wife disintegrate into blood and bone. He saw Jon burning in the wreck, screaming, turning black.
No confidence, no real hope. He had always exuded a sense of time running out. And in the end he had turned out to be right.
“What does that mean?” Richard muttered, looking at the blank screen.
How would the Magic Eight-Ball have answered that? ASK AGAIN LATER? OUTCOME IS MURKY? Or perhaps IT IS CERTAINLY SO?
The noise coming from the CPU was getting louder again, and more quickly than this afternoon. Already he could smell the train transformer Jon had lodged in the machinery behind the screen getting hot.
Magic dream machine.
Word processor of the gods.
Was that what it was? Was that what Jon had intended to give his uncle for his birthday? The space-age equivalent of a magic lamp or a wishing well?
He heard the back door of the house bang open and then the voices of Seth and the other members of Seth’s band. The voices were too loud, too raucous. They had either been drinking or smoking dope.
“Where’s your old man, Seth?” he heard one of them ask.
“Goofing off in his study, like usual, I guess,” Seth said. “I think he—” The wind rose again then, blurring the rest, but not blurring their vicious tribal laughter.
Richard sat listening to them, his head cocked a little to one side, and suddenly he typed:
MY SON IS SETH ROBERT HAGSTROM.
His finger hovered over the DELETE button.
What are you doing? his mind screamed at him. Can you be serious? Do you intend to murder your own son?
“He must do somethin in there,” one of the others said.
“He’s a goddam dimwit,” Seth answered. “You ask my mother sometime. She’ll tell you. He—”
I’m not going to murder him. I’m going to ... to DELETE him.
His finger stabbed down on the button.
“—ain’t never done nothing but—”
The words MY SON IS SETH ROBERT HAGSTROM vanished from the screen.
Outside, Seth’s words vanished with them.
There was no sound out there now but the cold November wind, blowing grim advertisements for winter.
Richard turned off the word processor and went outside. The driveway was empty. The group’s lead guitarist, Norm somebody, drove a monstrous and somehow sinister old LTD station wagon in which the group carried their equipment to their infrequent gigs. It was not parked in the driveway now. Perhaps it was somewhere in the world, tooling down some highway or parked in the parking lot of some greasy hamburger hangout, and Norm was also somewhere in the world, as was Davey, the bassist, whose eyes were frighteningly blank and who wore a safety pin dangling from one earlobe, as was the drummer, who had no front teeth. They were somewhere in the world, somewhere, but not here, because Seth wasn’t here, Seth had never been here.
Seth had been DELETED.
“I have no son,” Richard muttered. How many times had he read that melodramatic phrase in bad novels? A hundred? Two hundred? It had never rung true to him. But here it was true. Now it was true. Oh yes.
The wind gusted, and Richard was suddenly seized by a vicious stomach cramp that doubled him over, gasping. He passed explosive wind.
When the cramps passed, he walked into the house.
The first thing he noticed was that Seth’s ratty tennis shoes—he had four pairs of them and refused to throw any of them out—were gone from the front hall. He went to the stairway banister and ran his thumb over a section of it. At age ten (old enough to know better, but Lina had refused to allow Richard to lay a hand on the boy in spite of that), Seth had carved his initials deeply into the wood of that banister, wood which Richard had labored over for almost one whole summer. He had sanded and filled and revarnished, but the ghost of those initials had remained.
They were gone now.
Upstairs. Seth’s room. It was neat and clean and unlived-in, dry and devoid of personality. It might as well have had a sign on the doorknob reading GUEST ROOM.
Downstairs. And it was here that Richard lingered the longest. The snarls of wire were gone; the amplifiers and microphones were gone; the litter of tape recorder parts that Seth was always going to “fix up” were gone (he did not have Jon’s hands or concentration). Instead the room bore the deep (if not particularly pleasant) stamp of Lina’s personality—heavy, florid furniture and saccharin velvet tapestries (one depicting a Last Supper at which Christ looked like Wayne Newton, another showing