I felt much better when I finally stopped crying. Lisa’s eyes were wet, too.

  “I’ve been here every day,” she said. “You look awful, Victor.”

  “I feel a lot better.”

  “Well, you look better than you did. But your doctor says you’d better stick around another couple of days, just to make sure.”

  “I think he’s right.”

  “I’m planning a big dinner for when you get back. You think we should invite the neighbors?”

  I didn’t say anything for a while. There were so many things we hadn’t faced. Just how long could it go on between us? How long before I got sour about being so useless? How long before she got tired of being with an old man? I don’t know just when I had started to think of Lisa as a permanent part of my life. And I wondered how I could have thought that.

  “Do you want to spend more years waiting in hospitals for a man to die?”

  “What do you want, Victor? I’ll marry you if you want me to. Or I’ll live with you in sin. I prefer sin, myself, but if it’ll make you happy—”

  “I don’t know why you want to saddle yourself with an epileptic old fart.”

  “Because I love you.”

  It was the first time she had said it. I could have gone on questioning—bringing up her Major again, for instance—but I had no urge to. I’m very glad I didn’t. So I changed the subject.

  “Did you get the job finished?”

  She knew which job I was talking about. She lowered her voice and put her mouth close to my ear.

  “Let’s don’t be specific about it here, Victor. I don’t trust any place I haven’t swept for bugs. But, to put your mind at ease, I did finish, and it’s been a quiet couple of weeks. No one is any wiser, and I’ll never meddle in things like that again.”

  I felt a lot better. I was also exhausted. I tried to conceal my yawns, but she sensed it was time to go. She gave me one more kiss, promising many more to come, and left me.

  It was the last time I ever saw her.

  At about ten o’clock that evening Lisa went into Kluge’s kitchen with a screwdriver and some other tools and got to work on the microwave oven.

  The manufacturers of those appliances are very careful to insure they can’t be turned on with the door open, as they emit lethal radiation. But with simple tools and a good brain it is possible to circumvent the safety interlocks. Lisa had no trouble with them. About ten minutes after she entered the kitchen she put her head in the oven and turned it on.

  It is impossible to say how long she held her head in there. It was long enough to turn her eyeballs to the consistency of boiled eggs. At some point she lost voluntary muscle control and fell to the floor, pulling the microwave down with her. It shorted out, and a fire started.

  The fire set off the sophisticated burglar alarm she had installed a month before. Betty Lanier saw the flames and called the fire department as Hal ran across the street and into the burning kitchen. He dragged what was left of Lisa out onto the grass. When he saw what the fire had done to her upper body, and in particular her breasts, he threw up.

  She was rushed to the hospital. The doctors there amputated one arm and cut away the frightful masses of vulcanized silicone, pulled all her teeth, and didn’t know what to do about the eyes. They put her on a respirator.

  It was an orderly who first noticed the blackened and bloody T-shirt they had cut from her. Some of the message was unreadable, but it began, “I can’t go on this way anymore…”

  There is no other way I could have told all that. I discovered it piecemeal, starting with the disturbed look on Dr. Stuart’s face when Lisa didn’t show up the next day. He wouldn’t tell me anything, and I had another seizure shortly after.

  The next week is a blur. Betty was very good to me. They gave me a tranquilizer called Tranxene, and it was even better. I ate them like candy. I wandered in a drugged haze, eating only when Betty insisted, sleeping sitting up in my chair, coming awake not knowing where or who I was. I returned to the prison camp many times. Once I recall helping Lisa stack severed heads.

  When I saw myself in the mirror, there was a vague smile on my face. It was Tranxene, caressing my frontal lobes. I knew that if I was to live much longer, me and Tranxene would have to become very good friends.

  I eventually became capable of something that passed for rational thought. I was helped along somewhat by a visit from Osborne. I was trying, at that time, to find reasons to live, and wondered if he had any.

  “I’m very sorry,” he started off. I said nothing. “This is on my own time,” he went on. “The department doesn’t know I’m here.”

  “Was it suicide?” I asked him.

  “I brought along a copy of the…the note. She ordered it from a shirt company in Westwood, three days before the…accident.”

  He handed it to me, and I read it. I was mentioned, though not by name. I was “the man I love.” She said she couldn’t cope with my problems. It was a short note. You can’t get too much on a T-shirt. I read it through five times, then handed it back to him.

  “She told you Kluge didn’t write his note. I tell you she didn’t write this.”

  He nodded reluctantly. I felt a vast calm, with a howling nightmare just below it. Praise Tranxene.

  “Can you back that up?”

  “She saw me in the hospital shortly before the…accident. She was full of life and hope. You say she ordered the shirt three days before. I would have felt that. And that note is pathetic. Lisa was never pathetic.”

  He nodded again.

  “Some things I want to tell you. There were no signs of a struggle. Mrs. Lanier is sure no one came in the front. The crime lab went over the whole place and we’re sure no one was in there with her. I’d stake my life on the fact that no one entered or left that house. Now, I don’t believe it was suicide either, but do you have any suggestions?”

  “The NSA,” I said.

  I explained about the last things she had done while I was still there. I told him of her fear of the government spy agencies. That was all I had.

