Turning to face him, Heather said earnestly, “You know how you look, even now at the age you are. You’re beautiful. Thirty million people ogle you an hour a week. It’s not your singing they’re interested in … it’s your incurable physical beauty.”

“The same can be said for you,” he said caustically. He felt tired and he yearned for the privacy and seclusion that lay there on the outskirts of Zurich, silently waiting for the two of them to come back once more. And it was as if the house wanted them to stay, not for a night or a week of nights, but forever.

“I don’t show my age,” Heather said.

He glanced at her, then studied her. Volumes of red hair, pale skin with a few freckles, a strong roman nose. Deepset huge violet eyes. She was right; she didn’t show her age. Of course she never tapped into the phone-grid transex network, as he did. But in point of fact he did so very little. So he was not hooked, and there had not been, in his case, brain damage or premature aging.

“You’re a goddamn beautiful-looking person,” he said grudgingly.

“And you?” Heather said.

He could not be shaken by this. He knew that he still had his charisma, the force they had inscribed on the chromosomes forty-two years ago. True, his hair had become mostly gray and he did tint it. And a few wrinkles had appeared here and there. But—.

“As long as I have my voice,” he said, “I’ll be okay. I’ll have what I want. You’re wrong about me—it’s your six aloofness, your cherished so-called individuality. Okay, if you don’t want to fly over to the house in Zurich, where do you want to go? Your place? My place?”

“I want to be married to you,” Heather said. “So then it won’t be my place versus your place but it’ll be our place. And I’ll give up singing and have three children, all of them looking like you.”

“Even the girls?”