The car was equipped with enough computer power for a full memory of his trip here, as per the notes he had written, the notes he would write. Now, though, he would have to change its return destination.
Putting on the neuro-hookups, he fast-reversed the memory guidance record to a bifurcation point two days before he left 1999—to his last trip to the doctor's office near St. Agnes Hospital, for his physical.
This time, the Cord would miss the turn, and not miss the cinder-block retaining wall. He remembered all he could, then imagined the car through wall and total smashup, into the hospital parking lot—right in front of Emergency, where an old-fashioned man with a secret desire to see the future would finally get his wish.
Turning to his unconscious grandfather, he kissed the old man lightly atop his bloodied head.
"I love you, Grandpa."
He stood on the brake, revving the engine while in gear. At the same instant he flipped the Mobius generator's last switch, dropped his foot off the brake, and threw himself from the car, the circlets tearing free of his head.
Around him he felt the chill of death. He was every place and no place at all, every time and no time, and he was falling....
He landed heavily on his hip. Around him a thin mist dissipated as a breeze blew along the street. He propped himself up on his forearm, feeling old and very tired. Something had happened to his memory. His recall of the last several hours was as hazy as a dream or nightmare dissolving on waking.
"Grandpa?” A boy's voice said, coming toward him. The boy peered into his face with evident concern. “Grandpa, is that you? You don't look right. Are you okay?"
"Just tripped and fell down, is all,” Mike said, getting slowly to his feet. At last he began remembering something of the role he was supposed to play.
"Grandpa? Where's the gas can?"
For a moment Mike had no idea what the boy was talking about. The boy looked around.
"Oh, here it is,” the boy said, running to pick it up from the vacant lot, then coming back, still looking at Mike. “Here. Your yarmulke fell off too."
"I'm a bit discomboobalated from the fall, is all,” Mike said, trying painfully to smile and joke as he took the yarmulke with its Star of David from the boy's hand. “Thank you. Lead the way back to the car. I'll follow you."
The short walk returned Mike partway to his senses. His chest hurt. He realized that, here in 1939, without medications or surgical techniques yet to be invented, he would not live very long.
So be it. Until he died he would lead a very full life. Here, in this time when the future was beautiful and distant as Heaven, he would spend his remaining days remembering—and planning.
"Hey, Grandpa!” the boy called when he'd reached his grandfather's Cord automobile. “Gimme the keys."
"What?” Mike said. He looked quizzically at the kid as he took the gas can from the boy. The can was still close to half full. Pouring its remaining contents into the fuel tank, he hoped it would be enough to restart the car.
"You know,” the boy said. “Lemme drive."
"No, no,” Mike said, waving his hand in a light gesture of dismissal. He put the empty gas can in the trunk, then opened the doors to let them both in. He slipped the key into the ignition and looked at the smiling boy sitting on the other side of the front seat.
"You may just be driving this road, too, someday,” the old man said quietly. “Maybe sooner than you think."
After a time, the engine caught and they drove away.
Copyright (c) 2007 by Howard V. Hendrix
[Back to Table of Contents]
Short Story: HELEN'S LAST WILL by James C. Glass
In future legal proceedings, the first crucial question may be, “Who goes there?"
The lobby of Advanced Technologies was steel struts and white polymer panels reaching toward a high vaulted ceiling of clear glass. The receptionist and an armed guard sat in a glass-enclosed booth on an otherwise vast but empty floor of black marble. Both looked up as Blanche approached the booth.
"May I help you, madam?” asked the receptionist, a blond, pretty man in his twenties.
"I wish to see the body of my sister,” said Blanche. “She was interred here last Thursday."
The young man smiled, fingers poised over a keyboard. “Name?"
"Helen Charlston Winslow. Age eighty-four. I believe the arrangements were made by Arthur Winslow, her son. It was all quite sudden, and I wasn't notified."
"Are you a relative?"
"Her sister, Blanche Charlston Packard.” Blanche sniffed and slid her national identity card under a partially opened window in the booth. The man looked at it, then at something on his computer screen.
"Helen Winslow, yes. She was brought here directly from her home. Arthur Winslow attended her admission to verify identity."
Blanche managed a sob. “I talked to her personal physician, and he didn't even know she'd been ill. I'm wondering why he wasn't called in or at least notified when she died."
The man gave her a sympathetic smile. “We have a staff of twenty physicians, madam. Three attended your sister and pronounced her dead at twenty forty-five. Cause of death was a massive cerebral hemorrhage.” He turned back to his computer screen and studied it.
"Your sister had a long-term contract with us. Everything was done according to her specifications."
"Yes, of course. I knew she was an investor in your firm. When may I view her body?"
The young man's eyes wandered from hers. “Ah—that won't be possible. There are no viewings here. The clients are placed in sealed tanks. Decanting them for viewing would involve considerable expense. The tissue cannot be allowed to warm above liquid nitrogen temperature once it's quick-frozen."
Blanche's manner changed abruptly. “Save that for the believers, young man. I want to see my sister's remains, and I want to see them now."
The guard in the booth shifted his feet uneasily, and the receptionist forced a smile.
