We descend to the subway, where the train is expecting us and lights a path for our eyes to the carriage door. It’s almost fifty years since I’ve been in this city, and most of the infrastructure has changed; in unfamiliar surroundings, the TOE blazes out of every surface, unbidden, like an exuberant child boasting of the bright new things ve’s made. Even the simplest novelties – the non-slip dirt-eating coating on the floor tiles, the luminous pigments of the living sculptures – catch my attention as they spell out their unique ways of coexisting.

Nothing is incomprehensible. Nothing can be mistaken for magic.

I say, “When I first heard that they were building the Violet Mosala Memorial Kindergarten , I imagined she would have been insulted. Which only goes to show how little I knew her. I don’t know why I was invited.”

De Groot laughs. “I’m just glad you didn’t come all this way for the ceremony and nothing else. You could have done it on the net; no one would have minded.”

“There’s nothing like being there.”

The train reminds us of our stop, holds the doors for us. We walk through the neat suburbs not far from the house where Mosala spent her childhood, though the streets now are lined with species of plants she would never have recognized. She never saw trees growing on Stateless, either. People stride past us, glancing up at the elegant logic of the cloudless blue sky.

The kindergarten is a small building, reconfigured into an auditorium for the occasion. Half a dozen speakers are here to address the fifty children. I lapse into reverie until one of Violet’s grand-daughters, working on the Halcyon , explains the starship’s drive; the core principle, close to the TOE, is easy to grasp. Karin De Groot speaks about Violet, anecdotes of generosity and intransigence. And one of the children sets the stage for me, telling the others about the Age of Ignorance.

“It hangs like a stalactite from the Information Cosmos.” The present tense is sophistication, not solecism; relativity demands it. “It’s not autonomous, it doesn’t explain itself – it needs to be joined to the Information Cosmos, in order to exist. We need it, too, though. It’s a necessary history, a logical outgrowth if you try to extend time before the Aleph moment.”

Ve summons vivid diagrams and equations into the air. The brilliant stellar cluster of the Information Cosmos, wrapped densely in explanatory threads, holds up the simple drab cone of the Age of Ignorance, which points back to the physical Big Bang. Vis audience of less precocious four-year-olds struggle with the concepts. Time before the Aleph moment? Grandparents notwithstanding, it almost defies belief.

I rise to my feet and recite my prepared version of the events of fifty years ago – getting laughs of incredulity in all the right places. Ownership of genes? Centralized authorities? Ignorance Cults?