He continued along, and soon was approaching the convenience store. It was a 7-Eleven, one of countless such stores, all part of a vast chain. Don was old enough to remember when they really had been open only from 7:00 a.m. to 11:00 p.m., instead of twenty-four hours a day. Doubtless, if they had it to do over, the chain’s management would have picked a less-restrictive name. But if a giant company couldn’t have foreseen what the future held, or that the time they had to deal with would hugely expand, how could he? But, even so, they had changed; they’d adapted. And, he thought, as he went through the sliding glass doors, coming out of the darkness into the light, maybe he could, too.
–-- Chapter 40 --–
WHEN DON GOT back home, Sarah was in the en suite bathroom, getting ready for bed. He joined her in there, coming up behind her as she stood at the sink, and oh-so-gently embracing her from behind.
“Hi,” she said.
“All right,” he replied. “I’ll do it.”
“Do what?”
“Look after the Dracon children.”
Don’s grip was loose enough that Sarah managed to gingerly rotate to face him. “Really?”
“Why not?”
“You can’t do it just out of a sense of obligation, you know. Are you sure you want to do this?”
“How can I be sure about anything? I’m going to live to be maybe a hundred and sixty. That’s terra incognita for the whole human race. I know as much about what that’s going to be like as—as I know about what it’s like to be a bat. But I’ve got to do something, and, as your grandson said to me this evening, it should be something important.”
“Percy said that?”
Don nodded, and Sarah made an impressed face.
“Still,” she said, “you have to really want this. Every child has the right to be wanted.”
“I know. And I do want to do it.”
“Yeah?”
He smiled. “Sure. Besides, at least I won’t have to worry about these kids ending up with my nose.”
DON SUSPECTED THEIR neighbors couldn’t be surprised any further by the happenings at his house, but he wondered if any of them took note of the very-expensive-looking rental car pulling into the driveway. If they did, perhaps they zoomed in on Cody McGavin as he got out, and did a face-scanning search to identify him, doubtless the richest man ever to set foot on Betty Ann Drive.
Don opened the front door and watched through the screen as McGavin walked toward him, the mesh dividing him into pixels. “Hello, Don,” McGavin said, in his Boston accent. “Great to see you.”
“Hello,” Don replied, swinging the screen door open. “Won’t you come in?” He took McGavin’s heavy winter coat and watched him remove his fancy shoes, then ushered him up the stairs to the living room.
Sarah was seated on the couch. Don saw a look flit over McGavin’s face, as if he were startled by how much she’d aged since he’d last seen her. “Hi, Sarah,” he said.
“Hello, Mr. McGavin.”
Gunter entered from the kitchen. “Ah,” McGavin said, “I see you got the Mozo we sent over.”
Sarah nodded. “We call him Gunter.”
McGavin’s eyebrows went up. “After the robot on Lost in Space?”
Don was startled. “That’s right.”
“Gunter,” said Sarah, her voice quavering as usual, “I’d like you to meet Cody McGavin. He runs the company that made you.”
Don sat down next to Sarah and watched with interest: the creation meeting the creator. “Hello, Mr. McGavin,” Gunter said, extending a blue mechanical hand. “It’s a true pleasure to meet you.”
“And you,” said McGavin, shaking the hand. “I hope you’ve been working hard at helping Dr. Halifax.”
“He’s been a godsend,” said Sarah. “Haven’t you, Gunter?”
“I’ve tried,” the Mozo said to McGavin. “I was with her when she made the breakthrough. I’m very proud.”
“That’s my boy!” said McGavin. He turned to the Halifaxes. “Wonderful machines, aren’t they?”
“Oh, yes,” said Sarah. “Please, have a seat.”
McGavin moved over to the La-Z-Boy. “Nice place you’ve got here,” he said, as he settled in.
