Kale seemed relieved. “A hospice then,” he said, breathing through his mouth.
“I’ve thought about that. I’d rather die here, at home, surrounded by my’ meets.”
“Uh-huh,” Kale said, absentmindedly looking at the ceiling of the shed where they’d jury-rigged fire sprinklers.
Samson noticed and said, “Not to worry. I won’t burn down the shed. Hubert will keep you informed of my condition. When the time comes, you can carry my cot out to the garden. Then everyone can sit around me and toast marshmallows.”
Kale was shocked. “Don’t be hurtful,” he said.
“What hurtful? To me it’s a comforting image.”
“In that case,” Kale sniffed, “I’ll see to the marshmallows myself.” He took a last look around. “Are you going to eat your breakfast? Is there anything else I should send up?”
“I can’t think of a thing,” Samson said, willing him on his way. The sooner Kale retreated to his office on the third floor the better. Kale, bless his frugal heart, was such a lightweight, such a marshmallow. He reminded Samson of the maître d’ at Greenalls all those years ago who refused him a table. Samson was there with his seared friend Renee, who giggled in the man’s face and said it was fine with her. She walked to the center of the foyer and announced, Right here—right now.
“And she weighed 150 kilos at the time,” Samson said with awe.
“You don’t say,” Kale said, unsure of where the conversation had drifted.
“Yes, and all of it in fat! What a bonfire she would have made. Needless to say, we got the table.”
“I see,” Kale said. “Well, I’ll be going now. Call if you need anything.” Kale withdrew from the shed, but didn’t leave the roof at once. He uncoiled the garden hose and gave his precious vegetables a good gray-water soak. The vegetables and soybimi were mostly in shade at this hour; the sun was blocked by the giant gigatowers that dominated the skyline. When Kale finished, he coiled the hose next to Samson’s shed so that it would be handy—just in case.
Two down, one to go, Samson rested his eyes and drifted down a lazy river until he heard the clang of the roof door. The screen door to his shed squeaked open, and April came in. She sat next to him on the cot and placed her cool hand on his forehead. But the seared always ran hotter than normal people, and she couldn’t tell if he had a fever.
Samson reached up and took her hand and pressed it against his cheek. “April Kodiak,” he said, “you are my favorite person in the whole solar system.”
She smiled and squeezed his twig-like fingers. “I mean it,” he continued. “I’ve always had a thing for you.”
April brushed her gray hair from her face. “I have to admit, Sam, I’ve always had a thing for you too.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, then she said, “That almost sounded like a good-bye.”
Samson chuckled. “It was, dear. I won’t last out the week.”
“Oh, Sam, are you sure?” she said. “A week? How do you know? What does the autodoc say? Oh, Sam.” Tears began to slide down her cheeks. “Let me just go and find someone to mind the shop, and then I’ll come back up and stay with you.”
She started to get up, but he held on to her hand. “No, you won’t,” he said. “I insist you don’t. I don’t want company.”
“Nonsense. We’ll take shifts. From now on, one of us will be with you every moment. There’s no reason for you to go through this alone. We’re family after all.” April pulled the elephant footstool closer. “And the first thing we’re going to do is get some of this breakfast down you before it’s completely cold.”
Samson had a sinking feeling. April was capable of derailing his plans with her kindness, and he was powerless before her. Nevertheless, he closed his eyes and tried the same trick he’d used on Kitty. But though he snored, she remained.
“House,” she whispered, “I want to create a vigil schedule. Draw me up a flowchart of all Kodiak housemeets’ free time over the next week—no, I mean month—year. House?” The houseputer didn’t respond. “Hubert, are you here?”
“I’m on the potting bench,” Hubert said, speaking through the ancient valet belt Samson still used. It lay on the bench next to his special brushes and lotions.
“That old houseputer is getting worse every day,” April said. “Can you access it for me?”
“I’d be happy to,” Hubert said, and in a moment he continued. “The house says the Nanojiffy is requesting your immediate attention.”
“What’s wrong?”
“There’s something wrong with the door, or the frisker in the door—or something having to do with the door. Customers are being inconvenienced—or assaulted.”
“I should have never let that man buy that couch,” she said. “Let me speak directly to the Nanojiffy.”
After a moment Hubert said, “I’m sorry. I can’t get through.”
“Oh, hell!” April said and rose to go.
Samson opened his eyes and said, “Draw up your schedule, dear, but have it start tomorrow. I insist. Today I need my privacy. I want to—to put my thoughts in order. Alone.”
“Eat your breakfast, you stubborn old man,” she said and left the shed. She stood outside the door and spoke through the screen. “We’ll start tonight. We’re all going to be up here to watch the canopy ceremony. It’ll be the perfect time to break the news to everyone.”
“Fine, agreed, tonight,” said Samson, “and not a moment sooner.” When she had left he said, “That was close. I was a goner. Lucky for me the houseputer chose to act up just then.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it,” said Hubert. “You told me to arrange a diversion.”
“I told you to arrange a diversion?”
“Yes, Sam, yesterday. You predicted that April would interfere with your plans and that I should engineer a little problem for her in the shop.”
“No kidding, I said that? I must have been having a lucid interval.”
Samson was tired. All this personal interaction had taken its toll. He wasn’t even out of the shed yet, and already he needed a nap. But there was no time. So he grunted and swung his legs to the floor. “I don’t suppose I predicted anybody else coming up to pester me?” He paused to muster his strength. Bouncing a little to gain momentum, he pushed himself to his feet and leaned against the potting bench until his head cleared. “By the way, Henry, what time is it?”
“Ten oh five.”
“Have I told you what I should wear today?”
“Yes, it’s on top of the trunk.”
On the packing trunk lay a tiny, vacuum-packed cube labeled “Sam.” When he pulled the string, the tough, brown etherwrap melted away, and the contents decompressed. Samson held up the newly revealed clothing, a long-sleeved, blue jumpsuit with attached foot treads. “I don’t understand. This is the same as I wear every day. I was thinking of wearing something special today. Trousers, a shirt, something from the old days.”
“Yes, including a necktie,” said Hubert, “but you decided it would be impractical.”
Samson was suspicious. He rarely factored practicality into his plans, especially when planning something so grand as today. He wondered if his little chum was perhaps taking advantage of him. It was too late to argue, though, and he retrieved his pumice wands and mastic lotion from the potting bench and began a quick morning exfoliation. He sat on a stool in the middle of the room, away from anything flammable, and tugged at his nightshirt. It fell away from him in ragged strips; it had been thoroughly cooked in places where he had sweated. All of the house’s everyday clothes came from the Nanojiffy, but his own were of a special fireproof fabric capable of wicking away his sweat. It could get hot, though, especially on muggy nights. Sometimes he thought he could steam rice in his armpits.