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THE HUNDRED-LIGHT-YEAR DIARY By Greg Egan Martin Place was packed with the usual frantic lunchtime crowds. I scanned the faces nervously; the moment had almost arrived, and I still hadn’t even caught sight of Alison. One twenty-seven and fourteen seconds. Would I be mistaken about something so important? With the knowledge of the mistake still fresh in my mind? But that knowledge could make no difference. Of course it would affect my state of mind, of course it would influence my actions — but I already knew exactly what the net result of that, and every other, influence would be: I’d write what I’d read. I needn’t have worried. I looked down at my watch, and as 1:27:13 became 1:27:14, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned; it was Alison, of course. I’d never seen her before, in the flesh, but I’d soon devote a month’s bandwidth allocation to sending back a Barnsley- compressed snapshot. I hesitated, then spoke my lines, awful as they were: ‘Fancy meeting you here.’ She smiled, and suddenly I was overwhelmed, giddy with happiness — exactly as I’d read in my diary a thousand times, since I’d first come across the day’s entry at the age of nine; exactly as I would, necessarily, describe it at the terminal that night. But — foreknowledge aside — how could I have |
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