The Man Who Died
Sample for free
If it hadn’t been for the cake, Mo might have died on his three-hundredth birthday. To the whooped-up music, people clapping and dancing, he had leaped up onto the table, kicking off plates and cutlery, his family and friends shouting out, laughing.
One careless act of violence and the Foundation’s insurance company would have to pay out an astronomical sum to the victim’s family.Which was why the company had lobbied the colony’s administration to make death not only extremely difficult, but also illegal.
The police chief, Marcus Gast, stayed at her side the half hour it took to conduct the tests on the waiter.
“He checks out,” Judith told him, studying the computer screen. “The man’s decaff. He hasn’t experienced aggressive brain activity for over a century.”
“So what was he doing with a loaded gun?” Marcus Gast asked.
“What did he tell you he was doing?” she asked back.
“Trying to sell it.”
“It’s the probable truth. See for yourself,” said Judith. She stood back as the heavy man leaned over the screen. “He’s as docile as a doughnut.” She looked through a one-way mirror to a brightly illuminated room, where the waiter, restrained and examined by an array of sensors, lay supine in a bed.
“He may be. But someone out there isn’t,’ said the policeman.
Mo waited. In the almost darkness, he saw the figure of the blind janitor appear over him: standing, thinking. Everett picked up a white pillow. “You know that old saying, do unto others as you would have done unto you? Well…” The man in the bed’s eyes pleaded for all they were worth. This was it.