“Well, everything’s working out happily for everyone, then,” said Peter, standing up to go.

“Even for Ender,” said Bean.

“Your baby’s a lucky little boy,” said Peter, “to have such attentive parents.” And he was out the door.

Volescu looked tired when Bean went to see him. Old. Confinement wasn’t good for him. He was not suffering physically, but he seemed to be growing wan as a plant kept in a closet without sun.

“Promise me something,” said Volescu.

“What?” asked Bean.

“Something. Anything. Bargain with me.”

“The one thing you want,” said Bean, “you will never have again.”

“Only because you’re vindictive,” said Volescu. “Ungrateful—you exist because I made you, and you keep me in this box.”

“It’s a good-sized room. It’s air-conditioned. Compared to the way you treated my brothers….”

“They were not legally—”

“And now you have my babies hidden away. And a virus with the potential to destroy the human race—”

“Improve it—”

“Erase it. How can you be given your freedom again? You combine grandiosity with amorality.”

“Rather like Peter Wiggin, whom you serve so faithfully. His little toad.”

“The word is ‘toady,’” said Bean.

“Yet here you are, visiting me. Could it be that Julian Delphiki, my dear half-nephew, has a problem I could help him with?”

“Same questions as before,” said Bean.

“Same answer,” said Volescu. “I have no idea what happened to your missing embryos.”

Bean sighed. “I thought you might want a chance to square things with me and Petra before you leave this Earth.”

“Oh, come on,” said Volescu. “You’re threatening me with the death penalty?”

“No,” said Bean. “You’re simply…leaving Earth. Peter is turning you over to the I.F. On the theory that your virus is an alien invasion.”

“Only if you’re an alien invasion,” said Volescu.

“But I am,” said Bean. “I’m the first of a race of short-lived giant geniuses. Think how much larger a population the Earth can sustain when the average age at death is eighteen.”

“You know, Bean, there’s no reason for you to die young.”

“Really? You have the antidote?”

“Nobody needs an antidote to destiny. Death from giantism comes from the strain on your heart, trying to pump so much blood through so many kilometers of arteries and veins. If you get away from gravity, your heart won’t be overtaxed and you won’t die.”

“You think I haven’t thought of that?” said Bean. “I’ll still continue to grow.”

“So you get large. The I.F. can build you a really big ship. A colony ship. You can gradually fill it up with your protoplasm and bones. You’d live for years, tied to the walls of the ship like a balloon. An enormous Gulliver. Your wife could come visit you. And if you get too big, well, there’s always amputation. You could become a being of pure mind. Fed intravenously, what need would you have of belly and bowels? Eventually, all you really need is your brain and spine, and they need never die. A mind eternally growing.”