Galaxy's Edge Magazine: Issue 2, May 2013 by et al. Mike Resnick Page A

pretended to concede the point while she considered her next move. Perhaps it was just the shape of her new coiffure, but her expression seemed ominous and calculating. Filltree wondered why he’d ever wanted to marry her in the first place.
    His wife patted the tinted hairs at the back of her neck and smiled gently. “Well, I don’t know how you intend to make it up to your daughter…but I hope you have something appropriate figured out.” Both she and Jill looked to him expectantly.
    Filltree met their gaze directly. He returned her plastic smile with one of equal authenticity. “Gee, I can’t think of anything to take Rexy’s place.”
    Joyce tightened her lips ever so delicately. “Well, I can. And I’m sure Jill can too, can’t you sweetheart…?” Joyce looked to Jill. Jill smiled. They both looked to Daddy again.
    So. That was it. Filltree recognized the ploy. Retreat on one battlefield, only to gain on another. Jamaica appeared inescapable. He considered his options. Option. Dead end. “You’ve already made the booking, haven’t you?” His artificial smile widened even more artificially.
    “I see,” his wife said curtly. “Is that what you think of me…?” He recognized the tone immediately. If he said anything at all— anything —she would escalate to tactical nukes within three sentences. The worst thing he could say would be, “Now, sweetheart—”
    Instead, he opened his mouth and said, “We can’t go, in any case. I have research to do in Denver.” This time, he amazed even himself. Denver? Where had that idea come from? “I’ll be gone for a month. Maybe two. At least. I’m sorry if this ruins your plans, dear. I would have told you sooner, but I was hoping I wouldn’t have to go. Unfortunately…I just heard this afternoon that no one else is available for this job.” He spread his hands wide in a gesture of helplessness.
    Joyce’s mouth tightened almost to invisibility—then reformed itself in a deliberate smile. “I see,” she said, in a voice like sugared acid. She refused to lose her temper in front of Jill. It was a bad role model, she insisted. She had declared that eight years ago, and in the past five, Jonathan Filltree had amused himself endlessly by seeing how close to the edge he could push her before she toppled over into incoherence. Tonight—with Denver—he had scored a grand slam home run, knocking it all the way out of the park and bringing in all three runners on base. “We’ll talk about this later,” she said with finality, her way of admitting that she was outflanked and that she had no choice but to retreat and regroup her energies while she reconnoitered the terrain. She would be back. But for the moment, the conversation was temporarily suspended.
    “I’ll be up late,” Filltree said genially. “I have a report to finish. And I have to pack tonight too.” He took a healthy bite of soy-burger. It was suddenly delicious.
    Joyce excused herself to escort Jill upstairs to get her ready for bed. “But, Mommy, don’t I get dessert…” the child wailed.
    “Not while your Daddy is acting like this—”
    Jonathan Filltree spent the rest of the evening, working quietly, almost enjoying himself, anticipating what it would be like to have a little quiet in the house without the regular interruption of Rexy’s intolerable predations. If only he could get rid of Jill and Joyce as easily.
    Filltree wondered if he should sleep on the couch in his office tonight, but then decided that would be the same as admitting a) that there had been a battle, and b) he had lost. He would not concede Joyce one inch of territory. Before heading upstairs, he took a look in at Rexy.
    The tyrannosaur was worrying at the left side wall of the carry cage, scratching at it with first one foot, then the other, trying to carve an opening for itself. It bumped its head ferociously against the side; already the thick polymoid surface was deformed and even a little cracked.