Paul kept his hands folded neatly on his lap. He glanced down at his son beside him. Jonathan, four years old, imitated Paul, his small face set in a precious mask of seriousness. His legs dangled from the edge of the plastic chair. On the other side of Jonathan, Kay sat less formally, as if the bulk of her pregnancy would permit no straight back, no properness of posture, no dignity of occasion other than its own blatant claim on attention. Kay was proud, but tired. Paul had already decided that there probably would be no more children. Kay was small, delicate, too important to him to risk. He made a mental note to discuss it with her later, probably after this one was born.
The room was too cold. Paul wondered if he were being too critical; he had designed this building and somehow it failed to meet his approval. The decor was stark. Plastic furniture, off-white and pale blue walls, darker blue carpet that absorbed sound. No one else was present. The last people had left twenty minutes ago. The fragile sounds of sobbing from one of them had not entirely been snatched away before Paul heard them. He hoped none of his family would weep.
Across from where they sat the double doors swung inward and Paul's heart struck hard once, twice, then calmed to normal as his father entered.
Eric Dover was a large, robust man with thick auburn hair that was going white at the sides and a confident smile Paul could never remember being absent. At fifty-two the man was in better shape than anyone else Paul knew, including himself. He walked with a long stride, arms slightly akimbo as if he were constantly ready to embrace. When he saw Paul his small blue eyes danced and he grinned.
He wore jogging pants and a T-shirt. He looked supremely happy.
For a widower, Paul thought grimly, and stood.
Paul extended a hand. His father took it briefly, puzzled, then laughed and pulled Paul into a hug. Paul endured in what he hoped was dignity until Eric let him go with a laugh.
Kay had gotten to her feet and eagerly accepted a less hearty hug from her father-in-law. Paul saw her eyes glistening and hoped she would not start crying.
Jonathan stood looking up at the big man he called "Gra'pa" with a grim face.
"Well, now," Eric said, regarding his grandson. "Why the long face? You keep that up you'll be just like your dad! You're too young to be serious all the time." He squatted down so he was eye level with the boy. "Do I get a hug from you?"
Jonathan stepped forward and reverently wrapped his small arms around Eric's neck. The solemnity the child gave to the act nearly erased the smile from Eric's face. Paul watched the tiny ritual with a sense of pride in his son that mitigated some of the absurdity Eric brought to the occasion. For an instant Eric's face changed. Paul thought he saw a tear form, the mouth curve down slightly, and perhaps a moment of regret suffused the man's entire presence. Paul blinked, startled, and then Eric was hugging Jonathan and lifting him off the floor.
"God, you're getting big!"
The illusion vanished and Paul was left with an aftertaste of something exotic. His father almost--almost--took something seriously.
"I appreciate you coming," Eric said, setting Jonathan down. "I wouldn't want to do this without seeing you all one last time."
"You'll see us again," Kay said.
"Sure, but not like this. Hell, you'll both be my age when I wake up."
"Dad--"
Eric shook his head. "Don't. We've already discussed it."
Paul felt his mouth tighten. "But you're not even sick," he blurted doggedly.
Eric's eyebrows went up. "I'm sick of this age, son. The world is dreary."
"Who says it'll be any better in thirty years?"
Eric shrugged. "Maybe it won't. But it'll be different." He shook his head. "I've made my decision."
Paul glanced at Kay, then at Jonathan. No, this was not the time to have it out. Not in front of Jonathan, not here in the waiting room of the cryotorium, not when everything was about to happen, not when Eric had set his sights on what he wanted--
It was never a good time to have it out. What would be the point in any case? Eric always won.
Paul shrugged. "There's time later."
Eric nodded, but seemed uncertain for a moment. Paul studied the narrowing of eyes, the slight downward jerk of the brow, the hesitant set of the mouth--only a moment, then it was gone. Eric only gave him such moments to think about and wonder if his father were in fact human. Doubt was something Eric did not maintain for long.
"We can talk about it in thirty years," he said and laughed.
"Why thirty years?" Kay asked.
"Why not?" Eric answered. "Actually, that's what they recommended. For some reason thirty is a break point. After that it goes up to fifty, then to a hundred, I didn't understand it. Twenty didn't seem long enough..." He laughed again. "That left thirty."
Paul looked toward the windows. Through the vertical blinds he saw the pleasant parkland thick with evergreens that surrounded the cryotorium. It had rained earlier and the green seemed aglow, a latent vitality just on the surface of everything, unspoiled by choices. Paul thought of Jonathan that way--he had not made any mistakes yet, taken no wrong turns, everything good was still implicit in the child, frozen at a perfect moment. He wished he could keep it this way. Paul envied his son.
"Well," Eric said, "you've got the house for the next thirty years. If you're in doubt about anything, just check the file labeled 'Disposition' or ask my lawyer."
He nodded, looked back at his father, and said, "You can depend on me."
Eric patted Paul's shoulder. "I know."
And for another instant they locked eyes. Paul sensed the importance of the moment, the latent vitality rising out of Eric like a sphere of light to envelope him, drawing him into the significance of however Eric saw the moment. I should say something, Paul thought, and a long list of things scrolled through his mind that he wanted to say to his father. "I love you" was somewhere in the middle, and before he got to that particular line the bubble dissipated, the instant ended, and Eric smiled grimly and looked away.
Then he was hugging Kay and roughing Jonathan's hair, laughing once more.
"See you in thirty years," he said loudly and walked away.
Paul watched him depart and felt his lips part, his tongue moving in the silent shaping of final words, unvoiced. Eric was through the doors; Paul felt his body jerk, as if a line had been attached to him and suddenly yanked free, and he took a single step forward.
"Let's go home," Kay said.
)
