was approaching. “And there's nothing unusual about it that I know of.”
    “You have any idea what Robin was talking about?”
    She shook her head. “None whatever. And neither does anybody else. I've seen this interview before, and I can't imagine what he's referring to. I'm not even sure he means the star. Maybe you need to ask an historian. Or a theologian.” She grinned. “Maybe the theologian would be your best bet.”
    When the panels concluded, we retired to the ballroom for some drinks and hors d'oeuvres. Alex maneuvered us to a table occupied by Harvey Hoskin, the president of the Society, and Brandon Rupprecht, a biologist. Hoskin had bristly gray hair and a close-cut beard, and he was probably the oldest person in the Jubilee that evening.
    We talked about the Society, how there would be a special meeting on the north coast later that year, and who was in line for the Chris Robin Award, which would be given out at the summer meeting in Andiquar. The award recognized “reaching beyond the parameters.” During a break in the conversation, Alex asked how the Society had gotten started.
    “This is our twenty-seventh year,” Hoskin said. “It began here at the university after Jim Hovel did a dissertation on Robin's multiple-universe analyses. Jim was on one of the panels tonight.”
    “Yes,” said Alex. “We were there.”
    “Anyhow, as I'm sure you know—” Hoskin plunged into an account of the mathematics of time-space flexibility. At least, that's what I think it was. “He insisted, therefore, that alternate universes had to exist. I don't have the physics background to go into detail, but you can find it in his book.”
    “We have