  “Well, I guess they’re the ones who could do a thing like that, if anyone could. But I’ll tell you, I have a hard time swallowing it. I don’t know why, for one thing. Maybe you believe those people kill like you and I’d swat a fly.” His look made it into a question.

  “I don’t know what I believe.”

  “I’m not saying they wouldn’t kill for national security. Or some such shit. But they’d have taken the computers, too. They wouldn’t have left her alone, they wouldn’t even have let her near that stuff after they killed Kluge.”

  “What you’re saying makes sense.”

  He muttered on about it for quite some time. Eventually I offered him some wine. He accepted thankfully. I considered joining him—it would be a quick way to die—but did not. He drank the whole bottle, and was comfortably drunk when he suggested we go next door and look it over one more time. I was planning on visiting Lisa the next day, and knew I had to start somewhere building myself up for that, so I agreed to go with him.

  We inspected the kitchen. The fire had blackened the counters and melted some linoleum, but not much else. Water had made a mess of the place. There was a brown stain on the floor which I was able to look at with no emotion.

  So we went back to the living room, and one of the computers was turned on. There was a short message on the screen.

  IF YOU WISH TO KNOW MORE

  PRESS ENTER

  “Don’t do it,” I told him. But he did. He stood, blinking solemnly, as the words wiped themselves out and a new message appeared.

  YOU LOOKED

  The screen started to flicker and I was in my car, in darkness, with a pill in my mouth and another in my hand. I spit out the pill, and sat for a moment, listening to the old engine ticking over. In my hand was the plastic pill bottle. I felt very tired, but opened the car door and shut off the engine. I felt my way to the garage door and opened it. The air outside was fresh and sweet. I looked down at the pill bottle and hurried into the bathroom

  When I got through what had to be done there were a dozen pills floating in the toilet that hadn’t even dissolved. There were the wasted shells of many more, and a lot of other stuff I won’t bother to describe. I counted the pills in the bottle, remembered how many there had been, and wondered if I would make it.

  I went over to Kluge’s house and could not find Osborne. I was getting tired, but I made it back to my house and stretched out on the couch to see if I would live or die.

  The next day I found the story in the paper. Osborne had gone home and blown out the back of his head with his revolver. It was not a big story. It happens to cops all the time. He didn’t leave a note.

  I got on the bus and rode out to the hospital and spent three hours trying to get in to see Lisa. I wasn’t able to do it. I was not a relative and the doctors were quite firm about her having no visitors. When I got angry they were as gentle as possible. It was then I learned the extent of her injuries. Hal had kept the worst from me. None of it would have mattered, but the doctors swore there was nothing left in her head. So I went home.

  She died two days later.

  She had left a will, to my surprise. I got the house and contents. I picked up the phone as soon as I learned of it, and called a garbage company. While they were on the way over I went for the last time into Kluge’s house.

  The same computer was still on, and it gave the same message.

  PRESS ENTER

  I cautiously located the power switch, and turned it off. I had the garbage people strip the place to the bare walls.

  I went over my own house very carefully, looking for anything that was even the first cousin to a computer. I threw out the radio. I sold the car, and the refrigerator, and the stove, and the blender, and the electric clock. I drained the waterbed and threw out the heater.

  Then I bought the best propane stove on the market, and hunted a long time before I found an old icebox. I had the garage stacked to the ceiling with firewood. I had the chimney cleaned. It would be getting cold soon.

  One day I took the bus to Pasadena and established the Lisa Foo Memorial Scholarship fund for Vietnamese refugees and their children. I endowed it with seven hundred thousand eighty-three dollars and four cents. I told them it could be used for any field of study except computer science. I could tell they thought me eccentric.

  And I really thought I was safe, until the phone rang.

  I thought it over for a long time before answering it. In the end, I knew it would just keep on going until I did. So I picked it up.

  For a few seconds there was a dial tone, but I was not fooled. I kept holding it to my ear, and finally the tone turned off. There was just silence. I listened intently. I heard some of those far-off musical tones that live in phone wires. Echoes of conversations taking place a thousand miles away. And something infinitely more distant and cool.

  I do not know what they have incubated out there at the NSA. I don’t know if they did it on purpose, or if it just happened or if it even has anything to do with them, in the end. But I know it’s out there, because I heard its soul breathing on the wires. I spoke very carefully.

  “I do not wish to know any more,” I said. “I won’t tell anyone anything. Kluge, Lisa, and Osborne all committed suicide. I am just a lonely man, and I won’t cause you any trouble.”

  There was a click, and a dial tone.

  Getting the phone taken out was easy. Getting them to remove all the wires was a little harder, since once a place is wired they expect it to be wired forever. They grumbled, but when I started pulling them out myself, they relented, though they warned me it was going to cost.

  PG&E was harder. They actually seemed to believe there was a regulation requiring each house to be hooked up to the grid. They were willing to shut off my power—though hardly pleased about it—but they just weren’t going to take the wires away from my house. I went up on the roof with an axe and demolished four feet of eaves as they gaped at me. Then they coiled up their wires and went home.

