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writers still composed novels without word processors? Of course, he used to
do just fine without such silicon marvels. He wondered if he still could.
Then with typical fractal logic, he banished such thoughts into limbo: Yeah,
and surgeons had once enjoyed the occasional success without the assistance of
electric lighting, too. But once Thomas Edison showed up, they sure as hell
hadn t worried about his invention becoming a crutch that would diminish their
talent as doctors.
No wonder they called this the Age of Neuroses!
A delicate Bee-eep interrupted his musings.
Raising his wristband, he examined the code on the tiny screen and
smiled. Where are you, Senator?
Just finished a speech at the Copley Plaza, George Crane s boyish voice
answered through the tiny speaker. Got some time?
Gary stared at his watch, and wondered if the thing had mal-functioned. Jesus,
he d been at it for seventeen straight hours? If he didn t take a break soon,
he figured he might turn into a paintbrush. Meet you there in ten minutes,
George. Didn t much feel like working this afternoon anyway.
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Staff members, reporters, and a few of George s more generous
supporters crowded the small hospitality suite, the din of their cocktail
party chatter drowning out the latest InterNetwork news on the wall-mounted
narrowcast screen. When Gary en-tered, the noise level dropped
noticeably, but then resumed as partygoers decided it wasn t cool to gawk.
Two reporters began to thread their way toward him, but as a whole the crowd
feigned nonchalance.
A young staffer reached Gary before the reporters, and ush-ered him to an
adjoining suite, where
Senator Crane got up and embraced him warmly.
You documenting? George asked. More and more private citizens were leaving
their AudioVids recording around-the-clock; the scrambled transceiver signals
accumulated in the archives of the central computers as a deterrent to (and
evidence of) violent crimes. But few politicians were predisposed to cast
their private conversations upon these public waters like digital subpoena
bait.
Well-aware of George s inhibitions when in document mode, Gary
decided he preferred the unguarded version of his nephew. Not anymore, he
said, deactivating his wristband recorder. Just don t make me into an
accessory after the fact; but feel free to blaspheme, curse, and gossip all
you like.
Fair enough. George grinned. Well goddammit, Uncle Gary, I guess those
shit-for-brains savages are gonna own the White House the next coupla decades.
Obviously Americans don t have the patience to fight crime with restraint.
You voted for Swift and Sure too, didn t you? Gary asked, knowing full well
that his nephew had.
Gary s own feelings about the popular bill were similarly mixed: It seemed a
bar-baric solution to an intolerable problem. Most criminologists agreed
that Swift and Sure would save two innocent lives for every (presumably
guilty) person executed, but nearly every liberal and right-wing libertarian
believed there had to be a better way. To this odd alliance, raw numbers did
not equal moral imperative.
But to the ever-widening constituency of crime victims and their families, any
such argument seemed absurd.
Rather than executing violent criminals, Gary favored freez-ing them,
a solution Republicans denounced as a waste of money. Even most Democratic
legislators supported spending any requi-site funds on cryonics for the
law-abiding poor instead.
Held my nose with one hand and raised the other! George interrupted Gary s
thoughts. My vote didn t make a mosquito turd s difference anyway, so
I did the prudent thing, at least according to sixty-four percent of
my voters. Plus I figure the lives of twenty thousand convicted violent
criminals a year are less valuable than forty thousand potential victims. Not
to mention the two million lives a year a
rational cryonics policy might save. Which I can hardly push for if I m not in
office.
Where have I heard that rationalization before?
Well, damn me to hell! I m not turning into another Herbie Rainwater, am I?
Fact is, Gary, I like the job, compromises and all. And we did get a
watered-down assisted-suicide bill through.
True enough, Gary teased, sarcasm dripping from his words like maple syrup
off a short stack, a very valuable con-cession indeed to those wishing to
legally end their lives after the standard six-month approval process for a
permit, while cancer eats their brains or unbearable pain racks their bodies.
George grimaced, then smiled. Touché!
Gary s face turned serious. All of a sudden he could see Katie, Alice, even
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