FSF, December 2007

by Spilogale, Inc

  "As a family,” adds Laura proudly.

  "I still have to ask a few questions,” says the receptionist, following strict protocol. “Have you sought medical assistance on Earth?"

  "Oh, yes,” says Laura. “We've been to four doctors. None of them could find a thing wrong."

  "And you're sure this is what you want."

  "We have all talked about it,” says Laura. “Haven't we?” Mr. Hudson and Danny nod in agreement; they have indeed talked about it, talked it to death. “It's what we want,” she says.

  "Does the document accurately reflect your wishes?” asks the receptionist, looking unflinchingly into Mr. Hudson's eyes. Mr. Hudson is startled by the question, but even more startled by the eye-contact. “No,” he wants to say. “I want to ride the Monster Slide into the largest standing pool of water on the Moon. I want to eat Zongo Bars in Lunacy Park till I vomit red goo.” But he doesn't say that. He nods and says, “Yes, it's what I want."

  The receptionist turns to Danny. “Do you affirm that the form accurately reflects your wishes?” She has asked this question a thousand times.

  Laura glares at Danny. Her eyes close to slits and her chin juts forward. She doesn't want any complications now. “I guess I do,” says Danny.

  The receptionist annotates the form. “Perform the verification then,” she says. Mr. Hudson lays his right hand on a small, ceramic plate. “It looks good,” says the receptionist. Laura and Danny repeat the action with the same results. “The passing will be conducted tomorrow night,” says the receptionist, handing the form back to Danny, who folds it and slips it back into his pocket.

  "Well, I don't understand why we have to wait a day,” says Laura. “None of us are going to change our minds."

  "It's official policy,” states the receptionist. “The porter will show you to your room."

  An androporter, human looking in torso and head but pragmatically metal and wheels from the waist down, whirls out from behind a bush, signals for them to follow, and leads them to another corridor.

  Laura, Danny, and the androporter drop Mr. Hudson off at the door to his room. “Get some rest, old man,” says Danny, handing him two pills. Mr. Hudson looks at the pills, a little puzzled. “They're for nausea,” says Danny. “The gravity change could start to bother you."

  Mr. Hudson puts the pills in his pocket and enters his room. As he starts to close the door behind him, Laura sticks her thin head between the narrow crack in the open door. “I hope you realize how hard this is on my schedule,” she says.

  "I do,” says Mr. Hudson.

  "Now get some sleep,” says Laura. “Tomorrow is a busy day."

  Mr. Hudson undresses in the dark, crawls into bed and tries to feel sorry for Laura. But all he can think about is the old woman he ran over, the old woman who will always think he is a jackass.

  * * * *

  One New Year's morning, Laura, up earlier than usual, called a family meeting. This was becoming an annual tradition in the Severs household, so Mr. Hudson wasn't surprised when he heard his daughter hollering from the kitchen. “Come on, Daddy; we're waiting for you."

  "I don't know why we have to do this,” said Danny, poking a skillet of scrambled eggs with a wooden spoon. Danny's Sunday breakfasts were usually the highlight of Mr. Hudson's week. “I think I'm ready to vote,” said Danny.

  Laura was not amused. “You need to take this seriously,” she snapped. “Daddy's turning ninety-four next month, and the longevity tax is going to go up another two percent."

  "Happy birthday to me,” said Mr. Hudson, shuffling into the kitchen. He took a seat at the kitchen table as Danny set a plate of eggs in front of him.

  "It just isn't getting any easier, and it's time we really talk about this. And I don't mean just joking around like you two always do.” She dropped a canvas bag onto the kitchen table and pulled out a handful of pamphlets. “Here are some Smooth Passing brochures I think we should all look at.” This was new to Mr. Hudson; Laura didn't usually bring handouts to family meetings. She passed a brochure to Danny and another to Mr. Hudson, then took one herself and opened it.

  "Welcome to Smooth Passing,” said the brochure.

