For me? What will I do with this world, if it’s saved? What will anybody do? Just what they’ve always done. They mate, they bear children in hopes that those children will grow up and have children of their own. The replication of genes. Is that all it is?

Maybe it’s enough. We evolved so that our greatest pleasure comes from sex, and our greatest joy comes from reproductive success, from bonds with our children and with their children. Param has chosen me to share her throne, to help her win power in a great kingdom, but aren’t Loaf and Leaky the ones with the better goal? They want children, and perhaps, with his facemask, Loaf will now be able to father some with Leaky.

Perhaps? Why should Umbo wonder, when all he would need to do is jump forward in time and see?

He had only just discovered the ability to jump ahead at will, to any point in time that he had already lived in. But now that he could do it, why shouldn’t he? He could find out if they have children, and if he learns that they do, well, he’ll know that they were going to be happy. And if they don’t, then . . . then he would keep that information to himself.

In other words, there was nothing useful he could do with the information, once he got it, except to know it. This wasn’t like the times when he had sent messages back into the past to prevent himself or others from pursuing a disastrous course. This would be nothing better than spying or eavesdropping or reading someone else’s letters. If he told no one, he’d get no joy from the knowledge; it would be hard work to conceal what he knew, good or bad.

And yet the urge to know was insatiable, especially because he knew he could find out without anyone else being the wiser.

He took his last bite of bread and, chewing, stepped off the road into a copse of trees, like any traveler needing to relieve himself. Stands of trees were planted near well-traveled roads for just that purpose.

He stood for a moment to make sure he marked this exact moment on his inner timeline, so he could return to it just after he left. No observer, seeing him emerge from the trees in a few minutes, would know that he had traveled forward in time by several years, stayed for however long he wanted, and then returned.

And with that, Umbo jumped himself forward in time. A ­couple of years. Just to see.

He chose to return to Leaky’s Landing in early afternoon, a warm spring day. He couldn’t go to the roadhouse; it would be embarrassing to admit that he was Umbo-from-the-past, checking on the future to see how things turned out. Besides, what if he ran into himself and inadvertently made a useless copy?