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young," Glass said.

    Keith lifted his eyebrows, thought about his bald spot.
    "Tell me about your mate," asked Glass.
    Keith's eyes narrowed. "Why would you possibly be interested in that?"
    Wind-chime laughter. "I am interested in everything."
    "But questions about my mate--surely there are more important things to explore?"
    "Are there more important things to you?"
    Keith thought for a second. "Well--no. No, I suppose there aren't."
    "Then tell me about--about her, I presume."
    "Yes, her."
    "Tell me."
    Keith shrugged. "Well, her name is Rissa. That's short for Clarissa.
    Clarissa Maria Cervantes." Keith smiled. "Her last name always makes me think of Don Quixote."
    "Who?"
    "Don Quixote. The Man of La Mancha. Hero of a novel by a writer named Cervantes." Keith paused. ';You'd like Cervantes--he once wrote a book about a glass man.
    Anyway, Quixote was a knight-errant, caught up in the romance of noble deeds and the pursuit of unattainable goals. But . . ."
    "But what?"
    "Well, the funny thing is that #was Rissa who used to call me quixotic."
    Glass tipped his head in puzzlement, and Keith realized that he couldn't discern the connection between the unknown and apparently unrelated words kwik-sah-tik and kee-hoe-te. "'Quixotic' means similar to Don Quixote," sam Keith. "Visionary, romantic, impractical--an idealist bent on righting wrongs." He laughed. "Of course, I wasn't content to love Rissa pure and chas-chime laughter. but I suppose I do have a tendency to take on battles other people let pass, or aren't even aware of, and, well . . ."
    The egg-shaped transparent head tilted slightly. "Yes ?"
    "Well," said Keith, spreading his arms, encompassing not just the forest simulation but everything beyond, "we did reach the unreachable stars, didn't we?" He grew silent, feeling a little embarrassed.
    "Anyway, you were asking about Rissa. We have been married--permanently pair-bonded--for almost twenty years now. She's a biologist--an exobiologist, to be precise; her specialty is life that is not indigenous to Earth."
    "And you love her?"
    "Very much indeed."
    "You have children." Keith assumed it was a question, but Glass's voice did not rise at the end of the sentence.
    "One. His name is Saul."
    !'Sol? After your home star?"
    "No, Saul. S-A-U-L. After the man who had been my best friend before he died, Saul Ben-Abraham."
    "So your son's name was--what? Not Saul Lansing-Cervantes ?"
    Keith was surprised that Glass grasped human naming conventions. "Yes, that's right."
    "Saul Lansing-Cervantes," repeated Glass, his head tilted as if lost in thought. He looked up. "Sorry. It's, ah, quite a musical name."
    "Which you'd say is funny, if you knew him," said Keith.
    "I love my son, but I've never met anyone with less musical talent.

    He's nineteen now, and is away at university. He's studying physics,'
    that's something he does have an aptitude for, and I suspect someday he'll make quite a name for himself in that field."
    "Saul Lansing-Cervantes . . . your son," said Glass.
    "Fascinating. Anyway, we keep getting off the topic of Rissa. "
    Keith looked at him for a moment, puzzled. But then he shrugged "She's a wonderful woman. Intelligent. Warm, funny. Beautiful."
    "And you say you are pair-bonded with her?"
    "That's right."
    "And that means . . . monogamy, correct? You couple with no one else?"
    "Yes."
    "Without exception?"
    "Without exception, that's right. "A pause. "So far."
    "So far? You are contemplating a change in this relationship?"
    Keith looked away. Christ, this is crazy. What could this alien possibly know about human marriage ? "Move along," said Keith.
    "Pardon?" asked Glass.
    "Move along, move along. Another topic."
    "Do you feel guilty, Keith ?"
    "What are you--my bloody conscience?"
    "I am just someone who is interested, that's all."
    "Become interested in something else."
    "I'm sorry," said Glass. "Where did you and Rissa first meet?"

    "La Belle Aurore. The Germans wore gray; she wore blue."
    "Pardon ?"
    "Sorry.