The Terminal Experiment - Robert J. Sawyer Page 0,68

beat. “Yes, that’s me.”

“I thought so,” said the man. “But you know, unless your soul is saved, you’ll go to hell.”

Cathy took Peter’s arm. “Come on,” she said. But the man moved to block their way. “Give yourself over to Jesus, Mr. Hobson—it’s the only way.”

“I’m, ah, really not interested in discussing this,” said Peter.

“Jesus forgives you,” said the man. He reached into the pocket of his trench coat. For one horrible moment, Peter thought the man was going for a gun, but instead he brought out a worn Bible, bound in blood-red leather. “Hear the word of God, Mr. Hobson! Save your soul!”

Cathy spoke directly to the man. “Leave us alone.”

“I can’t let you go,” said the man. He reached out an arm and—

—connected with Cathy’s shoulder.

Before Peter could react, Cathy had brought her shoe down on the man’s instep. He yowled in pain. “Get lost!” shouted Cathy, and she firmly took Peter’s arm, and propelled them both across the street.

“Hey,” said Peter, still flustered but nonetheless impressed. “Pretty good.”

Cathy tossed her black hair back. “No one messes with my husband,” she said, grinning her megawatt grin. She led them the few doors down to the restaurant. “Now, let me buy you dinner.”

THE DOORBELL RANG. Rod Churchill glanced at his watch. Twenty-six minutes. He’d yet to get a free meal, although a history teacher at his high school said she’d gotten lucky twice in a row. Out of habit, Rod glanced at the security camera display on his TV. Yup, a Food Food driver, all right: the orange and white uniform was quite distinctive. Rod walked down to the entryway, checked himself in the hall mirror to make sure his hair was still properly combed over his bald head, and opened the door. He signed the receipt for the driver, who gave him one copy, then took his packaged food up to the dining room. Rod opened the envirofoam containers carefully, got himself a glass of white wine, put on the TV—easily visible from his place at the dining-room table—and sat down to enjoy his meal.

The roast beef was adequate if a bit stringy, Rod thought, but the gravy was particularly good tonight. He cleaned the serving dish, using forkfuls of mashed-up baked potato to sop up the last of the gravy. He was halfway through his slice of pie when the pain began: a severe pounding at the back of his head, and an excruciating sensation, as though spikes were being driven into his eyes. He felt his heart fluttering. His forehead was slick with sweat and he thought for a moment he was going to vomit. A hot flash came over him. He rose to his feet, in hopes of getting to the telephone and calling for help, but suddenly there was a moment of unbearable pain, and he toppled backward, knocking his chair over, and fell to the carpeted floor, stone cold dead.

PETER AND CATHY had already gone to bed, but their Hobson Monitor knew that neither of them were yet asleep, and so it allowed the phone to ring.

There was no video phone in the bedroom, of course. In the darkness, Peter groped for the audio handset on his night table.

“Hello?” he said.

A crying woman. “Oh, Peter! Peter!”

“Bunny?”

Hearing her mother’s name, Cathy sat up in bed at once. “Lights!” she called out. The household computer turned on the two floor lamps in the room.

“Peter—Rod is dead.”

“Oh my God,” said Peter.

“What is it?” said Cathy, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“What happened?” said Peter, heart pounding.

“I just got back from my course, and I found him lying on the floor in the dining room.”

“Have you called an ambulance?” asked Peter.

“What is it?” Cathy said again, horrified.

Bunny had been crying so much, she had to pause to blow her nose. “Yes. Yes, it’s on its way.”

“So are we,” said Peter. “We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

“Thank you,” said Bunny, terrified. “Thank you. Thank you.”

“Just hold on,” said Peter. “We’re coming.” He hung up.

“What’s happening?” said Cathy.

Peter looked at his wife, her giant eyes wide in terror. My God, how to tell her? “That was your mother,” he said. He knew she knew that, but he was buying time, composing his thoughts. “Your father—she thinks your father is dead.”

Horror danced across Cathy’s face. Her mouth hung open and she shook her head slightly from left to right.

“Get dressed,” said Peter, gently. “We’ve got to get going.”

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