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rock myself on the chair where I sat. Tears formed in my eyes and fell, unbidden, down my cheeks. My hands wrapped together of their own accord, squeezing so tightly that I could feel my own bones doing damage to myself, and yet I could not unlock them. With my feet, I pushed myself away from the desk where I sat, and fell to my knees on the hard floor.
    â€œOh, Goddess,” I groaned, “for I know you are there, and listening, pray guard over that one soul with special care. Take every last atom of that precious being, and bless it, and return it to this earth or some other world with its own fresh and lively purpose. Plant her in the gardens of Karian where she can burst delighted into spring. Set her into the heart of a nightingale so she can sing. Fling her into the molten core of your brightest sun, so that she can light up the heavens with her brilliance. I know there is no death—I know we are all one being, the length and breadth of the universe—I know that we are here to be used, and used again, in your grand and glorious design. But Goddess, oh Goddess, make her beautiful and make her happy, for so she was in her time here on Lora, and I miss her—I miss her—I miss her—”
    And I collapsed to the floor, and I wept; and not all the theology ever written could console me.
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    T he day after the funeral, Mr. Branson drew me aside as math class was ending. “Jenna,” he said, “I think I may have something for you. Please come to my office.”
    So I followed him down the plain hallway to his small, spare office, and sat quietly on the hard-backed chair he offered me. He settled himself behind his narrow black desk.
    â€œA package came for Harriet a few weeks ago,” he said. “A birthday gift from the members of her parish, sent here by her pastor. I was saving it to give to her next month, but—now—so. I have notified her pastor of Harriet’s death and asked if he would like the package returned, but he said I should give it instead to some other deserving student. I am sure there is no one Harriet would rather have seen it go to than you.”
    â€œWhat is it?” I asked, with only the barest flicker of interest.
    He smiled slightly. “I don’t know. Let’s open it together.”
    So he rummaged in a desk drawer and pulled out a small, flat package in a brown box. I opened it to find a handheld electronic recorder.
    Mr. Branson’s sad face lightened to one of pleasure; clearly, he was more familiar with recent commercial technology than I was. “Ah, an 865 Reeder Recorder/Player,” he said in a low, satisfied voice. “Not an inexpensive gift at all. Well, Jenna, you should be quite pleased.”
    I turned the object over to examine it from all angles. It was black and flat, with a silver-gray screen smaller than my palm. It only possessed a few buttons on its sleek front surface, and the slotted openings of its microphone were almost invisible. On the back, it had a few serial ports that I assumed would connect in some fashion to a larger computer terminal.
    â€œWhat does it do?” I asked.
    Mr. Branson took it from me to touch its knobs and dials. “It is merely a lightweight and very transportable recorder that will hold one hundred terrabytes of information. You could leave it on from sunup to sundown every day of your life, record every minute of your waking existence and live to be two hundred, and still you would not have used up all its available memory. You can play back audio, or—see this button here?—have it convert all input to text, which you can have printed out at any terminal. It is small enough that no one will notice if you carry it with you every day, but it is powerful enough to pick up most sounds in a room as large as an auditorium.”
    I took it back from him, starting to be pleased myself. “It is a diary,” I said.
    Mr. Branson frowned slightly.