  I threw out all my lamps, all things electrical. With hammer, chisel, and handsaw I went to work on the drywall just above the baseboards.

  As I stripped the house of wiring I wondered many times why I was doing it. Why was it worth it? I couldn’t have very many more years before a final seizure finished me off. Those years were not going to be a lot of fun.

  Lisa had been a survivor. She would have known why I was doing this. She had once said I was a survivor, too. I survived the camp. I survived the death of my mother and father and managed to fashion a solitary life. Lisa survived the death of just about everything. No survivor expects to live through it all. But while she was alive, she would have worked to stay alive.

  And that’s what I did. I got all the wires out of the walls, went over the house with a magnet to see if I had missed any metal, then spent a week cleaning up, fixing the holes I had knocked in the walls, ceiling, and attic. I was amused trying to picture the real-estate agent selling this place after I was gone.

  It’s a great little house, folks. No electricity…

  Now I live quietly, as before.

  I work in my garden during most of the daylight hours. I’ve expanded it considerably, and even have things growing in the front yard now.

  I live by candlelight, and kerosene lamp. I grow most of what I eat.

  It took a long time to taper off the Tranxene and the Dilantin, but I did it, and now take the seizures as they come. I’ve usually got bruises to show for it.

  In the middle of a vast city I have cut myself off. I am not part of the network growing faster than I can conceive. I don’t even know if it’s dangerous to ordinary people. It noticed me, and Kluge, and Osborne. And Lisa. It brushed against our minds like I would brush away a mosquito, never noticing I had crushed it. Only I survived.

  But I wonder.

  It would be very hard…Lisa told me how it can get in through the wiring. There’s something called a carrier wave that can move over wires carrying household current. That’s why the electricity had to go.

  I need water for my garden. There’s just not enough rain here in southern California, and I don’t know how else I could get the water.

  Do you think it could come through the pipes?

  Introduction to “Dinosaurs”

  by Walter Jon Williams

  Imagine if Cortez could have sat down and negotiated with Moctezuma, or Pizarro with Atahualpa, or John Smith with Powhatan.

  Wait. Come to think of it, they did. Hmmm.

  If there’s one kind of story that science fiction is notorious for doing very, very badly, it’s the “ruling class” story. Ambassadors, generals, presidents, corporate CEOs, congressmen, judges, politicians as a group and as individuals: As soon as they take the stage in a science fiction story, we find our eyes glazing over as the author inadvertently reveals his or her ignorance of how power is actually wielded, or of the delicacy with which the powerful must treat each other.

  So here’s this story, which is entirely devoted to a negotiation between two species in an interstellar war. Yes, folks, it’s a couple of ambassadors talking to each other, the one a calm representative of a mature species, the other a barbarian barely able to hold the hotheads of his species in check. A recipe for disaster! What is this story doing in this book?

  Well, see, sometimes even science fiction writers can do it right. This story could have been told no other way. No “deep characterization” was needed—in fact, it would have distracted. And yet this is no one-idea story with placeholder characters serving merely to provide exposition. On the contrary, the irony is layered so thick that it takes surgical tools to separate them.

  Oh, yeah. Walter Jon Williams is known as a cyberpunk. I’ve even heard him claim the dubious title himself. But not here, not in these pages. Here he’s just a storyteller with a finely tuned sense of appropriate despair.

  DINOSAURS

  Walter Jon Williams

  The Shars seethed in the dim light of their ruddy sun. Pointed faces raised to the sky, they sniffed the faint wind for sign of the stranger and scented only hydrocarbons, far-off vegetation, damp fur, the sweat of excitement and fear. Weak eyes peered upward, glistened with hope, anxiety, apprehension, and saw only the faint pattern of stars. Short, excited barking sounds broke out here and there, but mostly the Shars crooned, a low ululation that told of sudden onslaught, destruction, war in distant reaches, and now the hope of peace.

  The crowds surged left, then right. Individuals bounced high on their third legs, seeking a view, seeing only the wide sea of heads, the ears and muzzles pointed to the stars.

  Suddenly, a screaming. High-pitched howls, a bright chorus of barks. The crowds surged again.

  Something was crossing the field of stars.

  The human ship was huge, vaster than anything they’d seen, a moonlet descending. Shars closed their eyes and shuddered in terror. The screaming turned to moans. Individuals leaped high, baring their teeth, barking in defiance of their fear. The air smelled of terror, incipient panic, anger.

  War! cried some. Peace! cried others.

  The crooning went on. We mourn, we mourn, it said, we mourn our dead billions.

  We fear, said others.

  Soundlessly, the human ship neared them, casting its vast shadow. Shars spilled outward from the spot beneath, bounding high on their third legs.

  The human ship came to a silent rest. Dully, it reflected the dim red sun.

  The Shars crooned their fear, their sorrow. And waited for the humans to emerge.

  * * *

  These? Yes. These. Drill, the human ambassador, gazed through his video walls at the sea of Shars, the moaning, leaping thousands that surrounded him. Through the mass a group was moving with purpose, heading for the airlock as per his instructions. His new Memory crawled restlessly in the armored hollow atop his skull. Stand by, he broadcast.