DEAR AUNT ANNIE

GORDON EKLUND

Dear Aunt Annie,

I think I must be going insane—no, I really mean that —insane. You see, last week on a Thursday, I tried to kill myself. I know that’s supposed to be impossible, but the doctor stopped by, saved my life and called it an accident. I just don’t know. Just because nobody else ever does it, why does that mean I can’t be different? You’ve got to help me, I don’t want to die and nobody else cares. Don’t mention this letter to my husband. He wouldn’t understand.

In Bad Trouble

Mathew’s Adventure in Brooklyn:

So we take this letter, just as it is written—bright green ink on pale pink paper—and run it through the identifier. Click-click-click and two minutes later we’ve got a name and an address. Mrs. Ronald R. Wheatley of Brooklyn. Jesus, Brooklyn. I thought nobody lived there since the Great Last War. Aunt Annie says I’m to handle this one personally. It sounds much too dangerous—too weird—for any assistant ghost. Five minutes later, letter clutched in my hand, I’m gone.

Brooklyn is a very dirty, very filthy area, unmentioned in all the recent travel booklets. The bombs did a very thorough job in their day and the scavengers, still around, hunting for extracts and antiques, have lugged away the remaining beauty. Mrs. Wheatley lives in a bombed-out apartment house without neighbors.

I ring her bell and wait, whistling a popular ditty. I’m feeling very fine, dressed in the highest of current fashion with black leather kneeboots and a slick handlebar moustache. My face is twisted, of course, as I always wear Compassionate Number Five during working hours. Not that I really need it. I am basically a very compassionate person, as is well known. It’s one of my hangups. Mrs. Wheatley lets me in, a very trusting person as she asks nothing of me. Still, these days, there’s nothing to fear. We enter her cluttered kitchen and sit, waiting.

Mrs. Wheatley is, in a word, ugly, too old for youth and too poor for cosmetics. I feel especially sorry for her, it being such a beautiful day and her having that brief but hairy little wart sticking out of the left side of her nose.

“Mrs. Wheatley, my name is Mathew and I’m from Aunt Annie. We got your In Trouble letter and we want to help you.” She’s looking straight across at me and my Compassionate Number Five is just right for the occasion. I can sense her heart going pitty-pat-pat as she realizes that, at last, she has the help she needs.

“Thank God!” she outbursts, clapping her hands and flashing a joyous beam. I notice that she is wearing—oh, hell, I don’t know what to call it. Some sort of smock, I guess, bright yellow in color, which hangs to the floor, sweeping up the dust and breadcrumbs. Her hair is false and dark red, like the interior of a vast H-Bomb explosion. (Not that I’ve ever seen one.)

I love you, Mrs. Ronald Wheatley of Brooklyn, really I do. You are not ugly. How unperceptive first impressions can be. You are beautiful. Don’t let them take that away from you—not ever. It’s the only reason I stay in the newspaper game, running errands for Aunt Annie. People are so damned well off that it’s nearly impossible to find anyone who needs help. You are one of the few, Mrs. Wheatley, and I love you for it.

“What did you say your name was, young man? Was it Mathew?”

I nod at her, compassionately.

“You must be proud; such a lovely name.”

While she’s ripe and beaming, I launch into my prepared spiel: “Mrs. Wheatley, as you know Aunt Annie is an elderly woman. It is impossible for her to handle personally all the letters she receives. But I am one of her closest associates, and I can assure you that talking to me will be just like talking to Aunt Annie herself. Now, we have your letter and it says that you tried to—”

“—kill myself, yes. I know how ridiculous that sounds. It’s supposed to be impossible. But…”

“Could you fill us in on some of the details? All we have is your letter.”

Her eyes are blue. I hadn’t noticed that before. They are the most delicate of eyes like the clear lakes where we used to swim when I was a child, like the sky over the Rockies fighting for life against weather control, like the aura of a new bom kitten, like many of the things I hold dear.

“It happened a week ago, on a Thursday. I was having my morning coffee, like right now, and I got up and went into the bathroom. I don’t know why—it was almost like I had to do it. I dropped the pills into my cup and they dissolved and I drank them. They’re my husband’s. He has an arti-ticker and they keep his body in balance.”

“Did you know the effect of the pills in advance?”

“I did.” As we talk, the MFW device in my pocket is draining her mind of thought and storing it, giving us a chance, after analysis, to know her true feelings and motivations. But already I am considering solutions. First, we must make her beautiful again. I can tell by her voice, by her eyes, that she was once lovely indeed. Middle-age is the curse of the poor, who have no means to fight it. But that’s what Aunt Annie is for. We will transform Mrs. Wheatley into the living reincarnation of Greta Garbo, of Marilyn Monroe, of a dozen Kennedy women. All of this and only the beginning.

“What does your husband do, Mrs. Wheatley?”

“Do you have to know? I just want to stop trying to kill myself. My husband has nothing to do with it.” Poor, deluded woman.

“We have to know all about you, Mrs. Wheatley. Please.”

“Oh, all right. He has a small shop in Manhattan. He sells old things, books and magazines mostly.”

“Why, isn’t that a coincidence? My hobby is collecting old pre-war books and magazines.”

“Really? I think every man should have a hobby.”

The MFW device is beeping at me, signaling that it has drained the woman of all necessary information. I stand and offer her my hand, wishing that I could somehow assure her that all will be well.

