A Time for Dying by Jude Hardin Page B

so—”
    “I can be there in thirty minutes,” I said.
    “I’ll be here waiting for you.”
    I grabbed my jacket and my keys and headed out the door.

2
    That night, Brenda and I were lying in bed pretending to watch a movie from the twentieth century called High Noon . I hadn’t told her the good news yet, but the money had already been transferred. Ten million bucks. I’d checked my balance at an ATM on the way home from Rutherford’s office.
    “I love you,” Brenda said.
    “I love you too.”
    “I’m going to miss you.”
    I held her closer. “You’re not going to start crying again, are you?”
    “It’s our last night together, Warren. What do you expect?”
    “I know. It’s crazy. I’m in perfect health, and the government—”
    “I just remembered something,” she said. “Chairman L was supposed to make some kind of big announcement on television tonight. Everyone at work was talking about it.”
    “Do we really care?”
    “We might, if it affects our lives, or the life of our child.”
    “It’s probably about as important as the last big announcement he made,” I said.
    “About the toilets?”
    “Yeah.”
    Because of the severe drought, Chairman L had signed a bill making it illegal for anyone living in states west of the Mississippi to flush on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Luckily, Bren and I lived in Georgia, where you could still take a dump seven days a week.
    “Mind if I pause the movie for a few minutes?” she said.
    “What time is he supposed to come on?”
    “Nine, so the live broadcast is already over. But I’m sure they’re showing snippets on channel one.”
    “Whatever,” I said. “Can I tell you something first?”
    “Hold on.”
    She paused the movie, clicked over to the National News Channel. Chairman L’s fat head filled the screen.
    “…so to celebrate the love I have for each and every one of you, and to commemorate the huge strides we’ve made in population control, I’m giving you a special gift this Valentine’s Day. On February fourteenth, at the stroke of midnight, every living man, woman, and child on the planet will receive twenty-five extra years on their microchips. That’s an extra quarter of a century for everyone…”
    “ No! ” I shouted.
    I grabbed the remote, switched off the television, climbed out of bed and started pacing around the room.
    “What’s the matter with you?” Brenda said. “This is great! Didn’t you hear what he said? We’re all going to get twenty-five extra years. You’re not going to have to die so soon after all.”
    A wave of nausea washed over me. I hadn’t sold one hour to William B. Rutherford’s anonymous client. I’d sold twenty-five years.
    Twenty-five years .
    Rutherford and his client must have known. Somehow, they must have gotten word about Chairman L’s valentine to the world weeks before the public announcement was made.
    “This can’t be legal,” I said. “It’s like back when we had the stock exchange. You couldn’t use inside information to buy and sell. You could go to prison for years. This has to be something like that. There has to be some kind of law to prevent—”
    “Calm down. You’re making me nervous.”
    “I have to figure this out. There must be a way.”
    “You’re not making any sense, Warren. Stock exchange? You know, I vaguely remember that from my history classes. What are you talking about?”
    “I’m going to get it back,” I said.
    “Get what back?”
    I couldn’t bear to tell her what a fool I’d been. I grabbed some clothes and a pair of shoes and stormed out of the bedroom, stopping at the foyer to dress myself before heading out into the night.

3
    I watched the sun come up over William B. Rutherford’s office. On the way, I’d stopped at an all-night pharmacy to get my prescription filled. That’s the thing about Gen-41. You have to take it every day or you start going downhill fast.
    I swallowed my pill and drank some coffee, but I must have dozed