Free Moonrise by Ben Bova Page B

mechanically. “Would you like anything from the kitchen?”
    They all said no, and Joanna dismissed the butler.
    “Now then,” she said as the butler left the room, “I believe you’ve brought the videodisk, Greg?”
    “It’s right here,” he said, his voice low.
    “Before we do or say anything else, then, I think we should all see it.”
    Arnold bobbed his head in agreement. Paul glanced at Melissa. Why did Greg bring her here, except to show me that he’s got her now?
    Greg opened the attaché case and took out a single, unmarked videodisk, about the size of a credit card. Paul thought it ridiculous to lug around the tooled leather case just to carry one slim disk; like using a heavy-lift booster to put a sugar cube in orbit.
    Joanna started to say, “I’ll get the butler—”
    But Greg got to his feet with a wintry smile. “I know how to use the TV, Mother,” he said. “This has been my home, too, you know.”
    Sarcastic bastard, Paul said to himself.
    Greg flicked down the hidden access panel in the mantel-piece and powered up the TV. The architect’s drawing faded away and the wide display panel turned soft gray. Then Greg inserted the videodisk and returned to his seat beside Arnold.
    Paul stared at the screen. It streaked random colors for a few moments, then Gregory Masterson II’s face filled the screen, bloated and distorted because it was almost pressed against the camera lens.
    Gregory was mumbling something. Then he leaned back and they could see he was sitting at his desk, his face dark and grim. Paul was startled to realize how much alike father and son looked.
    Joanna’s hand reached into Paul’s and gripped tight.
    “Fuckin’ sonsabitches,” Gregory muttered. “How the fuck’m I s’posed to know if this piece of crap is in focus? Autofocus my hairy ass …” His voice trailed off into incoherent mumbles.
    Paul saw the crystal decanter of whiskey at Gregory’s elbow. He was waving a heavy old-fashioned glass as he grumbled, whiskey sloshing over its rim onto the desk. The Smith & Wesson revolver was resting in front of him, big and menacing, polished steel, long ribbed barrel and fine grained walnut grip.
    “It’s killing me,” Gregory said, looking straight into the camera. “What they’ve done to me … what they’re doin’ now … might’s well be dead. Serve ’em right, the goddam’ pricks.”
    Paul felt his insides turning to ice. Joanna was staring fixedly at the big screen, where her late husband loomed over her. She seemed transfixed, unmoving as a statue, not even breathing, like a deer that freezes when it’s caught in an automobile’s headlights.
    With his free hand Gregory picked up the heavy revolver. “See this? Oughtta blow their fuckin’ heads off with this. Blam! Right between the eyes. Or maybe shoot off their goddam’ balls, see how they like it.”
    Their balls? Paul wondered. What’s he talking about?
    “Get ’em before they get me,” Gregory muttered darkly. “Only way to do it …” He lapsed into incomprehensible mumbles again.
    Then he put the old-fashioned glass down with exaggerated care and transferred the gun to his right hand. He studied it for long moments, breathing heavily, mouth hanging open. Paul thought he might have been having trouble focusing his eyes.
    “Get ’em before they get me,” he repeated thickly. “This gun’s my protection, my insurance policy. Make sure they can’t hurt me anymore. Protect myself …”
    Suddenly Gregory’s eyes blazed with fury and he swung the gun madly. The picture abruptly went dead.
    For several seconds no one said a word. They all stared at the blank screen.
    At last Arnold spoke up. “That’s it.”
    Paul pulled his eyes away from the screen and saw that Greg was staring at him accusingly.
    “It’s pretty much of a jumble,” Joanna said, disengaging her hand from Paul’s. “Is that the original disk or the enhanced version?”
    “That’s the enhancement,” Arnold