Heinlein's Children

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“So, they’re finally coming after me, after all these years?” I say to my wife, who is standing over my patio lounge chair, awaiting my reaction to the news she’d just seen on the video. I turn my head to hide my tremulous emotional reactions from her view. I’ve always heard the expression, not knowing whether to laugh or cry; only now do I realize what it means. A knot forms in my throat. It’s been worth it, but now that it’s over.... Hell, I admit to myself, I’m still afraid. After all these years.

Joyce, however, can’t hold back the tears. “It was just on the news, honey. They’re looking for you. ‘The Trillion Dollar Thief’ they’re calling you,” she sobs. “Is it—” she can’t bring herself to ask, knowing I’ll tell the truth no matter what. She bites her lower lip, at the same time brushing away a wisp of long gray hair with a graceful movement of her left hand. I’ve always admired her girlish shrug that follows, an unconscious but erotic motion that sets her long, long curls into sinuous movement. Once those locks were dark, dark red; now devoid of color, they mark her years—somewhere in the middle of the seventh decade of an eventful life. My own remaining skull covering, thin and sparse, matches that gray, year for earned year. I’ve kept hoping for the nano-medical revolution to come home, but so far the PacRimmers haven’t dropped their prices enough that we can afford rejuve-jobs, not on my retirement pay.

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