The porch did not change. “We can move the porch around wherever we want,” said Wally. “Barry and I both liked the Brookwell. We also have access to Fujiyama, the Eiffel Tower, the Great Wall, the Thames, the Moscow Memorial. We can go to Cuba and sit on a front porch across from where Manuel Octiva used to live.” Octiva, of course, was the classical novelist from the previous century.

Hutch was never going to forget the compressed passenger cabin that they’d lived in for the first three days. They’d had a VR tank that provided TV shows and converted the place into a kind of living room. But the black envelope that surrounded the Eiferman had never really gone away. They were sitting someplace, watching a high-tech TV. This was different. They were out on a front porch, feeling a soft breeze, watching the moon rise, and listening to birds sing. Wally was beaming.

Barry took them to a beach but put them on a deck with windows this time. Rain was pouring down, and the tide was rolling in. A skylark fluttered toward them, crashed into the glass, and went down. “Oh,” said Beth. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“It’s okay,” said Barry. “No animals were injured during the creation of these images.”

“Why didn’t we have this last year?” Hutch asked. “I can’t believe the technology wasn’t there.”

“Sure, it was there,” said Wally. “You just didn’t have the right people on board.”

“Wally, were you responsible for this?”

“I was part of the team.”

“Thank you,” she said. “And, Barry?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“You don’t need my approval to adjust the scenery.”

Priscilla’s Journal

Most days are alike. The sun rises, you do whatever the schedule calls for, talk to a few friends and colleagues, make some progress on whatever project has taken over your life, come home and have dinner, watch a movie, and go to bed. That’s where I was this morning. Where the day blends in with thousands of other days, and ultimately vanishes. But with this day, that’s not going to happen.

—Sunday, March 2, 2256

9.

Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of Heaven,

Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.

—Henry W. Longfellow, “Evangeline, I,” 1847

The front porch became a permanent fixture in their lives. They spent most of their time on it, talking, playing cards, watching Broadway shows or TV comedians or simply looking out at mountain ranges. During the first week, Derek and Ken retired to their cabins to pursue projects. Derek was doing cosmological research of some sort, and Ken was working on his FTL history. But they periodically came out and rejoined their colleagues. “It’s too depressing in there,” Ken said.