The baby stirred. “It’s a living organism,” Cyprus said gently. “Prepared for you, waiting for your consciousness to make it human. Now it has body consciousness, but no self in your terms. Are you going to give it selfhood or not? Some individuals enter the baby before birth, as you know, and some after. But you are dawdling some.”

Seven grinned.

Lydia said, almost laughing, “How could I not, after that? Of course I will. I just got stage fright, that’s all. I know I’m not saying good-bye to myself, but becoming another self while not losing what I am. I’ll do my best for Tweety, as Tweety. I’ll—”

But the oddest thing was happening, and Lydia opened her eyes to a scene of such suddenly recalled delight that she cried out. There was her bedroom, surely hers, with sun-splashed wallpaper and white ruffled curtains. She was looking down at the bedcovers from the viewpoint of someone sitting up in bed. She was staring at … yes, the baby in her arms. She’d just given birth a short while ago; but to whom?

Let me hold this scene, this moment, she thought desperately.

The baby was—oh God, real, still birth-smelly, whatever that meant, and hers, hers, hers! She chanted, dizzy with elation; the warm living curve of her sunshiny arms filled with that new, solid, wiggling flesh. And, how curious, the baby’s eyes were so clear, like a tiny animal’s, knowing yet unknowing. She’d write a poem about it later, but not now. Only where was Roger? And what was the baby’s name? Why couldn’t she remember? Suddenly she was scared, and the baby looked almost unfamiliar and strange.

“Roger?” she called. “Rog?”

He came hurrying in, a towel over his arm. “What’s wrong?”

And seeing him, so substantial and there and solid, for someone so bony and gawky, she started laughing and crying at once. “Oh God, I don’t know. I took a nap, as you suggested, and when I woke up, I couldn’t remember Rog Junior’s name. There, see, I know it now! But my own baby’s name! And the room seemed so funny, and I had the feeling of doing all this before.”

“Crazy puss,” Roger said, bending down to kiss her; but she looked up at him and thought: Now who was that? His face was kind, anxious, loving, with funny off-center eyes. But who was it?

“Who is that?” Oversoul Seven asked Cyprus.

“You should know,” Cyprus answered. “It’s Roger, Lydia’s husband.”

Cyprus and Seven stood invisibly by the bed, and Lydia didn’t see them any more than Roger did. Then Lydia began crying.