Just in some space of great blankness, with me there beside him.
See me? he said.
Yes, I said.
Who am I? he said.
K. J. Boone, I said.
The son of a bitch who destroyed the planet, he said.
Maybe rest a bit, I said.
So say the cretins, he said.
Well, I said.
In a pig’s ass, he said.
He turned to me and drew in close, uncomfortably so.
You didn’t have to go through any of this, did you? he said. The long death. Lucky you. Just blew right up. Bang: gone.
Lucky me, I said dryly.
There in our shared mental space, he tilted his head.
What? I said.
Your pal’s nearby, he said. Frenchie. I can feel him.
You can feel him, I said.
Bringing some new turd up here, he said. Some new dead turd. To spook me.
If he was able to sense the Frenchman’s proximity, his end must be very soon indeed.
His father had been here. His mother had been here (albeit only in his mind). When his mother came for real, his time would be short; mother and father would unite, and all would be done.
Have you considered that matter? I said. That matter we discussed?
He seemed to be drawing a blank.
Elevation? I reminded him gently.
Hooey, he said.
—
At that moment the Frenchman strode in, looking elated and windblown, white rose in the pocket of his glaringly white jacket, wearing white trousers, white leather boots, and a white scarf.
He was almost too radiant to look at.
At last I have found it, he said. The perfect means by which to set this fellow on the path to repentance.
I’m lying right here, you bastard, my charge said.
Greetings, the Frenchman said. Mr. Bhuti, if you please.