Don thought about that. McGavin was known for his philanthropy. Don had seen pictures of him visiting hovels in the third world, and it humbled him to think that this place was closer in cost to one of those than it was to McGavin’s famed mansion in Cambridge. The walls here had scuffs, the plaster was chipped, the carpet was worn and stained. The couch, with its hulking lines, had perhaps been stylish late in the last century, but looked hopelessly dated now, and its wine-colored upholstery was wearing thin in a lot of places.
“All right,” Sarah said at last, echoing what McGavin had said to them all those months ago, “let’s talk turkey. As I said on the phone, I’ve succeeded in decrypting the Dracon message. Once I tell you what it says, I’m hoping you’ll agree with me that we should not make the reply public.”
McGavin leaned forward, a hand on his receding chin. “I’m listening. What’s it say?”
“The aliens have sent us the Dracon genome—”
“Really?”
“Yes, and instructions on how to produce an artificial womb to bring a couple of Dracon children to term here on Earth, as well as plans for an incubator.”
“Jesus,” said McGavin softly.
“Wonderful, isn’t it?” said Sarah.
“It’s…amazing. Will they be able to live here?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Wow.”
“But there’s a snag,” said Sarah. “The aliens want me to be, essentially, the foster parent. But I’m too old.”
“Well,” McGavin began, “I’m sure an appropriate lab could be set up—”
“No,” said Sarah, firmly. “No labs, no institutions. These are people, not specimens. It’ll happen in a home. As I said, I can’t do it myself, but I do get to choose who does it in my place.”
McGavin’s voice was gentle, and he looked sideways at Sarah as he spoke. “I’m not quite sure that’s your prerogative.”
“Oh, yes it is. Because, you see, the message with the genome was addressed to me.”
“You said that before. But I still don’t know what you mean.”
“The decryption key. It’s…personal to me. And I’m not going to tell you what it is.”
“It’s not your sequence of survey answers, or any subset of that sequence,” said McGavin. “We already tried that. What else could the aliens possibly know about you?”
“With all due respect, I decline to answer.”
McGavin drew his eyebrows together but said nothing.
“Now,” continued Sarah, “as I say, I can’t personally do this. But I can pass on the genome to whomever I wish—by handing over the decryption key.”
“I might be willing…” began McGavin.
“Actually,” said Sarah, “I see you more in the rich-uncle role. Someone has to bankroll the building of the artificial womb, the synthesizing of the DNA, and so on.”
McGavin shifted in the chair.
“Besides, you have a full-time job,” said Don. “Hell, you’ve got multiple full-time jobs: president of your company, running your charitable foundation, all the public speaking you do…”
The rich man nodded. “True. But if not me, then who?”
Don cleared his throat. “Me.”
“You? But weren’t you a—what was it?—a DJ, or something?”
“I was a recording-engineer/producer,” Don said. “But that was my first career. It’s time I started to embark on my second.”
“With all due respect,” McGavin said, “surely there should be a search committee.”
“I’m the search committee,” Sarah said. “And I’ve made my choice.”
“Seriously, Sarah, there should be a formal selection procedure,” McGavin said.
“There already has been: the Dracon questionnaire. Using that, they chos
e me, and I choose Don. But we need your help.”
McGavin did not look happy. “I’m a businessperson,” he said, spreading his arms. “What’s in it for me?”
Don glanced at Sarah, and he saw her wrinkles contort. McGavin’s comment made clear that his survey responses couldn’t possibly be close to Sarah’s—or to Don’s. But she had an answer ready for him. “You’ll reap any biotech benefits that come from this—not just from studying alien DNA, but from the designs for the womb and the incubator, the formulas for the alien foodstuffs, and so on.”
McGavin frowned. “I’m used to fully controlling those operations I’m involved with,” he said. “Will you sell me the decryption key? You can name your price…”
But Sarah shook her head. “We’ve already determined that the one thing I might want your money can’t buy.”
McGavin was quiet for a time, considering this, then: “You’re talking about a lot of technology. I mean, sure, DNA synthesis is easy; there are commercial labs that can spit out any sequences we order up. But fabricating the artificial womb, and so forth—that may take a while.”