  Laura muted the sound and held the brochure at chest level as if she were holding a prayer book. She cleared her throat, arched her back and began to read: “Smooth Passing Incorporated encourages all families to review their passing plans every year.” She paused to look at Danny and Mr. Hudson, giving it that personal touch. “With the increasing cost of living, not to mention the needless drain on scarce resources, there comes a time when you need to say you can't, and probably shouldn't, live forever.” She paused to let the words sink in. She had obviously rehearsed. “Smooth Passing encourages every family to review their plans at the beginning of each year. After all, you're already making resolutions."

  "My resolution is to live to be one hundred,” said Mr. Hudson.

  "You're not getting any younger, Daddy,” growled Laura, pumping her arms up and down in front of her chest as if she were digging holes with some invisible shovel. “Don't you understand?"

  "Yes,” whispered Mr. Hudson. He felt bad for joking around after Laura had warned him not to.

  "I think it's time,” said Laura, holding the brochure out for Danny to take. “His good years are gone, and I think we all know that."

  "I don't,” said Danny.

  Mr. Hudson didn't say a word. The whole thing was beginning to wear on him, making him dread every New Year's Day—no—making him dread every day. He had tried to cooperate. He had been to doctors, four different doctors, only to get the same disappointing response: “Really, he's fine, there's nothing we can do.” Laura hated hearing that.

  "Jack, what do you think?” asked Danny.

  "I don't know anymore,” said Mr. Hudson. “Maybe it's time."

  "I have a form,” said Laura, seizing the opportunity. “We can take him to the Moon where you don't have to go through all the trouble you do down here."

  Laura laid the form out on the table. It was a standard form printed on electronic parchment, official-looking, yet elegant, certainly suitable for framing.

  "Jack, you don't have to do this,” said Danny.

  "He'll sign,” said Laura. “Daddy's always had common sense."

  "Damn it, Laura, I don't think it's time."

  "We can at least apply,” pleaded Laura. “Smooth Passing doesn't take these things lightly. They won't even accept the application unless it's the right thing to do."

  "I've never heard of them rejecting anyone,” said Danny.

  "Of course they do,” said Laura. “They carefully review every application. They actually take fourteen factors into account. It says so in the brochure."

  "It's just an application,” Mr. Hudson said to Danny in the most soothing tone he could muster.

  "And it's not only age they consider, Daddy,” said Laura, as intense and eloquent as Mr. Hudson had ever seen her. “Age is just one small consideration. They'll look at a lot of things. They'll study records from your whole life. And you can cancel at any time. If we all sign, any one of us can cancel. Even on the Moon."

  "All right,” said Mr. Hudson.

  Laura handed the form to Danny. “You need to be part of this too,” she said. “Everything's always on me."

  Danny took the form. “What do you really think, Jack? Because if you're not sure....” Danny's voice trailed into nothingness.

  "Let's get it over with,” said Mr. Hudson.

  Danny took the form, pulled a pen out of his pocket, and began to write, slowly, reluctantly. When he had finished, he signed the form and authenticated it by placing his thumb on a tiny stamp next to the signature block. He handed the form to Mr. Hudson who signed it without question.

  "Well, let's not draw this out all day,” said Laura. Danny laid the form in front of Laura and pointed to the block for her to sign. She whipped off a quick signature. A metallic block at the bottom of the page flashed red three times and then
turned a steady green.

  "Looks like it took,” said Danny.

  "Good,” said Laura. “We should have an answer within a few days."

  "I'm not real happy about this,” said Danny.

  "I don't care,” said Laura, storming out of the room as Danny folded the form into a neat square and slipped it into his shirt pocket.

  * * * *

  Mr. Hudson is on the Moon, and he knows why he is there—he has lived too long. It's not his fault. He hasn't done anything special to make it to ninety-four. For sixty years he smoked a pipe, three bowls a day of a rich Cavendish tobacco, but that was before he moved in with Laura and Danny. He used to drink too—mostly scotch and brandy. He has had no organ replacements or bodily enhancements. He has never exercised for more than a couple of weeks at a time. He can't remember having ever taken a vitamin. But here he is, almost a century old, still plugging along. One more day. One more day on the Moon.

  Mr. Hudson wakes at eight o'clock, lunar time. Across the room an oval mirror with an antique frame hangs above a sink no more than one large step from the foot of his bed. He hadn't noticed how small the room was the night before, but now it seems little more than a tight box. The bed itself takes up a third of the space.

