The doorbell rang.
Takako Saeki peered at the entryway monitor, still holding her teapot. A young man in a suit was bowing with great precision.
“Good afternoon. My name is Yamada, from Chuo Cosmos Life Insurance. I’m here today to introduce a new product.”
Solicitor, Takako thought immediately. But his voice was so relentlessly polite that she opened the door anyway.
Yamada smiled and held out a business card. The logo was a red sphere.
“What I’d like to present to you today is our Red Giant Transition Coverage Plan.”
“The what?”
“A long-term insurance product designed to protect you against the risk of the sun expanding into a red giant and engulfing the Earth.”
Takako set the teapot on the entryway shelf.
“That’s five billion years from now.”
“Very impressive, ma’am.”
“My grandson learned it in primary school.”
“The monthly premium is ¥198.”
“That’s cheap.”
“Well, the triggering event is five billion years out. Our actuaries — the statistical specialists — say it can’t be priced any lower.”
“And the payout?”
“Three hundred million yen.”
Takako laughed in spite of herself.
“Three hundred million. I wonder what three hundred million yen is even worth in five billion years.”
“We leave that assessment entirely to the customer’s discretion.”
Yamada nodded gravely. He had the air of a new employee reading faithfully from a script.
“But, Yamada-san.”
Takako tapped the teapot once with her finger.
“I have children. Grandchildren. But none of them will still be around in five billion years. Neither will the Earth, by that point, right?”
“That is correct.”
“So who collects the three hundred million?”
Yamada smiled.
“You do, ma’am. You yourself.”
Takako’s hand went still.
”…Pardon?”
“You will receive the payout personally. Five billion years from now.”
“I’m eighty years old.”
“We are aware.”
“I won’t exist in five billion years. I won’t even be in the universe.”
“That, ma’am, is precisely the point of this policy.”
Yamada swiped his tablet screen.
“Our company guarantees the continuity of existence of our policyholders — not materially, but informationally. We record your DNA data on our servers, and five billion years from now, we reconstruct you from that data.”
Takako was quiet for a moment.
“Reconstruct. Like a clone?”
“More precisely: a reproduction of an identical personality. The technology does not yet exist, but our projections indicate five billion years is more than sufficient time to achieve it.”
“And this reconstructed me collects the three hundred million?”
“Correct. The payout is denominated in the Universal Insurance Consortium’s common currency, so the value is preserved.”
Takako leaned against the handrail. Something close to vertigo washed over her.
”…Hold on. Does everyone have this policy?”
“In your district, the enrollment rate is 85%.”
“Eighty-five percent?”
“Yes. Most people say: if I’m going to sign up for something, I’d rather be the one who actually receives it.”
Yamada rotated the tablet and held the signature line toward her. Below the signature box, in small print, was a note.
The condition of the body at the time of reconstruction will reflect the policyholder’s current condition.
Takako looked down at her knees.
“So I’d be starting over again — in an eighty-year-old body.”
“Correct.”
”…No, thank you.”
Takako closed the door.
Her face stared back at her from the entryway mirror. White hair. Age spots. Eyelids that had given up the fight. Starting over in this body, five billion years from now — even she had her limits.
She picked up the teapot and turned back toward the living room. Then the doorbell rang again.
Yamada was on the monitor.
“My apologies — I forgot to mention. The body at the time of reconstruction can be rejuvenated for a small additional fee. For just ¥300 more per month, we will reconstruct you at the age of twenty.”
Takako stood there in silence for a moment.
Then, quietly:
”…Perhaps I’ll hear you out after all.”