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that no one would see what he was doing, he composed a simple message, a
suggestion, a nudge: "Why don't you add Michael to your collection?" It
probably wasn't necessary, for it was just the sort of thing the recipient
would think of on her own. But all he had to do was touch a single key, and it
was on its way to just the right corner of the computer's memory. The
artificially intelligent software system would never notice, for he was using
the purest of machine code to steer his message past all the sentinels he knew
were there to enforce the
"nocontact" rule. And no one could know them better. He smiled as he touched
the key.
CHAPTER 12.
The dock was empty. Ingrid and Michael had vanished, as had Lisa after her
splashdown in the lake. There was no sign of the breakfast table and chairs,
nor of the lawn chairs, and Bertha was gone, tending to whatever headaches a
virus might cause a computer. Rose, uncomfortable now that she was alone with
her late husband, patted the flannel of his shirt and eased herself out of the
circle of his arms. Once free, she turned to face him. "Oh, Al," she said.
"Bertie Al. It's going to take a little while to ..."
His arms had all the strength and solidity that they had ever had. But
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hadn't he thrown out that shirt, thread-bare and paint-splotched, thirty years
ago? Now it looked like new. He smelled the way she remembered too. But how
could he find Old Spice in here?
But he was late. Dead. Wormfood and grinning skull and moldering Sunday suit.
She had watched--and tears sprang to her eyes all over again at the memory of
how she had wept at the time--had watched his coffin sink into the ground and
the belts and rollers be removed and the dirt cover up the polished wood. She
had thrown two shovelsful herself. He was a ghost. He had to be. And so was
she, even if her original still walked and talked and lived alone. "Is it like
this all the time?"
"What do you mean?"
"Does Marvin always drag out everyone the new arrival ever knew?"
"There usually isn't anyone. Or there's just one, a husband or a wife.
Perhaps a friend or two. Of course, the more people get copied, the more
likely it will be to ... ."
"Then I'm just lucky, huh? A husband. An old boyfriend and the bitch who came
between us."
"You're not unique. The boyfriend got you and the same bitch and a wife.."
"But ... I feel like everything's revolving around me. Me!"
"Rosa." He held both hands toward her, as open and alive as his face, fingers
spread. "Everything revolved around you when I was alive. When we were
younger. I never dreamed I could be as lonely as I was my first few months
here. I prayed I'd see you again. But now it seems so soon.
Too soon."
"I was already old enough when you were copied. I couldn't possibly have lived
much longer."
"I know, but ..." A gesture indicated the lake, the island's shore and forest,
and the cottage. "We have the place to ourselves."
"Do you remember? I told you about it, and one summer we rented a place on the
shore, over there." She pointed. "The cottage was still here--we saw it from
the water--but it was booked that week. Two families, it looked like, and we
thought they had far too many kids, though most of them had to be guests."
Albert Pillock nodded. "You wanted to show me your room. But I never got
inside."
"We can fix that now, can't we? That's where I slept last night." She took his
hand in hers and tugged him toward the steps to the porch.
"With M ... ?" His voice trailed off. "Separate beds, dear. Separate rooms."
A few moments later, she was standing in the middle of the room that had been
hers the summer she met Michael Durgov. Like the rest of the cottage, its
walls were varnished wood. Exposed, age-darkened beams hovered just above the
upper level of a twodecker bunk. Only the bottom mattress was covered by
sheets and a thin blanket. The upper mattress, cocked askew on the frame, was
stained by rainwater or children's urine, blackened by mildew, leaking
stuffing from one small rip. The two dressers were cracked and weathered,
apparent rejects from the owner's barn. "It felt like heaven, then," said
Rose. "Do you think it still
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exists, out there?"
"We could always check. There are records, and data bases full of satellite
photos." Albert put one hand on her shoulder and tugged her gently toward him,
but she stiffened. She had accepted his embrace readily enough--eagerly at
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first, then more tensely, nervously--outdoors, where there were witnesses. She
had been so relieved to see him again. But here, indoors, in a bedroom, she
felt both relieved and reluctant. He had been her husband. The last time he
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