Free Zelazny, Roger - Novel 05 by Today We Choose Faces

             I did, and when I passed it to him he took a
long, slow sip and sighed. Then he set the glass down, fumbled inside his
jacket and withdrew a pack of cigarettes.
                   "I'm not supposed to have these
either," he said, lighting one.
                   We sat in silence for perhaps a minute,
sorting out our private feelings, I guess. Strangely, I did not resent the
intrusion on the solitude I had gone so far to achieve. I felt sorry for the
old man, doubtless alone in the world, waiting around to die, finding pretexts
to go off from whatever rest facility housed him and cadge an occasional drink,
one of his few remaining pleasures. But it went beyond sympathy. There was
animation, defiance, strength in his deeply lined face. His dark eyes were
clear, his mottled hands steady. There was something comforting, almost
familiar, about him. I was certain I had never met the man before, but our
meeting here, this way, gave me an odd, irrational feeling that it had been
somehow prearranged.
                   "What have you got there?" he asked,
and I saw the direction of his gaze. "Feelthy pictures?"
                   My face grew warm.
                   "Well—sort of," I said, and he
chuckled.
                   He reached halfway toward them, then met my
eyes.
                   "May I?" he asked.
                   I nodded.
                   He picked them up, leaned back with them. His
shaggy brows dropped toward a squint and he cocked his head to one side. He
stared for a long while, his lips pursed. Then he smiled and placed them back
on the table.
                   "Very good," he said. "Very
good pictures." Then his voice changed. "See Earth and then
die."
                   "I do not understand ..."
                   "It is an old saying that I just made up.
'See Venice and die.' 'See Naples and die.' 'May you die in Ireland .' Many places once took such pride in
themselves that they considered a visit there to be the greatest thing in anyone's
life. At my age, one can be a bit more cosmopolitan. Thanks for letting me see
the pictures." His voice hardened. "They brought back many memories.
A few of them were even happy ones."
                   He took a large swallow of his drink and I
stared at him, fascinated. He seemed to grow larger, he sat more erect.
                   It was not possible, though. It simply was not
possible. But I had to ask him.
                   "Just how old are you, Mr. Black?"
                   Part of his mouth grinned as he snubbed out
his cigarette.
                   "There are too many ways to answer your
question," he said. "But I see what you are really asking. Yes, I
have seen the Earth—actually, not just in pictures. I remember what things were
like, before the House was built."
                   "No," I said. "That is
physically impossible."
                   He shrugged, then sighed.
                   "Perhaps you are right, Lange," he
said. He raised his glass and drained it. "It does not matter."
                   I finished my own drink, setting the glass
down beside the photos.
                   "How is it that you know my name?" I
asked him.
                   Reaching into his pocket, he said, "I owe
you something."
                   But it was not money that he withdrew.
                   "See the Earth," he said, and,
"A rivederci"
                   I felt the bullet enter my heart.
     

2
     
                   How—?
                   The music was swirling all about me, pumping,
throbbing, and the lights were changing color faster and faster. Then it was
time for me to come in on the clarinet. I managed it. Shakily, but
sufficiently.
                   Before too