I put a call through.
"Hello, darling," said her clear voice.
Oh, look—love—we've had—centuries together—so beautiful, so various—people, yes—each other, yes—the topaz mornings and the amorous unsleepiness—the vague rainy Thursday afternoons—the incandescent, rose-petal you—the touching—we've had—places—Havana, for instance—this vaulting steel town—but also flowers, dear. I was thinking how long flowers really lasted. Surely, you won't mind, that the end is here? After entire histories of evolution shared by just the two of us? I knew you wouldn't—now.
I said, "How's Rushford?"
"More important—how are you?"
"Sprung-witted. Weary. And pursuing."
"Nearly finished?"
"I should make it—tomorrow. If I hold out tonight."
"Phil! What's wrong?"
The echo—the electrical overtone—that long way.