Free Bearing an Hourglass by Piers Anthony Page B

direct the estate doctor to investigate your brother’s history and compare symptoms?”
    “I’d better,” Gawain agreed glumly. “But you’ll have to tell Orlene.”
    “The doctor can do that.”
    “Sure—his way. Look, Norton, I may be crude, but even I can see that’s no good. Some of those doctors get their kicks needling people. Better it be done your way.”
    Norton thought of the doctor who had tested him for fertility. He sighed. “Yes.”
    The ghost vanished. With dread in his soul, Norton went to tell Orlene.
    First she refused to believe it. But when the estate doctor conducted his investigation, using as thorough a program of scientific and magical tests as existed, guided by the case histories of others in the family, and verified the condition, Orlene had to believe. Then she was angry—at Gawain, Nature, Norton, herself—everything. She concocted desperate schemes to undo the damage, to bargain for her baby’s life, to arrange somehow divine intervention to save Gaw-Two. But, of course, all this came to nothing, and she sank into a terrible depression. Nothing could console her.
    Norton was helpless, as the baby’s health declined. Gawain had been right; the malady had become worse in recent generations, and its course was savage. He could not comfort Orlene, for now it was apparent that her love for Norton was definitely secondary to her love for the baby. He could only accept her as she was, the perfect mother rather than the perfect partner. Gawain the Ghost disappeared.
    The end came with seeming suddenness, though most of a year had passed since the baby’s birth. Orlene was sitting, garbed in black, by the crib where the failing infant lay. She was only a shadow of her former self, looking almost as wasted as Gaw-Two. Both science and magic had failed; all they could do was leave the baby alone. It was a death watch.
    Death came, personified. He was a hooded figure garbed in black. Orlene saw him first, issued a stifled scream, and flung her emaciated arms protectively about her baby. The dark intruder paused—and now Norton was able to perceive him more clearly. At first Death had been no more than a shadow, but now he was solid.
    “Must you do this?” Norton demanded of the figure. “Who are you, that you bring such grief?”
    The figure turned to face him. Under his hood was a skull, bare of hair or skin or flesh. His eyes were hollow squares. “I regret the necessity,” he said, his voice oddly soft. “I am Thanatos, and it is my duty to collect the souls of those who expire in balance.”
    “You are—the Incarnation of Death?”
    “I am.”
    “And you get your kicks from stealing innocent babies?”
    Thanatos’ dark hood turned toward Orlene, then toward the crib, and finally back to face Norton. He drew back one sleeve to expose a heavy black watch. One skeletal finger touched that timepiece. “Come with me a few minutes, mortal, and we shall talk.”
    Norton experienced a chilling awe of this somber figure. He had not believed in the so-called Incarnations, despite the ghost’s assurances, except possibly as mockpresentations. Now conviction was growing. Thanatos was no joke; neither was he callous or indifferent.
    They walked out of the room. Orlene did not move. She stood by the crib, her thin arms extended in a futile gesture of protection. Her face was drawn, her hair dull, with only her eyes still large and beautiful. She did not even breathe. Time seemed to have halted.
    Outside the apartment, in the hall, a gallant pale horse stood. Somehow this did not seem surprising. Norton got up behind Thanatos on the horse. Then the horse leaped.
    They passed through the levels of the city as if these were holograph images. Halls, apartments, service areas—all shot past like so many segments of a cutaway dollhouse as the horse sailed up. In a moment they reached the park at the surface. The animal’s gleaming hooves landed without jarring, and now they were riding