“Second, is there any way to test the author’s claims? Soziere aced that one beautifully, I have to admit. His argument is that there’s no subjective experience of death—your family might die, your friends, your grade-school teachers, the Princess of Wales, but never you. And in some other world, you die and other people go on living. How do you prove such a thing? Obviously, you can’t. What Soziere tries to do is infer it, from quantum physics and lots of less respectable sources. It’s a bubble theory—it floats over the landscape, touching nothing.”

I was probably blushing by this time.

Deirdre said, “You took it seriously, didn’t you? Or half seriously…”

“Half at most. I’m not stupid. But it’s an appealing idea.”

Her eyes widened. “Appealing?”

“Well—there are people who’ve died. People I miss. I like to think of them going on somewhere, even if it isn’t a place I can reach.”

She was aghast. “God, no! Soziere’s book isn’t a fairy tale, Mr. Keller—it’s a horror story!”

“Pardon me?”

“Think about it! At first it sounds like an invitation to suicide. You don’t like where you are, put a pistol in your mouth and go somewhere else—somewhere better, maybe, even if it is inherently less likely. But take you for example. You’re what, sixty years old? Or so? Well, great, you inhabit a universe where a healthy human being can obtain the age of sixty, fine, but what next? Maybe you wake up tomorrow morning and find out they cured cancer, say, or heart disease—excluding you from all the worlds where William Keller dies of a colon tumor or an aneurism. And then? You’re a hundred years old, a hundred and twenty—do you turn into some kind of freak?