"I understand, Ms. Packard, I really do, but it isn't possible, and there are no exceptions. It's in the contract. The remains can be removed only for advanced medical treatment when there is a high probability for success, as determined by our physicians. There's so little to see, anyway. Your sister's contract allowed only her head to be preserved. The rest of her body has been designated for research purposes."
Blanche put a hand on the window, as if to ward off an evil spirit. “You decapitated my sister?” she asked softly.
"It's quite common, Ms. Packard. The expense for preserving the head is a fifth of that for the entire body. Over half our clients choose this option. The others have specific medical problems they wish to have solved when the technology is available in the future. It would seem your sister didn't have such a problem."
"Only a massive cerebral hemorrhage,” said Blanche. “All right, I want to speak to one or more of the physicians who attended my sister and find out what's going on here. This entire thing smells foul to me."
"If you leave your number, someone will call you and hopefully explain things better than I have."
Blanche gave him her card. “It had better be tonight, or we'll be talking about this in a court of law."
"I'll forward this card right away and tell them your concerns,” said the receptionist.
Blanche turned her back on him and marched away fuming, swinging her arms. She was dressed expensively in white pantsuit and black tie and looked important. She was a handsome woman, looking perhaps fifty, even forty, yet she had recently turned seventy-six. She pulled out her cell phone and spoke a number. Waited, one foot tapping the floor.
"Arthur Winslow, please,” she said, and waited again, then, “Arthur, this is Blanche. I'm here at Advanced Technologies, and I've just been told I can't see my sister because you've had her decapitated. Now what are you up to, you miserable little worm?"
She waited a moment, then punched the phone off in a fury.
Arthur had hung up on her.
&nbs
p; * * * *
"There's a conspiracy here, Randal, and I expect you to unravel it."
Randal Haug, Blanche's expensive attorney and longtime friend of her late husband Ralph, leaned over his expansive desk to study the document there and thumped it with a finger.
"Nothing,” he said. “Not one red cent. The last version I saw had you down for over two million in stocks and property alone. What happened between you and Helen?"
Blanche's fingers twisted together in her lap. “I don't know. We saw a lot of each other until a few years ago. I think it started when Fred died. Helen was a recluse for months after that, but Arthur was there to comfort her. Dear Arthur, her baby boy. Fred didn't leave him a dime; it all went to Helen. Even then, she designated a portion of the estate to me; we'd talked about establishing a foundation to support local performing arts. I know Arthur opposed that. I heard him say so. The man is a financier, an accountant. He exists solely in his left brain."
"You think Arthur has manipulated his mother into changing her will?"
"I do."
"For what purpose? The bulk of the estate was left to him in the older version of the will, and he's an independently wealthy man without it. You don't need the money. Ralph left you, what, twenty-five million? Fifty? I can't recall now."
Blanche's voice rose in pitch. “It's not the money, Randal. Not money for me, that is, but Helen and I had a foundation planned, and suddenly I'll have to do it alone while that son of hers puts all her money back into the company that has mutilated her for no reason. Cost, indeed! My sister would never have allowed her head to be removed and her body destroyed just to save a measly hundred thousand each year. They say it's in her contract, then tell me I can't see the thing to verify it. There's something sinister about this, Randal, and I want you to get to the bottom of it! I'm thinking of filing a wrongful death suit against both the company and Arthur Winslow. Murder would be harder to prove."
"You're not serious,” said Randal.
"I have inside sources. As of last Tuesday, Arthur owns twenty percent of Advanced Technologies. The buy he made Tuesday had to come from his inheritance; my sources can list the stocks he traded. We can link them to Helen's holdings. We have a motive, Randal. The method is harder to prove."
Randal seemed suddenly interested and drummed the fingers of his right hand on the desktop, then pointed at Blanche and said, “I can write that in a way to force a show cause hearing before a judge. But if I get one, will you accept the judgment? If it goes against you, will you drop all of this? Helen was also my friend, Blanche, and I think she'd be very unhappy with me for dragging her son into court. Arthur has always struck me as being smart and hard working. I don't think he'd do what you're suggesting here. He could just be making what he considers to be a wise investment with his inheritance. You have no physical evidence for anything else."
"You're not being supportive, Randal,” said Blanche softly. “You've been my lawyer for years, but that can end right now."
Randal didn't even flinch. “It will end right now if you don't answer my question. Will you accept any judgment of a show cause hearing? If not, then find yourself another lawyer."
Blanche glared at him. She did not like being pressured by hired help, but she needed the man. “If I'm convinced my sister wasn't murdered, I'll not press for anything beyond the judgment of a hearing,” she said.
"Good,” said Randal, then closed the file on his desk and gently hammered on it with a fist. “Let's go to court."
* * * *
The call came late at night when Blanche was preparing for bed. The kitchen help had left for the night, and Paula had retired to her basement bedroom after leaving a warm brandy and a cookie on the nightstand for her mistress. So when the telephone rang, Blanche picked it up quickly so Paula would not be awakened.
It was Arthur Winslow.
"I was served with a summons this afternoon. Wrongful death? Have you totally lost your mind?"