“That’s all right,” Don said. “I need time to prepare, anyway.”
“How?” said McGavin. “How would you prepare for something like this?”
Don shrugged. At this stage, he knew, he was just guessing. “I suppose I’ll look at those models we do have: cross-fostering of chimpanzee babies into human homes, feral children, and so on. None of that is exactly comparable, but it’ll give me a place to start. And…”
“Yes?”
“Well, I made this list years ago: twenty things I want to do before I die. One of them was visit the Dalai Lama. Not that that’s likely, but I figure I should prepare…” He paused, surprised to hear himself using such an unfamiliar word. “…spiritually for something like this.”
“Well, that’s easy enough to arrange,” said McGavin.
“You…you know the Dalai Lama?”
McGavin smiled. “You’ve heard that old saw about six degrees of separation? The moment you met me, your score went to two degrees for just about every famous person. We’ll set it up.”
“Wow. Um, thanks. I just, you know, want to do a good job at…”
“At raising aliens,” McGavin said, shaking his head, as if the idea were still sinking in.
Don tried to make it sound less portentous. “Think of it as Dr. Spock meets Mr. Spock.”
McGavin looked at him blankly; he’d doubtless heard of the Vulcan, but the pediatrician’s heyday had been well before his time.
“So,” said Sarah, “will you help us?”
McGavin didn’t look happy. “I really wish you’d let me control this; no offense, but I’ve got a lot more experience managing major undertakings.”
“Sorry,” said Sarah. “It’s got to be this way. Are you with us?”
McGavin frowned, considering. “All right,” he said, looking it Sarah, then back at Don. “I’m in.”
–-- Chapter 41 --–
A FEW DAYS later, Don went up to the study, looking for Sarah, but she wasn’t there. He continued down the corridor and peeked into the dark bedroom, and dimly made her out, lying on the bed.
“Sarah…” he said softly. It was a tough judgment call: too quiet and she wouldn’t hear him regardless of whether she was awake, and too loud and he’d awaken her if she was sleeping.
Sometimes, though, you do get the right balance. “Hi, sweetheart,” she said. But her voice was weak, low.
He moved quickly to the side of the bed and crouched down. “Are you okay?”
She took a few seconds to reply, his pounding pulse counting each one off. “I’m…I’m not sure.”
Don looked back over his shoulder. “Gunter!” he called. He could hear the Mozo’s footsteps coming up the stairs with metronome precision. He turned back to Sarah. “What’s wrong?”
“I feel…dizzy,” she said. “Weak…”
Don swung to look at Gunter’s solicitous blue face, which was now looming over him. “How is she?”
“Her temperature is 38.1,” said Gunter, “and her pulse is 84 and somewhat erratic.”
Don took her thin hand in his. “My God…” he said. “We should get you to the hospital.”
“No,” said Sarah. “No, it’s not necessary.”
“Yes, it is,” said Don.
Her voice grew a little firmer. “What do you say, Gunter?”
“You’re not in immediate danger,” the robot said. “But you would be wise to see your physician tomorrow.”
She nodded, almost imperceptibly.
“Is there anything I can do for you right now?” Don asked.
“No,” said Sarah. She paused, and he was about to say something else, when she added, “But…”
“Yes?”
“Sit with me a bit, dear.”
“Of course.” But before he could do anything, Gunter was off like a shot. Moments later, he returned carrying the wheeled stenographer’s chair Sarah used at her workstation in the study. The Mozo placed it next to the bed, and Don sat on it.
“Thank you,” said Sarah, to the robot.
The Mozo nodded, his mouth looking like a flatlining EKG.
IN THE MORNING, Sarah sat on the couch in the living room, writing on her datacom with a stylus, drafting her reply to the aliens; Cody McGavin had promised to arrange for it to be sent.
