I left university and did the right things. Got a flat, a car, moved in with Juanita. That meant I had to get a job too, which I managed with relative ease, landing a junior position on a big online paper, The Sentinel. I covered world affairs and politics mostly, but every now and then they’d let me at the space stuff. The Saturn probe launches were good work, and the renewed signals from Voyager One. That boosted the hopes of any interested parties, as the pictures it sent were fantastic. There was the initial proof that the universe was in fact a multiverse, made up of myriad galaxies and star systems forming a glistening latticework that had only been speculation until then. By the time I married Juanita the word ‘universe’, along with ‘supersymmetry’, was actually extinct.

We remained without children. Everyone wondered why, especially our parents, and it grew worse after I was promoted to a senior position, but after eight years it became a sore subject they’d rather leave alone. We didn’t even know why ourselves, honestly: a generational thing perhaps? Overpopulation was such a big topic, and so much had gone wrong over land, oil and power that later generations like ours seemed to think, What for? It wasn’t as if there weren’t enough people on the planet, or we hadn’t caused enough damage. Environmental issues were way more important than they’d been for the previous generation, even more so than discrimination. Anyway, what that meant for us, in part, was we hosted quite a lot of parties. Probably two or three a month. We always had an open house: I’d invite people from work and Juanita would bring people from the arts – editors, agents, directors for stage and screen, big-time producers and poets from all over the world. She was quite famous by then, travelling, winning prizes and taking residencies in tropical places. The people we invited would often bring friends. Many nights, we had no idea who was there.

It was the winter of 2202, I think, when I got talking with this small, grey-haired guy who seemed a bit out on his own. He had a sallow, orange tan that didn’t suit, and was munching on a Quorn mince samosa, looking at the loud-talking people as if they were diseased. I went over with a mind to introduce him to someone else, but he seemed so sad and unable to cope with the art of conversation I soon realised that dumping him on anyone would make me a neglectful host. So I got him a cup of wine and steered him out towards the garden, where it was quieter and I could actually hear what he might say.