  Mr. Hudson rises, steps to the mirror, and gazes at his own reflection. “You're nothing but an old jackass,” he says, applying shaving lotion to his whiskers. He watches the stubble melt away, then rinses the film from his face. Mr. Hudson's suitcase, delivered sometime during the night, stands next to the sink, but he puts on yesterday's clothes and dons the gravity-compensating boots and belt. He takes one more long look into the mirror and sets out to explore Smooth Passing.

  Many guests are already up, some moving with purpose down the corridor, others just milling about, looking at faded pictures of the Moon hanging on the walls. Mr. Hudson moves with purpose, now barely aware of the gravity change.

  As he reaches the end of the corridor, Laura shouts from behind: “Daddy, it's good to see you.” She rushes to his side. “This is your big day."

  "Big day,” says Mr. Hudson.

  "Danny and I are going for a Moon tour. Do you want to come?"

  "No,” says Mr. Hudson. “I'm a little tired.” But he isn't; he isn't tired at all.

  "We're going to see where Neil Armstead first stepped on the Moon,” says Laura.

  "I think I'll stay around here."

  "You should come,” says Danny, joining them. “We should spend this day together.” He lays his hand gently on Mr. Hudson's shoulder.

  "Go on,” says Mr. Hudson. “I'll be fine."

  "We would stay with you, Daddy,” says Laura, “but I may never get to the Moon again.” She gives her father a big hug. “We'll spend some time together tonight. I promise."

  "Wonderful,” says Mr. Hudson.

  "Do be careful,” says Laura, looking around. “There are a lot of people here I don't trust."

  After Laura and Danny leave for their tour, Mr. Hudson steps into the lobby. He follows the perimeter of the dome, past The Moonwalk Café where a few androwaiters are laying out breakfast servings.

  "I'm looking for a woman,” says Mr. Hudson.

  "Aren't we all?” says an androwaiter.

  Mr. Hudson winces. “I mean a specific woman."

  "What is her name?"

  "I don't know,” says Mr. Hudson.

  "What is she wearing?"

  "I'm not sure. It could be a pink dress."

  "How old is she?"

  "About ninety or so, I would guess."

  "That limits the selections to thirty-four. Would you like to have a porter show them to you?"

  "No thanks,” says Mr. Hudson. “I'll just look around."

  Mr. Hudson circles the dome several times, studying every face he meets. Occasionally, he cuts through the heart of the dome to make sure he has left no recess unsearched. He finds a lot of women, several women in pink, and even one old woman in pink. Just not the one he is looking for. He is about to go back to his room when he looks up.

  Mr. Hudson follows “Viewing Platform This Way” signs to a set of stairs beside an elevator. He climbs the stairs faster than any ninety-four-year-old man should and finally comes to a large deck, bordered by guard rails on one side and an enormous, dark window on the other. Mr. Hudson looks out the window. He knows he is looking onto the surface of the Moon but can't make out much except a few blurred shapes.

  In front of the window, planted in a long trough, grows an immaculate row of small, yellow tulips protected by a glass shell. Between the tulip and the window, scrolls a banner: Smooth Passing is proud to honor Karen Jenkins, Gary Falmouth, Arnett Jones, and Sarah Birdsong.

  "So, what do you think?” asks a voice from behind. Mr. Hudson turns and sees the woman in pink, only she isn't wearing pink now; she is dressed in white. “Is it like you thought it would be?” she asks.

  Mr. Hudson wants to speak, but his tongue is dead and his lips are frozen. The old woman steps to Mr. Hudson's side and stares out the window. “There they are,” she says with fascination.

  "Hard to see them,” says Mr. Hudson, finally forcing a few words out.

  "If you're having trouble, look away from the glass,” says the old woman. “At least that's what the brochure says."

  Mr. Hudson looks down at the tulips; one is marred by an orange blemish on one petal. Suddenly four urns pop into focus on the surface of the Moon. They are carved out of stone, tastefully lit by aimed spotlights, and spaced with plenty of room for more urns later.

  "So what do you think of them?” asks the old woman.

  "Who are they?"

  "Today's honorees."

  "On the Moon forever?” asks Mr. Hudson, talking easier now.

