Free Macrolife by George; Zebrowski

wearing an old-fashioned tweed blazer, gold sports shirt, slacks from another era, and silver glasses which made mirrors of his eyes, giving him the appearance of a well-to-do panda. He walked into the dining area, stooping gracelessly to avoid hitting his head on the partition.
    The wooden chair creaked as he sat down opposite Sam. He took off his glasses and put them in his jacket pocket. “How is Janet?” he asked quietly.
    â€œI haven’t seen her since the funeral.” Sam paused. “They got some ashes from the coffin and buried them as Jack’s remains. The chauffeur’s family and the hearse company are suing Bulero.”
    â€œI asked Richard to join us,” Orton said. “He should be here in a moment. Any more news?”
    Sam shrugged. “The investigations are going on as quietly as possible. Bulero is making its own investigation. Things don’t look promising for the company. Space shipping is at a standstill. They still haven’t found out what went wrong with the haulers.”
    â€œCan the losses be absorbed?”
    â€œIf nothing else goes wrong,” Sam said.
    Richard came in and sat down in the chair facing the mirror.
    â€œGo on,” he said. “Don’t let me stop you.”
    â€œJanet is doing a good job with the company,” Sam said. “She took care of the transition period after the will was read. Everybody looks to her, even Mike Basil. She knows now that she’s needed and that Jack did not keep her on out of charity. I think she feels closer to him now than when he was alive.”
    â€œI’ve been taking care of things on the East Coast,” Richard said. “It’s eating into my time. I don’t know when I’ll get back to my studies.”
    â€œJanet is really good with the accounting computers,” Sam continued. “I’m told that her diagnostic programs are very clever, very useful to the regional directors.”
    â€œDo you resent having to involve yourself in the company, Richard?” Orton asked.
    The waiter interrupted them.
    Sam ordered first. Wonton soup, sweet and sour pork—all of it made from meat and vegetable culture stock, an industry which was finally competing with animal husbandry and plant farming. Orton spoke Chinese to the waiter, ordering wonton and beef lo mein for Richard and himself.
    â€œI do resent it,” Richard said when the waiter left. “I’d rather be back on the moon, finishing my work. Margot and I would prefer to live on Asterome, where we can have access to facilities for our work. The bio-isolation labs are really fine out there.”
    Sam noted Richard’s nervousness.
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    They ate their soup in silence. As they waited for the main course, Sam asked, “Have you decided what to do after your term is over, Orton?”
    Orton took a sip of tea. “I think I’ll take the offer to help run Asterome. There’s room to grow out there. I’ve been reading a lot, talking to people, dreaming.”
    â€œIn dreams begin new responsibilities. Watch out.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t believe the dreams that were shelved by the research priority boards of the last century.”
    â€œTell me about it,” Sam said, hoping to take some of the lethargy out of himself through stimulating conversation.
    â€œThe food will get here before I can finish.”
    â€œGo ahead, Orton,” Richard said. “You know I’m convinced.”
    â€œI can still take an interest in things outside my personal troubles,” Sam said. “So what have you two been talking about?”
    The waiter arrived with a large tray. They traded portions of one another’s dishes. Sam savored the crisp, factory-grown vegetables. The tea was strong and aromatic. He remembered when Richard had been his student at Princeton, studying philosophy and getting excited about creativity in the sciences; it had been inevitable, looking back, that