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“In what form?”

“A pharmaceutical.”

I felt a chill of wonder and surprise, not all of it pleasant. Death, for all its disadvantages, has been a reliable constant in human life. The richest and the poorest must both come to dust.

“What’s the process?”

“That’s the crux of the matter. We change basic cellular behavior.”

I didn’t have the wherewithal right then to explore my first reactions, including the possibilities of terminating the research as too radical and disruptive if successful. He told me, as though reading my mind, that he wanted me on a committee to consider the whole matter from an ethical point of view.

I nodded, but must have looked dubious as he waxed persuasive. “It’s far too early to think about technology transfer and all that. But, Norman, if it’s half as effective as I think it will be, the museum’s financial worries will be over.”

“Who’s doing the research?”

“Doctor Carmina Gnocchi is heading the team. Along with me. She’s in molecular biology at Wainscott. A real pistol. And not half-cocked, either.”

“Yes. I believe I’ve met her.”

“You still seem … doubtful.”

What could I say? That there are already so many ageless old people, corporeal ghosts peering out from reconstructed faces like souls trapped in life. But other than a sharp yet formless unease about the whole issue, I really had no opinion. I said, “I’ll have to think about it.”

When the food arrived, we took a break to eat and to talk about our families. I didn’t mention that I had a chimpanzee living at home and that Diantha and Elsie were out at the cottage. That we were, for all intents and purposes, separated.

I did mention that I would like his help in preparing for an Oversight Committee meeting that would bring up the whole Neanderthal business. I said, “Professor Laluna Jackson, you know, of the Victim Studies Department, will be on hand. And she already takes a dim view of the museum and its director.”

He rolled his eyes. “You know, I doubt the woman has any African heritage at all. I mean she may have a touch of the old tarbrush, which I’m allowed to say, but I doubt even that. She frizzes her hair and applies skin darkener. Her black-speak accent is utterly bogus, and the chopping motion of her hands is so farcical as to make me cringe. What people like Laluna Jackson do is make an inadvertent and damning parody of black culture.”

I had no reply to that and said nothing.

He continued. “You know something else … I have a feeling she started out as a he.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“I’d bet that if you did a background check on Ms. Jackson you’d find she began life as a little boy.”

“You mean she had herself rearranged?”

He laughed. “That’s one way of putting it.”

“Why do you think so?”

“I have a nose for these things. She’s not all there. I don’t understand why people can’t just be what they are …”

“Not everyone is as blessed as you, Harvey.”

“You’re too kind, Norman, too kind. But don’t worry. I’ll come to that meeting with you. Let me do the heavy lifting on that one.”

I smiled. “I look forward to it.”

We ate well. We had a second drink. We got mellow. Harvey, his handsome face glistening, leaned toward me and lowered his voice. “I’m about to burden you with something, Norman. And I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not in the least. I hope.”

He hesitated. Then, “Okay, do you remember our first interview? You had my CV. You leafed through it, referring to notes you had made. Your questions were smack-on. And do you know why I like you, Norman? Do you know why I admire and trust you?”

I made a gesture of modest disavowal.

“Because, Norman, in the nearly two years I’ve known you, not once have you alluded, even indirectly, to the color of my skin.”

I shrugged. “There has been no reason why I should.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think you understand. So many well-meaning and well-off white liberals I’ve met over the years feel constrained to signal in one way or another that they are not prejudiced, that