  "Is that so bad?” asks the old woman.

  "It seems a little out of the way,” says Mr. Hudson. Laura had described the Smooth Passing interment policies to him, but they hadn't seemed real until now.

  "Think of it more as a quiet, secluded spot,"says the old woman. “By the way, my name is Susan, Susan Weiss."

  "I'm Jack,” says Mr. Hudson, and then adds, without even thinking about it, “but I'm not a jackass."

  Susan looks at Mr. Hudson, puzzled. “Did I say you were?” she asks, considering the possibility.

  "You did,” says Mr. Hudson, “yesterday."

  "Oh, yes,” she says with recognition. “I'm usually right about those things. I think I'll need more proof than just your word."

  Mr. Hudson lays his hand on the glass shell above the fragile tulip with the blemish. “I would pluck you a flower to show how charming I really am, but they are hard to get to."

  "That's for protection,” says Susan.

  "From radiation?"

  "From tulip pluckers; the radiation isn't bad here.” Susan gently strokes the glass shell with one finger. “Besides, you wouldn't want to pluck these tulips."

  "I wouldn't?"

  "They're special. Called Janet's Tulips. Named after Smooth Passing's first customer."

  "Lucky her,” says Mr. Hudson.

  "She brought them with her. I used to plant this kind every fall on Earth.” Susan tugs at the brochure sticking out of Mr. Hudson's hip pocket. “Didn't you study up before you came?"

  "Never got past the opening picture,” says Mr. Hudson. “I was afraid it might spoil the surprises."

  "Well I hope you know the ending or you're in for a real shock."

  "I do know the ending,” says Mr. Hudson. “I do."

  * * * *

  Mr. Hudson is on the Moon, and he knows why he is there—he has lived too long. So has Susan. They descend the stairs and stroll to the garden where, beside copper trees and robotic squirrels, they talk all morning. At noon they eat Crater Salads at The Moonwalk Café. After sharing an order of apple slices for dessert, they walk some more. They really don't know where they are going; they are just going, walking slowly.

  "How will it happen?” asks Mr. Hudson.

  "You mean tonig
ht?"

  "Yes."

  "I don't know,” says Susan. “Kind of a trade secret."

  "Of course,” says Mr. Hudson.

  "It won't hurt. The form guarantees that."

  "I didn't read the form,” says Mr. Hudson.

  Susan takes Mr. Hudson by the hand. “Come with me,” she says, leading him down a corridor to a set of wooden doors, old and out of place here, unpainted, unvarnished.

  "What is this place?” asks Mr. Hudson.

  "The sign on the door says it can be either a church, a temple, or a pub,” says Susan. “We can go in for fifty an hour. For a hundred you get drinks."

  Mr. Hudson searches his pockets. “This should last us for a while,” he says, pulling out his last coin and handing it to Susan. “Make it with drinks."

  Susan slides the coin into a slot and presses a button marked “pub.” The sign on the door flashes Please Wait five times and then changes to a steady Enter.

  The pub is a dark, narrow room with a bar on one end and three stark, wooden tables on the other. Short, plump, human-looking figures sit on benches at two of the tables. Four of the figures look like men and three like women, but they all look sad and grotesque, hunched over small, metal mugs.

  "Who are they?” whispers Mr. Hudson.

  "I guess they're androdrunks,” says Susan. “Probably for atmosphere."

  Mr. Hudson slips by the shortest, ugliest figure and makes his way to the bar where an androtender waits for him, dishtowel draped neatly over one arm.

  "I'll have a scotch,” says Mr. Hudson. “On the rocks."

  The androtender pours the drink, sets it down in front of Mr. Hudson, and says, “O Grave, where is thy victory?"

  "Excuse me?” asks Mr. Hudson.

  The androtender puts down the bottle of scotch, picks up a cracked glass, and washes it.

  "What did you say?” asks Mr. Hudson.

  The androtender looks into Mr. Hudson's eyes. “Earth to earth,” he says.

  Mr. Hudson turns to Susan. “Shouldn't he be saying things like ‘What'll it be’ and ‘Nice weather we're having'?"

  "Looks like the wrong soundtrack,” says Susan.

  "And I spent my last coin. Can't even step out and reload the bar."