SPRING, 2002

1.

Marty wondered if it would work as well to be pickled in a jar at death. Not frozen after death--pickled and preserved. How in hell was that better than being frozen? You don’t rot in either case, and being pickled is a hell of a lot less costly.

“It’s after the disaster,” he was saying now; “human beings will run this machine into the ground. They don’t know how to handle things--if the aliens don’t come and, what’s the word . . . ?”

“Marty, I have no idea what you’re saying,” said Alex.

“Paternalism,” said Marty.

“Fuck it all,” said Alex. He didn’t quite know what he meant.

They made their way out of the apartment complex as rain was starting to fall. They made it to the bus shelter before it let loose and poured. It felt good to be in that rectangle of glass as they watched the downpour beat down all around them. But one by one passersby sought shelter there as well, so that it became a rectangular block of humanity, stuffed into a little sheltered corner, packed full.

“The aliens,” Marty was saying--“they know how to do this shit.”

“What shit?” asked Alex.

“Live,” said Marty. “Rule a world. Handle conflict. Human beings . . .”

“I can’t hear you, what?” said Alex.

The rain continued to muffle Marty’s words.

Alex stopped listening and said finally, “I ought to buy a car.”

“What?”