“That’s what it feels like, but of course time isn’t shut down; there’s no way around relativity. But time is not the same thing as duration. This universe is twelve years closer to its end. But we didn’t have to experience the passage of the years.”

“You mean . . . your spaceship is some kind of time machine as well?”

“No, not really.” He seemed cross, exasperated. “This is like trying to explain to a bird how an elevator works. This is the way we go to the top of a building. We don’t have to flap our wings.

“Your own spaceship is a time machine; you compressed twelve years into less than four. What we do is no more magical than that. We just have better control over it; we’re more economical and efficient.”

I was completely out of my depth here. “Let me get Paul. I don’t understand—”

“Paul wouldn’t understand better. Like you, like any other human, he misunderstands the nature of time. His mathematics just compounds the error, because it’s already wrong before ‘one plus one equals two.’

“It’s time I had a talk with all of you, or perhaps all except Moonboy. Can you arrange that in about one hour?”

“Sure. It wouldn’t take an hour.”

“I want to spend an hour looking at your library, the paper printed books. This may be my last chance.”

“What? What’s going to happen?”

“I said ‘may,’ not ‘will.’ Shall we say 15:21 in the compromise lounge? I want to talk to the Martians, as well.”

“Okay . . . what should I say you want to talk about? Our ignorant mathematics?”

“Partly. Partly your survival.” He turned, and walked toward the lounge, presumably the “library” corner.

I sat for a minute, collecting my thoughts. Then I pinged Paul and told him what was going on. He said he’d make a general announcement and asked what I thought Spy was up to. “That’s as close as they’ve come to an actual threat.”

“I know.” My voice cracked. I wiped cold sweat from my palms. “See you there.”

I made a cup of tea and took it back to our room. I’d just begun a letter to my mother but couldn’t think of anything to say. Dear Mom, my survival was just threatened by a robot from another planet. What have you done when that happens?

I wondered what Spy meant by “our” survival. The people on this ship or humanity in general? Dear Mom, you may have only twelve years to live. Unfortunately, I wrote this twelve years ago.

Jacket and scarf and knitted socks. Might as well be nice and toasty for the occasion. I went over at precisely 15:20 and sat on the couch next to Paul.