So the Dracons would know her message was from their intended recipient, she would ultimately encrypt it using the same key that had decrypted the Dracons’ message to her. For now, she was using the English-like notation system she’d developed; later, she’d have a computer program translate the message into Dracon ideograms:
!![Sender’s] [Lifespan]
[Recipient’s] [Lifespan]&
[Sender’s] [Lifespan] ≈ [End]
As she jotted down the pseudocode, a more colloquial version ran through her head: I’ve figured out that my lifespan is much shorter than yours. Your life goes on and on, but mine is near its end.
She would go on to tell the Dracons that although she couldn’t personally do what they’d asked, she’d found a worthy successor, and that they should look forward to receiving reports from their representatives here.
She looked at the words and symbols she’d written so far; the datacom had converted her shaky handwriting into crisp, clean text.
But mine is near its end…
Almost ninety years of life, sixty years of marriage. Who could say it was too little? And yet…
And yet.
A thought came to her, from so many years ago, from her first date with Don, when they’d gone to see that Star Trek film—the one with the whales; he’d know which number it was. Funny how she could remember things from long ago, but had trouble with more-recent stuff; she vividly recalled how the film began, with a screen proclaiming:
The cast and crew of Star Trek wish to dedicate this film to the men and women of the spaceship Challenger whose courageous spirit shall live to the 23rd century and beyond…
Sarah also remembered the other Shuttle disaster, the one in 2003, when Columbia had disintegrated on reentry.
She’d been devastated both times, and although it was ridiculous to try to weigh one tragedy against the other, she remembered what she’d said to Don after the second one: she’d rather have been part of Columbia’s crew than have been aboard Challenger, for the people aboard Columbia died at the end of their mission, on the way home—on the voyage home. They’d lived long enough to see their lifelong dream realized. They’d gone into orbit, had floated in microgravity, and had looked back down on the wonderful, chaotic, hypnotic blue vista of the Earth. But the Challenger astronauts had died within minutes of lifting off, without ever making it into space.
If you have to die, better to die after achieving your goals rather than before. She had lived long enough to see aliens detected, to send a response, and to receive a reply, to engage in a dialogue, ho
wever brief. So this was now after. Even if there was a lot that she would have liked to have been part of yet to come, this was still after. This was after so very much.
She lifted her stylus to continue writing, and, as she did so, a teardrop fell onto the datacom’s display, magnifying the text beneath.
HOW DOES ONE die in the age of miracle and wonder? Incipient strokes and heart attacks are easily detected and prevented. Cancers are simple to cure, as are Alzheimer’s and pneumonia. Accidents still happen, but when you have a Mozo to look after you, those are rare.
But, still, at some point, the body does wear out. The heart grows weak, the nervous system falters, catabolism far outpaces anabolism. It’s not as dramatic as an aneurysm, not as painful as a coronary, not as protracted as a cancer. There’s just a slow fade to black.
And that’s what had been happening, step by tiny step, to Sarah Halifax, until—
“I don’t feel very well,” she said one morning, her voice weak.
Don was at her side in an instant. She’d been sitting on the couch in the living room, Gunter having carried her in a chair downstairs about an hour earlier. The robot came over almost as quickly, scanning her vital signs with his built-in sensors.
“What is it?” Don asked.
Sarah managed a weak smile. “It’s old age,” she said. She paused and breathed in and out a few times. Don took her hand, and looked up at Gunter.
“I will summon Dr. Bonhoff,” the robot said, his voice sounding sad. At the very end of life, house calls had come back into fashion; there was no need to tie up a hospital bed for someone who had no hope of getting better.
Don squeezed her hand gently. “Remember what we agreed,” she said, her voice low but firm. “No heroic measures. No pointless prolonging of life.”
“SHE’S NOT GOING to last the night,” said Dr. Tanya Bonhoff, after ministering to Sarah for several hours. Bonhoff was a broad-shouldered white woman of about forty, with close-cropped blond hair. Don and she had withdrawn from the bedroom, and now were standing in the study, the computer monitor blank.
He felt his stomach clenching. Sarah had been promised another six or eight decades, but now…