Zelazny, Roger - Novel 05 Read Free Page A

evenings,
sometimes both. I told her where I was from, and how, omitting only what I had
done there and the exact nature of my passing. I did not realize that I was
falling in love until long after we had become lovers. I did not discover the
fact until the day I determined to reach a decision on Paul's second suggestion
and I realized how much of a factor she had become in my thinking.
                   I rose, crossed the room to the window, drew
back the curtain, stared up through the night The embers in the grate still
glowed cherry and orange. The outer cold had passed through the walls and was
pressing now like a spiritual glacier toward our corner of the room.
                   "I must be leaving soon," I said.
                   "Where will you go?"
                   "I may not say.*
                   Silence. Then, "Will you be coming
back?"
                   I had no answer, though I wished I did.
                   "Would you like me to?"
                   Silence again. Then, "Yes."
                   "I will try to," I said.
                   Why was I going to take the Styler contract? I
had wanted to from the moment Paul had described the situation to me. A
high-level sinecure with the company and a big block of expensive stock were
but the surface returns on the thing. I had no illusion that my thawing, my
treatment, my recovery had been the result of an unsullied desire for my company
on the part of my descendants. The necessary techniques had been available for
several decades. It is not unpleasant to feel needed, however, no matter what
the reasons. My pleasure at their attentiveness was in no way vitiated by the
knowledge that I had something they wanted. If anything, it was enhanced. What
other hold had I on the day? I was more than just a curiosity. I had a value
that went beyond the emotions of the moment, and its realization could restore
to me some measure of mastery, could earn me another sort of appreciation. I
had been thinking about this, or something like it, earlier when I had drawn
rein above the nearest village at a place where the olive terraces rose to
scrub and bleakness, and stared down at the light and movement. Shortly, Julia
came up beside me. "What is it?" she had asked.
                   I was wondering at that moment what it would
have been like if I had awakened with no memories of my earlier existence.
Would it have made it easier or more difficult to find me some slot in life, to
be satisfied with it? Might I then be like the inhabitants of the village
below, bringing interest and something of pleasure to simple actions at their
ten thousandth repetition?
                   Standing beside a shallow, sheltered inlet on
a warm, bright afternoon, watching the reflected ripple of the water trace
trembling lines across her naked breasts as she stopped splashing and the smile
went out of her face and she said, "What is it?" I was thinking of
the seventeen men I had killed back when they had begun calling me "Angie
the Angel," as I had risen through the ranks to secure that earlier
existence. Paul had not known about all of the killings, of course. I was
surprised that he had known of as many as he did—eight, to be exact, the names
spoken with a measure of confidence I did not feel he could have faked. For my
part, I found it virtually inconceivable that the legal niceties and
organization-chart formalities had become something more than a facade, that in
fact there were few reliable professional killers to be had any more. So it
seemed that I had indeed brought something of value across the years with me. I
had for the most part personally eschewed such activities, however, once I had
secured my position at a higher level within the organization. Now, to be
offered a contract, in a sedate time of almost total cultural availability,
smoothly meshing gears, life