The convertible crawls along noisily, the Secret Service men on foot easily able to keep pace with the vehicle. Even in November, the Texas sun burns down; and during the frequent stops, the heat is almost unbearable. This dark suit feels like a blanket, trapping the muggy discomfort against my body, beads of sweat rolling down my back and ribcage. If only I could loosen this tie. But no. Instead, I take a deep breath, leaning forward slightly, my shoulder brushing my wife's arm. She is waving at the crowd lining the far side of the street.

The automobile stops, a security man moving close to my side of the vehicle. He appears tense, like the others--an alert tension--as he scans nearby spectators. The Secret Service advance reports suggest that some in the crowd may be hostile, even aggressive, but the people lining the street look friendly, their faces flushed with excitement. Waving, yelling.

There, a man holding up a child on his shoulder catches my eye. A little boy, wearing a tee shirt: SMU MUSTANGS. The little fellow waves tentatively, his apprehension tugging down at the corners of his mouth. I laugh, brushing back the hair from my forehead, and lean right, waving directly to the little boy. He nods and grins back, pounding his daddy's head with a tiny fist.

Again we edge forward.

The Governor, sitting in front of me, turns and makes a comment about the heat. I nod. He turns back, facing forward, his arm stretching comfortably across the seat behind his wife. Despite his comments, he appears cool, unperturbed by the heat and slow pace of the motor calvacade. His home turf.

Suddenly a silvery glint catches my eye, a patch of wrinkled skin behind his left ear, exposing a Lazarus stud!

The recognition snaps my programming. Inwardly I smile, still staring at the back of the Governor's head. Of course, he's a thanathespian like me. But the assassin will only wound him; he won't die this time. So, perhaps it's natural for him to be relaxed--going easily with his programming.

Of course the danger of breaking programming is fear.

Fear of death can destroy a performance. But I feel little more than an uncomfortable apprehension. Perhaps I've grown accustomed to dying. Is that possible?

We continue to crawl along.

Looking ahead, I realize that soon the ordeal will end as we draw ever closer to the waiting assassin, only two more blocks. The Depository is a multi-story building, providing hundreds of thousands of square feet for the storage of old-style books--books for school children. Strange indeed, considering that even in the last century they had the technology to reduce this grand waste of space. Shielding my eyes, I glance up into the sky, the sun a bright glare, almost directly overhead. Somewhere beyond the glare, I feel the mechanical stare of the holocameras, sense the eyes of a future deathplay audience in some histro-bistro. Aroused, they hold their breath in anticipation, leaning forward, aware of the significance of the building just ahead.

Less than a block now.

I drop my gaze, resisting the urge to stare directly at the assassin's location at the sixth story window. What's he thinking, feeling? Something akin to the thoughts and feelings of the future audience? Tension, excitement, fear, perhaps a sexual glow? The records indicate he was a misfit, a political malcontent, perhaps dupe of some grand conspiracy, even psychotic. But nothing in the old literature indicates his state of mind at the moment of assassination--his true feelings.

Taking another deep breath, I continue to smile, forcing my attention back to the spectators crowding the street. The vehicle is just inching along, fouling the air with pollutants from its internal combustion engine. Soon, now, very soon. I feel a growing sense of revulsion, disgust--

Crack.

Only the sound of the first shot registers in my consciousness. Everything winds down quickly, the nanobot inhibitors released so I feel no pain. I hear muted screams, shouting, sobbing, and a voice far away: "Jack, Jack..."

Blackness closes down, the smothering sensation of sinking, sinking down into the black pit, adrift in nothingness.

I am dying again.

Unexpectedly, an object appears against the black velvet of nothingness. A white object, contrasting sharply against the background, a flower, a white rose, wrapped tightly into an elegant bud, drops of moisture glistening on its satiny petals like jewels on fresh snow. The bud rests atop a long, emerald stem, sharp thorns waxy-green. I cling to the image: clean, fresh, solitary, fragile. Eventually the perception begins to fade; yet I stubbornly hang on, etching the details of its lines into the foreground of my memory. But ever so slowly, despite my willing it to remain, the magnificent image fades, blurs like an old hologram, and the elegant white rosebud disappears, leaving only the faintest trace of its sweet scent. Then, too, that fades. It is all gone.