"It's only a hearing, Arthur,” said Blanche. “There are questions to be answered before I proceed with further litigation."
"For what? This is all about mom's will, isn't it? All the money you have, and you're greedy for more. That's why mom cut you out of it in the first place. You don't need more!"
"It isn't about money,” said Blanche. “My sister died under mysterious circumstances, and I want them explained."
"You're nuts! Paranoid! Do you know what this hearing can do to my business if it gets into the papers?"
"That's nonsense. I'm just trying to—"
"You've always been a greedy bitch. Mom told me so. You were always after her to finance your social butterfly events, even when Dad was alive. He went along with it. Well, I don't. You badgered mom for money when she was alive, and now you're doing it when she's dead. Finance your own social status, and leave us alone!"
The cell phone clicked in Blanche's ear.
"That's not fair,” she said, but Arthur was gone.
* * * *
A show cause hearing was held in the court of Judge James Maxwell on a Friday. A team of lawyers from the firm of Abercrombie, Nels and Faber represented both Advanced Technologies and Arthur Winslow. They requested a private hearing in judge's chambers. Randal Haug opposed the request, arguing that the public had a right to know about the operations of the company. Judge Maxwell compromised when Advanced Technologies rebutted by saying that in order to adequately defend themselves it might be necessary to reveal company proprietary information related to pending patents.
The hearing was held in court, but was closed to all but participants on that Friday. Arthur arrived in financier's uniform, his pudgy, soft body encased in a finely tailored woolen suit that made him indistinguishable from his lawyers. They sat behind one table, Blanche and Randal behind another, facing the bench. There was a bailiff, court reporter, and physicians who could be called as witnesses. They all arose when Judge Maxwell entered court in the matter of Packard vs. Winslow and Industrial Technologies re: the Wrongful Death of Helen Winslow.
Maxwell was in his fifties, respected by his peers, and known as a no-nonsense judge who got right to the point without theatrics. “This is a hearing, not a trial,” he told them. “I don't want to hear objections or attempts to withhold evidence. I do want to hear reasons why this issue should, or should not, go to trial, and I am confidant we can accomplish all of this today. Mister Haug, it's your serve."
Randal smiled and arose chuckling at the judge's reference to his devotion to tennis. His opposition sat glumly silent.
Haug outlined his case: the mysterious death, an unseen contract, the bizarre beheading and storage of a client with only a son's knowledge of what was happening, and that son a major investor in Advanced Technologies, Incorporated. He demanded proof that all had been done according to the wishes of Helen Charlston Winslow, that she had indeed been dead before decapitation, and that an autopsy be ordered to prove cerebral hemorrhage as the cause of death.
Arthur Winslow stared straight ahead and never made direct eye contact with Blanche. The spokesman for the legal team at his table, a wiry, little man named Richard Camus, described Arthur as a loving son whose mother had died in his arms, a devoted son who made sure her every wish was carried out by rushing her to a laboratory for preservation and hopeful rejuvenation in the future. Helen Winslow herself had had a long-term interest in their work, contributing considerable funds for the development of new technologies in the freezing and rejuvenation processes.
"Your Honor, we doubt that a loving son would allow his mother's body to be mutilated if he wanted her to be rejuvenated in the future,” said Randal Haug.
"The head was the relevant part of the body in question, and there was considerable cost savings in preservation,” rebutted Camus for the defense.
Haug snorted rudely. “The woman had a cerebral hemorrhage, we're told. It seems the rest of her body was fine, and you have disposed of that part of her when she could easily afford the cost. I do
n't accept that, and neither will a jury."
"It was all in her contract,” said Camus.
"Then let's see it,” returned Haug.
There was a long silence. Camus whispered to his colleagues, and Arthur leaned over to listen, frowning.
"As written, contracts with our clients include company confidential information on procedures, and the medical conditions they're applied to. Patents pending approval can be put at risk by public exposure, but the client approves each step of the procedure, and company-sensitive information must be included in the contract."
Judge Maxwell smiled and looked at Haug.
"Then let's go to trial so I can subpoena the contract and any other admissible documents I need for my case,” said Haug. “Your Honor, this is a possible felony case. I have the right to know if legal procedures were followed during and after the death of Helen Winslow, and if those procedures were indeed according to her will."
Judge Maxwell folded his hands in front of him and looked down at Richard Camus. “The contract is admissible, counselor. Your patents are applied for and protected under patent law. Why the resistance?"
"I've just explained that, Your Honor,” said Camus.
"I see. Well, let me explain something to you. I'm a simple man who likes simple solutions to problems. I've studied the briefs you gentlemen have submitted on behalf of your clients. The mystery is clear enough to justify further investigation at the least, and it seems to me we could learn a lot by having a look at that contract. We can learn even more by ordering the autopsy requested by Counselor Haug in his brief. Now, if I see nothing to substantiate a claim of wrongful death, there's no reason to move forward with a long and expensive trial. We could all be home in time for lunch, so to speak. Showing us the contract makes a lot of sense, counselor. What do you think?"
Analog SFF, March 2008 Page 18