The Terminal Experiment - Robert J. Sawyer Page 0,40
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A demonstration was held today out front of the free-standing Morgentaler Abortion Clinic in Toronto, Ontario, by the organization Defenders of the Unborn. “Abortion prior to the arrival of the soulwave is still a sin in the eyes of God,” said protester Anthoula Sotirios. “For the first nine weeks of pregnancy, the fetus is a temple, being prepared for the arrival of the divine spark.”
CHAPTER 17
Thursday evening at home. Peter had long ago programmed the household computer to scan the TV listings for topics or shows that would interest him. For two years, he’d had a standing order for the PVR to record the film The Night Stalker— a made-for-TV movie he’d first encountered as a teenager—but so far it hadn’t come on. He also asked to be alerted whenever an Orson Welles film was on, whenever Ralph Nader or Steven Pinker was going to be on any talk show, and for any episodes of Night Court in which Brent Spiner guest-starred.
Tonight, DBS Cairo was showing Welles in The Stranger in English with Arabic subtitles. Peter’s PVR had a subtitle eraser—it scanned the parts of the image adjacent to the subtitles, as well as the frames before and after the subtitles appeared, and filled in an extrapolation of the picture that had been obscured by the text. Quite a find: Peter hadn’t seen The Stranger for twenty years. His PVR hummed quietly, recording it.
Maybe he’d watch it tomorrow. Or Saturday.
Maybe.
Cathy, sitting across the room from him, cleared her throat, then said, “My coworkers have been asking about you. About us.”
Peter felt his shoulders tense. “Oh?”
“You know: about why we haven’t been at the Friday-night gatherings.”
“What have you told them?”
“Nothing. I’ve made excuses.”
“Do they—do you think they know about … about what happened?”
She considered. “I don’t know. I’d like to think they don’t, but …”
“But that asshole Hans has a mouth on him.”
She said nothing.
“Have you heard anything? Snide comments? Innuendoes? Anything to make you think your coworkers know?”
“No,” said Cathy. “Nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
She sighed. “Believe me, I’ve been particularly sensitive to what they’ve been saying. If they are gossiping behind my back, I haven’t picked up on it. No one has said a word to me. Really, I suspect they don’t know.”
Peter shook his head. “I—I don’t think I could take it if they knew. Facing them, I mean. It’s …” He paused, trying to come up with the appropriate word. “… humiliating.”
She knew better than to reply.
“Damn,” said Peter. “I hate this. I really fucking hate this.”
Cathy nodded.
“Still,” said Peter, “I suppose ...I suppose if we’re ever going to have a normal life again, we’ve got to start going out, seeing people.”
“Danita thinks that would be wise, too.”
“Danita?”
“My counselor.”
“Oh.”
She was quiet for a moment, then: “Hans left town today. He’s attending a conference. If we went out after work with my friends tomorrow, he wouldn’t be there.”
Peter took a deep breath, exhaled it noisily. “You’re sure he won’t be there?” he said.
She nodded.
Peter was silent for a time, marshaling his thoughts. “All right,” he said at last. “I’ll give it a try, as long as we don’t stay too long.” He looked her in the eyes. “But you better be right about him not being there.” His voice took on a tone Cathy had never heard before, a stone-cold bitterness. “If I see him again, I’ll kill him.”
PETER ARRIVED at The Bent Bishop early so that he could be sure of the seat directly beside his wife. The crew from Doowap Advertising had found a long table in the middle of the room this time, so they were all in captain’s chairs. Peter did indeed get to sit next to Cathy. Opposite him was the pseudointellectual. His bookreader was loaded with Camus.
“’Evening, Doc,” said Pseudo. “You’re certainly in the news a lot these days.”
Peter nodded. “Hello.”
“Not used to seeing you here so early,” Pseudo said.
Peter immediately realized his mistake. Everything should have been exactly as before. He should be doing nothing that would attract attention to him or Cathy.
“Ducking reporters,” Peter said.
Pseudo nodded, and lifted a glass of dark ale to his lips. “You’ll be glad to know Hans won’t be here.”
Peter felt his cheeks flush, but in the dim lighting of the