Rosalind almost said, Did I? but managed, despite remembering nothing of it, to say, “I did.” The talk had so resembled a hundred other talks that she could no longer recall a single point or even the title, only the relief of knowing she could let her mind wander. Why did the owlet she saw on the path around the pond make that remarkable noise? What was that flat red fungus extending like a Ping-Pong paddle from the hemlock? So much to investigate, but the work she did took all her time and every part of her brain. A narrowing of focus onto one crucial, difficult problem, posing questions that could be answered. What an odd way to spend a life.

The young woman, whose name was Kylie, described her research eagerly. She appeared again after another dinner, stressing how much Rosalind’s work had inspired her, what an influence Rosalind had been. Again in the lobby after a panel; again at the lake. Praise like a fox tongue licking away, begging for a response; too slowly, Rosalind realized she wanted a favor.

Dee shrugged when, over breakfast, Rosalind described her unhappy insight. “Didn’t you expect that?” Dee asked. “We used to do it too, telling someone what a huge influence he’d been, how his paper on whatever had changed everything.” She gestured at the marmalade, which Rosalind pushed her way. “Except we did it with men, because there weren’t any women around. Now,” Dee added, coating her toast, “we’re on the other side, is all.”

From the porch outside came laughter and voices calling “Look, look!” Dee rose, toast in hand, and Rosalind followed her through the lobby to the steps, where everyone in the crowd was staring east. An antique biplane flew over the trees, across the field, toward the colony, over all of them. “Oh!” cried Charlene, who’d leapt to the grass and, like a much younger woman, was waving both hands over her head.

“Every year,” Dee said, and laughed.

“Every year,” Rosalind agreed. Not far away was a private flying field that hosted an air show devoted to vintage planes, usually held at the same time as the conference. In a minute Charlene would say (and now she did say), “I think that’s a Curtiss JN-4, a Jenny,” and then describe the history of that WWI aircraft and the village on Crooked Lake, in central New York, where it had been built. Polite Dee, thoughtful Dee, would marvel as if this were news and ask Charlene the questions needed to propel her stories, so that the newest visitors could gaze, dazzled, at the remarkable plane and the woman who’d made it possible for them to see it.