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hundred," he said.
    "Of course not. Why would you? The idea of being ancient , withered, worn out, infirm, for years on end—who would fantasize about that? But this is different."
    He looked at her, studying her face in a way he hadn't for some time. It was an old woman's face, just as his face, he knew, was that of an old man, with wrinkles, creases, and folds.
    It came to him, with a start, that their very first date all those years ago had ended in a restaurant with a fireplace, after he'd dragged her to see the premiere of Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home . He recalled how beautiful her smooth features had looked, how her lustrous brown hair had shone in the dancing light, how he'd wanted to stare at her forever. Age had come up then, too, with Sarah asking how old he was. He'd told her he was twenty-six.
    "Hey, me, too!" she'd said, sounding pleased. "When's your birthday?"
    "October fifteenth."
    "Mine was in May."
    "Ah," he'd replied, a mischievous tone in his voice, "an older woman."
    That had been so very long ago. And to go back to that age! It was madness. "But ... but what would you—would we —do with all that time?" he asked.
    "Travel," said Sarah at once. "Garden. Read great books. Take courses."
    "Hmmmph," said Don.
    Sarah nodded, apparently conceding that she hadn't enticed him. But then she rummaged in her purse and pulled out her datacom, tapped a couple of keys, and handed him the slim device. The screen was showing a picture of little Cassie, wearing a blue dress, her blond hair in pigtails. "Watch our grandchildren grow up," she said. "Get to play with our great-grandchildren, when they come along."
    He blew out air. To get to attend his grandchildren's college graduations, to be at their weddings. That was tempting. And to do all that in robust good health, but...
    "But do you really want to attend the funerals of your own children?" he said. "Because that's what this would mean, you know. Oh, I'm sure the procedure will come down in price eventually, but not in time for Carl or Emily to afford it." He thought about adding, "We might even end up burying our grandchildren," but found he couldn't even give voice to that notion.
    "Who knows how fast the cost will come down?" Sarah said. "But the idea of having decades more with my kids and grand-kids is very appealing ... no matter what happens in the end."
    "Maybe," he said. "Maybe. I—I'm just..."
    She reached across the dark polished wood of the table and touched his hand. "Scared?"
    It wasn't an accusation from Sarah; it was loving concern. "Yeah, I suppose. A bit."
    "Me, too," she said. "But we'll be going through it together."
    He lifted his eyebrows. "Are you sure you could stand to have me around for another few decades?"
    "I wouldn't have it any other way."
    To be young again. It was a heady thought, and, yes, it was scary, too. But it was also, he had to admit, intriguing. He'd never liked taking charity, though. If the procedure had been something they could have even remotely afforded, he might have been more enthusiastic. But even if they sold their house, sold every stock and bond they owned, liquidated all their assets, they couldn't begin to pay for the treatment for even one of them, let alone for them both. Hell, even Cody McGavin had had to think twice about spending so much money.
    This stuff about Sarah being the one and only person who could communicate with the aliens struck Don as silly. But it wasn't as though the rejuvenation could be taken back; once done, it was done. If it turned out that McGavin was wrong about her being pivotal, they'd still have all those extra decades.
    "We'd need money to live on," he said. "I mean, we didn't plan for fifty years of retirement."
    "True. I'd ask McGavin to endow a position for me back at U of T, or provide some sort of retainer."
    "And what will our kids think? We'll be physically younger than them."
    "There is that."
    "And we'll be doing them out of their inheritance," he added.
    "Which