“It decays,” says Mister Duckleford firmly. “This is provable and inevitable. Entropy is fact, at every level, molecular to galactic.”

Tyson smiles gently. “You fail to understand. Society is already its own form of controlled entropy; the manifestation of styles is a brilliant kind of planned obsolescence.”

Mister Duckleford glowers. “Bollocks. It’s all going to hell, you know it.”

Tyson’s skin is old, sad, liverspotted around his eyes. The eyes are clear and blue. He draws his knees up in the warm, frothy bathwater and considers the yellow rubber toy. How to explain? Mister Duckleford can be such a child sometimes.