of expression behind the dizzying vertical gleaming bars rushing past.
Millow remembered his body being shifted around, an inhalator being fitted over his mouth and nose, the weakening struggle he'd put up, and now . . . now here he was, propped up slightly in his bed with his eyes open.
"How do you feel?" Dr. Steinmetz asked, and they both knew it really didn't matter, not even from a clinical standpoint.
Millow was alive.
"I didn't make it," Millow croaked in a distant, sad voice.
"You should be glad to be alive," Dr. Steinmetz said. He was a plump, shiningly clean man with dark framed glasses over very intelligent eyes. "You should be thankful for the excellent medical attention you receive."
"Why," the slow, faltering voice asked from the bed, "so I can go back to my cell now and do the same things I've done for sixty-three years?"
Dr. Steinmetz was turning on his best bedside manner. "You got life imprisonment with no eligibility for parole," he said. "There was a time, under archaic law, when you would have been sentenced to death. You did kill a man."
"I did," Marvin Millow said wearily. "I did kill a man."
Dr. Steinmetz smiled down at him as if he'd achieved some minor victory.
"It was my heart this time, wasn't it?" Millow asked.
"Yes, but it's all right now."
"You've given me a plastic heart?"
Dr. Steinmetz nodded. "The newest synthetic. There's no danger at all of the body rejecting it."
Millow closed his eyes. Why should there be any danger from this, after what he'd been through over the years? First had come the leukemia, when he was in his sixties, and they had completely replaced his blood with a fluoral carbon emulsion that served him just as well or better. Then had come the liver transplant, the artificial kidney, the abortive suicide attempt that had required only a few stitches, and six years ago the artificial lung. Despite all this, Millow was, in his own way, healthier now than he'd been in his twenties. Of course he looked ninety-six years old. It was the responsibility of the state to maintain his health, but the taxpayers didn't pay for cosmetic surgery.
"Are you all right?" Dr. Steinmetz asked, but he wasn't really curious. He too had unshakeable faith in modern medicine.
Millow didn't bother to open his eyes. His chest ached deeply with each breath and his body throbbed, but he was "all right."
"Will they ever let me die, Doctor?"
"None of us are immortal," Steinmetz said. "On the outside you would have been dead twenty years ago. But here you're the state's responsibility." He was silent for a long moment. "You know, Marvin, you don't really want to die. None of us do."
"It seems that it should be my prerogative," Millow said with old bitterness.
"It should be," Steinmetz agreed. "And the man you killed should have had the same prerogative."
Millow opened his eyes and stared at the spotless white ceiling as the doctor left the small room and closed the door behind him.
The man he'd killed. But that had been so long ago. So very long ago. Was he now the same Marvin Millow who had carefully plotted and carried out the murder of his wife's lover? Could he ever have felt that strongly about anything, have had that much will? Could he ever have loved a woman as he must have loved Marian?
Millow remembered the Marian of his youth as if she'd been a character in a book he'd read years ago, or a cast member in a movie he'd seen at some time on the telescreen. That Marian didn't seem quite real to him now, didn't seem as if she ever had been real. Neither did Creighton, the man he'd killed. For that matter, had there ever been a tall, proud, dark-haired Marvin Millow who had breathed love so deeply he had killed for it? Of course there had been. But not anymore. Those fires had died now, and the ashes had long since blown away.
Marian had divorced him after the trial, and for over fifty years Millow hadn't seen her or heard from her. Then one day seven years ago, with terrifying
Millow remembered his body being shifted around, an inhalator being fitted over his mouth and nose, the weakening struggle he'd put up, and now . . . now here he was, propped up slightly in his bed with his eyes open.
"How do you feel?" Dr. Steinmetz asked, and they both knew it really didn't matter, not even from a clinical standpoint.
Millow was alive.
"I didn't make it," Millow croaked in a distant, sad voice.
"You should be glad to be alive," Dr. Steinmetz said. He was a plump, shiningly clean man with dark framed glasses over very intelligent eyes. "You should be thankful for the excellent medical attention you receive."
"Why," the slow, faltering voice asked from the bed, "so I can go back to my cell now and do the same things I've done for sixty-three years?"
Dr. Steinmetz was turning on his best bedside manner. "You got life imprisonment with no eligibility for parole," he said. "There was a time, under archaic law, when you would have been sentenced to death. You did kill a man."
"I did," Marvin Millow said wearily. "I did kill a man."
Dr. Steinmetz smiled down at him as if he'd achieved some minor victory.
"It was my heart this time, wasn't it?" Millow asked.
"Yes, but it's all right now."
"You've given me a plastic heart?"
Dr. Steinmetz nodded. "The newest synthetic. There's no danger at all of the body rejecting it."
Millow closed his eyes. Why should there be any danger from this, after what he'd been through over the years? First had come the leukemia, when he was in his sixties, and they had completely replaced his blood with a fluoral carbon emulsion that served him just as well or better. Then had come the liver transplant, the artificial kidney, the abortive suicide attempt that had required only a few stitches, and six years ago the artificial lung. Despite all this, Millow was, in his own way, healthier now than he'd been in his twenties. Of course he looked ninety-six years old. It was the responsibility of the state to maintain his health, but the taxpayers didn't pay for cosmetic surgery.
"Are you all right?" Dr. Steinmetz asked, but he wasn't really curious. He too had unshakeable faith in modern medicine.
Millow didn't bother to open his eyes. His chest ached deeply with each breath and his body throbbed, but he was "all right."
"Will they ever let me die, Doctor?"
"None of us are immortal," Steinmetz said. "On the outside you would have been dead twenty years ago. But here you're the state's responsibility." He was silent for a long moment. "You know, Marvin, you don't really want to die. None of us do."
"It seems that it should be my prerogative," Millow said with old bitterness.
"It should be," Steinmetz agreed. "And the man you killed should have had the same prerogative."
Millow opened his eyes and stared at the spotless white ceiling as the doctor left the small room and closed the door behind him.
The man he'd killed. But that had been so long ago. So very long ago. Was he now the same Marvin Millow who had carefully plotted and carried out the murder of his wife's lover? Could he ever have felt that strongly about anything, have had that much will? Could he ever have loved a woman as he must have loved Marian?
Millow remembered the Marian of his youth as if she'd been a character in a book he'd read years ago, or a cast member in a movie he'd seen at some time on the telescreen. That Marian didn't seem quite real to him now, didn't seem as if she ever had been real. Neither did Creighton, the man he'd killed. For that matter, had there ever been a tall, proud, dark-haired Marvin Millow who had breathed love so deeply he had killed for it? Of course there had been. But not anymore. Those fires had died now, and the ashes had long since blown away.
Marian had divorced him after the trial, and for over fifty years Millow hadn't seen her or heard from her. Then one day seven years ago, with terrifying
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