Last Stop on the Green Line

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The snow in Harvard Yard was a foot deep, and Harry Simpson was up to his knees in it.

And up to his hips, his shoulders, and his neck. He realized without shock or surprise that he was lying on his back in the middle of the icy confection.

He opened his eyes and looked up at a sharp blue sky framed by the wall of Memorial Church and a row of low shrubberies.

A moment passed before he remembered the party. It was one of those on-line dorm affairs where everyone talked to each other through their think-man, so no one paid much attention to a twenty-six-year-old public service student like Harry Simpson, allowing him to drink far more than he should have.

And on the way home, the yard in front of the church had seemed as inviting as his own bed and much, much closer.

The shrubs had shielded him from view of passing students and the campus police, and his rik-suit had saved him from freezing to death. The Rik-technology garment that had been the fashion rage a year ago was now hopelessly out of style, but it still served its purpose.

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