interrupted, by a call from the highway patrol.
The two agents were driving very fast away from the burning wreck.
‘Can’t go back now, the highway patrol’s all over the place. If you had any doubts, why the hell didn’t you say something before we torched it?’
‘All I said was, he’s black. How come they never said he was black?’
‘What are you implying, we finalized the wrong guy? What, some black car-thief or what?’
‘I’m not implying nothing.’
‘Well you sure as hell sound like you’re implying something. Listen, you got his licence, is his name Death or isn’t it?’
‘Sure but—’
‘Is he an MD or isn’t he?’
‘Sure but—’
‘And did the receptionist at Buford City Hospital point him out to us as Dr Death or didn’t she?’
‘Sure. Sure.’
‘Well then what’s the prob? Study the orders, he has to be the asshole who invented this robot for testing artificial hearts. Dr Sheldon Death, right? The asshole Orinoco wants finalized, right?’
‘I don’t know. Because on the licence it says DOG EASY APOSTROPHE ABLE but on the orders we got DOG APOSTROPHE EASY—’
‘So?’
‘And he’s not Sheldon neither, he’s Samuel.’
After a silence. ‘So what are you implying? We finalized the wrong customer?’
‘I’m not implying nothing.’
Ma and Roderick sat thinking about Doc De’Ath while the sheriff settled down for
‘I like you and Pa.’ After a pause, he added, ‘And almost anybody else — only one at a time. But when you get them all together, people are so — weird, Ma.’
‘You’ll get used to them.’ He handed Roderick a ticket. ‘Now your bus leaves at three-twenty. So you be sure and be out front of the Newer Home Cafe a little early. You need a recharge or anything before you go? Oil change?’
‘I just had one. Ma, don’t worry. I guess you got problems enough of your own.’
‘Pshaw! Your Pa and I will be all right. Of course they’re foreclosing on our home, and Mr Swann is suing us for his fees, not to mention Dr Welby and the others — but on the other hand, all the debts we owe are now in the hands of the Bangfield Trust Bank.’
‘Is that good?’
‘Good? It’s perfect, son. You see, the bank computer has been sabotaged. I don’t know how — guess someone somewhere phoned them up, drew out several million and then covered it by — I guess by changing all the plus signs to minus signs — something like that.’
‘So does that mean—?’
‘Bangfield Trust now owes us a whole lot of money.’ Ma winked. ‘Of course we won’t try to collect. Only numbers, after all. On the astral plane, pluses and minuses are all the same anyway. Now we can just settle down and live—’
‘But Ma! Isn’t Pa officially dead?’
‘Sure. And North America is officially a continent, and the Atlantic is officially an ocean, but so what? On the astral plane, it could all be switched around tomorrow, just like
Sheriff Benson cleared his throat. ‘You mind not snapping your fingers so loud there, Ma? I’m trying to concentrate on
‘Got to catch the bus.’
‘Too bad you can’t stick around. In a minute they got
But the young man with the symmetrical face — Benson had no idea who he might be — was gone, faster than the time limit for one of them questions on
‘…Course we’re protected, but we ain’t exactly gonna make a pile on that deal,’ said Mr Kratt’s voice. ‘Not unless we buy this Bangfield out of Welby’s company… anyway you get your ass back here, next time don’t go telling the damn chauffeur how to drive the damn car.’
‘Yes sir.’ Ben hung up just as the bus was pulling in. Even so, by the time he’d gulped the tepid coffee, paid and tipped, counted his change twice and gathered up his notebook and
He found an empty seat behind a pair of nuns. Across the aisle was a young man Ben thought he recognized, until he saw him full-face (without a birthmark).
‘Reading about God, are you?’
‘Yes.’ Ben turned away quickly to the window. For all you knew, this guy could be one of the executioners last night.
The thought sent Ben back to his notebook:
‘In 1791 William Godwin wrote: “A servant who has been taught to write and read ceases to be any longer a passive machine.” In this he expressed the fading hope that any distinction could still be made between the common man and the common gadget. For by the time Godwin’s daughter had completed her
The man across the aisle was writing, too. Ben looked away, saw an ambulance go by, and heard one of the nuns:
‘Poor Father Warren! Imagine, getting malaria right here in the middle of Nebraska!’
‘On top of everything else, Sister!’
‘Yes, Sister. No wonder Mrs Feeney thinks he’s a saint.’
‘Ah, who knows, Sister?’
‘Ah, who indeed?’
It was late afternoon in New York, where they were changing one of the flags in front of the UN building. The peacock-blue-and-gold of the Shah of Ruritania came down to be replaced by the tricolour of a new People’s Republic. There was no ceremony, nothing to disturb the normal rise and fall of pigeons, flapping up to invisible ledges somewhere above, swooping down to join the sea of columbine grey through which waded a few tourists, among them Mr Goun.
Mr Goun and his camera had come to see the UN building, not to see if it was really (as its architect claimed) a ‘Cartesian skyscraper’ (Cartesian it was, as any sheet of graph-paper) or ‘a passion in glass’, but merely to finish a roll of film and the last afternoon of his vacation. He was passionately aware how much his feet hurt, how tired he was of standing like this in groups of tourists, all snapping away at some sight, all complaining about their feet, all anxious to get back to their homes (that is, to the machines in which they lived).
He was lonely. The only person he had spoken to (aside from foot complaints) was a policeman yesterday, who said:
