“There is one little problem,” Seven said, blushing again as Cyprus reappeared, this time looking very stern. She materialized as a mixture of man and woman or woman and man; and of age and youth or youth and age; one aspect or another of her image being emphasized as she reacted to Seven’s words.

“Uh,” he said hesitantly, “actually Lydia refuses to be born until she searches for the gods. She wants to know if they really exist or not before she takes on another life. All in all, she’s been very stubborn about the whole thing.”

Cyprus’ face turned ancient and glowering. “And? What’s the rest of it?” she asked.

Oversoul Seven sighed deeply and tried his best to look only slightly (not deeply) concerned. “Well, Lydia’s mother-to-be in her next life is Bianka, as you know—Josef’s wife. And she’s approaching labor right now in seventeenth-century Denmark. Remember, Lydia decided to go backward in time for her next life—in her terms, of course. I mean, we know that all time is simultaneous, but—” His voice drifted off miserably.

Cyprus felt so sorry for her pupil that she turned immediately into the image of a kindly old physician, and Seven’s spirits momentarily lifted.

“Actually the problem is mainly one of time, using earth terms,” he said. “I mean, in those terms, a woman’s labor pains can’t be put off forever. And there is always the chance that I can change Lydia’s mind.”

Cyprus disappeared again, this time because her reactions were so quicksilver fast and contradictory that she couldn’t get any one image to express them. She said, “Are you trying to tell me that Bianka, Lydia’s mother-to-be, is nearly ready to deliver a baby, and Lydia wants to go on some kind of misguided pilgrimage to the gods first?”

“Uh, I’m not positive, but if I have the time sequences right, then Bianka is expecting to deliver a baby in twenty-four hours or so,” Seven said very quietly.

Silence.

“Of course, with probabilities, there’s variations of all kinds,” he added. “Any time from three hours to forty-eight, I imagine.”

Cyprus said, “Or, granting probabilities, Lydia could decide not to be reborn as Tweety at all.” This time Cyprus’ voice rang, echoed, thundered. Vowels and syllables turned into images and went flying through the air, catching the sunlight and turning into multicolored prisms. Only these prisms also sounded, so that the vowels and syllables fragmented, splintered, and registered in so many different scales at once that Oversoul Seven shouted out and covered his guru ears.

When the commotion ceased he said glumly, “You didn’t have to do that—” and with belated dignity: “I understand your concern.”