[Tossed by his wastebin, but having evidently missed its target, the paper is lightly crumpled and the handwritten text has a pale red line of marker struck through it with the helpful note: better phrasing obviously written with much less care than the rest]


Newton,


I confess I've no idea what to write here.

Our original letters were scientific in nature, with a subtle undercurrent of personal intrigue. It's what we're most comfortable with, and I don't believe I've ever written a strictly personal letter in my entire life. Closest was likely my university application essay, but then I'd never imagined you.

Sheer brute force.

It's how you do everything in emotional terms, much like the drift itself. Speaking as someone much more guarded, it's both enviable and frightening, yet fascinating. I still can't fathom what sort of criteria I must have met to warrant your regard, but perhaps that's simply my own flawed thinking. I consider everything in terms of data and numerical expression, but humanity in general has never conformed to reason. I'm rather certain you're something of an outlier even, making for a particularly unpredictable partner, and one I'm enjoying rather thoroughly regardless.

So while I can predict an alien species, I will likely never have enough data to predict you, even with the Drift. But as you know, I'm rather fascinated by the unknown, and will still endeavour to collect as much data as possible- only this is the one subject in which I don't expect anyone else to continue my work in later years, and the only recognition I require is yours.

Some mathematicians find comfort in pi as an ongoing measure of eternity, and there is certainly an element of enchantment to be found in such a concept. But then there are times I think that eternity sounds exhausting and unbearable, and that I'd rather simply spend either one or both lives with you.


With unending affection,
Hermann