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avoid dying by accident, so at the end of the second year, a million times P 2 would be left. Keep going: in the third year, a million times P 3 ; in the fourth . . .
    "Dr. Szabo?"
    "I'm sorry, Ms. Rinker." Julius came back down. He wondered, for the thousandth time, what the young Danny Clay might have become if he had not been forced to claw his way to adulthood in a city desensitized and brutalized by its ruling gangs. Then he denied, for the thousandth time, that he had ever in his life known a person called Danny Clay. "I was saying, the mortality computer cannot provide an answer. It is not designed to do so. But I can do it. I can easily work it out for you from first principles, from the known risks that you will die of different forms of accidents. However, it may take me a minute or two."
    "I can wait."
    Even if Neely Rinker had said she was leaving at once and had no further interest in the answer, Julius would not have been able to resist doing the calculation. The only hard step was to determine her risk of accidental death. He had to retrieve part of the mortality computer's data, and allow for all possible accidental causes. He found that there was one chance in 2,935 that Neely Rinker—assuming she had not lied about her habitat and lifestyle— would die from an accident in the next year.
    Then it was easy. Take the individual terms of the P series, weight them by the year number, and calculate the sum of the whole series to infinity. The answer was surprisingly simple. Her life expectancy was just the reciprocal of the chance that she would die during one year. In other words, a disease-free and aging-free Neely Rinker would live, on average, for 2,935 years.
    Julius stared at his answer with a mixture of pleasure and annoyance. Pleasure, that the answer had come so quickly and cleanly. Annoyance, because the result had no meaning in the real world. The oldest validated age in the solar system was one hundred and fifty-seven Earth years.
    He looked up, to find Neely Rinker displaying her own mixture of emotions, a combination of worry and anticipation.
    "Well." She moved to look over his shoulder at what he had written. Since it consisted of one number and three formulas, he doubted that it could provide her with much satisfaction.
    "I have the answer to the question that you asked," he said. "But it is not a useful one."
    "What does it show?"
    "If you did not die of disease, or aging, but only from an accident—that means 'accident' in the general sense, including murder and suicide—then you could expect to live for almost three thousand years. To be specific, you could expect to live for another two thousand nine hundred and thirty-five years."
    She didn't snort, she didn't scowl, she didn't laugh at him with mocking disbelief. She stared at the starscape beyond the window, and he could not even guess what she saw there.
    "Thank you, Dr. Szabo." She reached into the pocket of her pantsuit, pulled out a fistful of money, and handed it to him without looking. "You have been very helpful. Now, I have to be going."
    She was heading out of the study, striding down the long corridor. Julius hurried along behind. "I don't think I should be taking your money." He tried to keep up, but she was moving far too fast for his artificially aged legs. "I shouldn't be paid for what I did with that calculation," he called out, as the entrance to one of the lift tubes opened and she stepped toward it. "It was just a meaningless exercise."
    "Thanks again, Dr. Szabo." She turned, waved, and dropped out of sight. The lift-tube entrance closed.
    Julius was left with his mouth open. The only residual traces of Neely Rinker were a hint of her light and pleasant perfume and the wad of money in his left hand. He stared at it.
    Cash— no one paid in cash, unless they were engaged in gambling, blackmail, or a political payoff. Cash was easy to make, and as a result it was easy to counterfeit. He had been handling fake money, good