Rollback

The train was crowded, but he managed to get a seat. And, as the train started up, he thought nothing about that. He was used to people offering him a seat; some few crumbs of goodness still existed, he supposed. But it came to him that although he was indeed eighty-eight, as of today, there were people who looked that old who really needed to sit down. He got up and motioned for an elderly woman wearing a sari to take his seat, and she rewarded him with a very grateful smile.

As it happened, he was in the first car. At Union, lots of people got off the subway, and Don maneuvered close to the front window, next to the driver’s cubicle, with its robot within. Some stretches of the tunnel were cylindrical, and they were illuminated by rings of light at intervals. The effect reminded him of an old TV series, The Time Tunnel, a show he’d enjoyed in the same way he’d enjoyed Lost in Space, for the nifty art direction, while cringing at the stupid stories.

After all, you can’t go back in time.

You can’t undo what’s done.

You can’t change the past.

You can only, to the best of your abilities, try to meet the future head-on.

The train rumbled on, through the darkness, taking him home.

Don came into the entryway and paused, looking down at the tiles, at where Sarah had once lain, fallen, waiting for him to return. He took the six stairs one at a time, trudging up into the living room.

Sarah was standing by the mantel, looking either at the holos of their grandchildren or at her trophy from Arecibo; with her back to him, it was impossible to tell which.

She turned around, smiled, and started walking toward him. Don’s arms opened automatically, and she stepped into them. He hugged her lightly, afraid of breaking her bones. Her arms against his back felt like sapling branches pushed by a gentle breeze. "Happy birthday again," she said.

He glanced past her, at the foot-high digital display on the wall monitor, and saw it change from 5:59 to 6:00. When they let go of each other, she started a slow walk toward the kitchen. Rather than hurry ahead, Don fell in behind her, taking one step for every two of hers.

"You sit down," Don said, when they’d finally made it into the kitchen. Although he knew he shouldn’t, he found Sarah’s slow, methodical movements frustrating to watch. And, besides, he ate three times as much food as she did these days; he should do the work. "Gunter," he said — loudly, but certainly not yelling; it wasn’t necessary to yell. The Mozo appeared almost at once. "You and I are going to make dinner," he said to the robot.

Sarah slowly lowered herself onto one of the three wooden chairs that encircled the little kitchen table. As Don and Gunter moved about the cramped space, getting down a pot and a frying pan and finding ingredients in the fridge, he felt her eyes upon him.

"What’s wrong?" she asked at last.

He hadn’t said anything, and he’d taken pains not to bang cookware or utensils together. But Sarah had known him for so long now, and even if the veneer on his body had changed his body language doubtlessly hadn’t. Whether it had been the way he’d been hanging his head, or simply the fact that he wasn’t speaking except to give Gunter the occasional perfunctory instruction that tipped her off, he couldn’t say. But he couldn’t hide his moods from her. Still, he tried to deny it, futile though he knew that would be. "Nothing."

"Did something go wrong downtown today?" she asked.

"No. I’m just tired, that’s all." He said it while bent over a chopping board, but stole a sideways glance at her, to gauge her reaction.

"Is there anything I can do?" she asked, her brow knitted in concern.

"No," said Don, and he allowed himself one more, final lie — just this one last time.

"I’ll be fine."

Chapter 36

Sarah woke with a start. Her heart was pounding probably more vigorously than was healthy at her age. She looked over at the digital clock. It was 3:02 a.m. Next to her lay Don, his breathing making a gentle sound with each exhale.

The idea that had roused her was so exciting she thought about waking him, but, no, she wouldn’t do that. After all, it was a long shot, and he’d been having so much trouble sleeping lately.

Her side of the bed was the one near the window. A million years ago, when they’d chosen who would sleep where, Don had said she should have that side so she could look out at the stars anytime she wished. It was an ordeal getting out of bed.

Her joints were stiff, and her back hurt, and her leg was still healing. But she managed it, pushing off her nightstand, forcing herself to her feet as much through an effort of will as through bodily strength.

She took small, shuffling steps toward the door, paused and steadied herself for a moment by holding on to the jamb, then continued out into the corridor and made her way to the study.