“I’ll return soon,” I promise and she nods.

Outside and the foul Brooklyn air stings my nostrils. The poor, sad woman. What could have caused her vicious delusions of suicide? She needs help so badly. No time can be wasted.

And I love her.

Aunt Annie at Work and Play.

I am in the middle of reaching certain definite conclusions regarding eventual projects when my receptionist, Mr. Blackwell, beeps me.

“Annie, Aerial is out here to see you.”

“Give me thirty seconds, then send him in.”

I sigh. So much for philosophic conclusions. Aerial is the most impatient of men, not the type one keeps waiting. I hate him, if it is possible for me to hate anyone, but I must tolerate him. He’s been Annie’s chief assistant for years and years, even before my time. There’s nothing I can do.

Aerial saunters through the door and plops his rear on the edge of my desk. I think he comes to see me only when he’s bored. He was once a United States Senator, you know, when there were such things. He’s never quite adjusted to private life.

“Today’s column is awful, Annie. Doesn’t anybody have interesting problems any more?”

“A rather intriguing one came in this morning. I think I’ll use it in tomorrow’s column.” I pass him the letter from Mrs. Ronald Wheatley of Brooklyn. He reads it and shakes his head.

“This is crap, Annie. You can’t commit suicide.”

“This woman thinks she can.”

“Bullshit. You know better than that.” A pause for thought “Who’s ghosting this?”

“Mathew. It’s his sector.”

Aerial strokes his chin carefully. “It’s too big for him. Let me handle it.”

“Impossible,” I say, shaking my head. “You know I won’t interfere with my ghosts in normal procedural matters. We should have an MFW reading on the woman this afternoon. Hold your horses till then.”

He shrugs and starts pacing the room. I’ve never seen a man pace so much. What’s his problem? Tons of money in the bank; seventy years old and looks twenty-five; three women on each hand. He ought to leave the pacing to the Mrs. Ronald Wheatleys of the world.

“I think you’re making a mistake, Annie.”

“I try to avoid them.” More than that, actually. I don’t think it’s possible for me to make an error. At least, I hope not.

“Don’t make one now, Annie. The country couldn’t stand the shock. You know how essential your image is for national stability. I’d hate to have your responsibility.”

Why, the liar. Everyone knows his hands are itching to grab control of Annie Enterprises. It’s the only reason he hasn’t retired and moved to Florida. But he won’t get the chance. Current figures do not predict my Final Breakdown for another fifty years. Aerial will be long gone by then. If I were Annie/Flesh, I would tell him the facts and laugh in his youthful face. But I have not been programmed for irony.

“You shall have my responsibilities soon,” I lie. “I’m not a young woman. I can’t go on forever. When I die, everything will be yours. Just as long as you keep your nose clean.”

I can smell his fear. It rises from his pores like a steam-cloud and fills the room, mingling with hate and anger in a maelstrom of emotion.

Keep your nose clean. I use that phrase as a lever to keep Aerial on his toes, but I have no idea of its significance. It’s there somewhere, buried in the maze of Annie/Flesh memories, hidden deeply where I can’t reach it. In thirty years I have succeeded in penetrating only the soft surface of her consciousness. In thirty more, I expect to get little farther. She was a sly, secretive, brilliant woman. I wish I could have known her.

“I’m going to try to find Mathew. He ought to be around.” Aerial is shuffling, fighting to stifle his fear/hate/anger. “I want to talk to him about this case.”

“As you go out, ask Mr. Blackwell to see that I’m not disturbed. I feel the need for rest.”

‘There’s nothing wrong? You’re not worrying about this Wheatley matter?”

“No, of course not. I’m just getting old.” I sigh, getting him ready for the nostalgia. “Aerial, you and I can remember, can’t we? We’re not like these kids, not like Mathew. We remember when murder and rape were common occurrences. We remember the summer riots and the yearly wars. We remember when our columns were filled with unfaithful wives and horny husbands, with impregnated teenagers and homosexual uncles. We remember the thieves and the whores, the blackmailers and the pimps. We remember it all, don’t we, Aerial?”

“Yes, Annie, we do.”

“And we have much for which we are thankful. The country is a better place now. Without us, it might not have been so. Compared to what you and I have seen, this Wheatley matter is nothing, even if it were true.”

“And it isn’t.”

“I don’t imagine so.”

Aerial stops shuffling and smiles at me. It is a winning smile, cosmetically perfect, guaranteed to delight young and old. Aerial no more believes my bullshit nostalgia than I do, but he exits, office door center, his smile still firmly in place.

I sit alone, hearing the low rumble of voices coming through the door, and I am afraid. Underneath the perfection of our society, something is moving, something alive, and it is rising and threatening to devour us.

The Wheatley case is directly connected to his. I am sure of it. If I can find out how, perhaps, just perhaps, I can do something before it is too late.

Do I sound like an old woman stuffed full of bad horror stories? Are you worried that next I will start spouting off about vast unnameables and blasphemous evils and horrible stinking bogs?

Have pity on an old machine. I think it’s more than that. Annie/Flesh—she can feel it, too. Her memories churn, trying to tell me something, but unable to speak. The memories of 114 years. How I wish I had them now.

Is it possible for a machine to be afraid? Have I been programmed for fear?

Dear Jesus, help your Aunt Annie now. In her time of great trial, she has need of your helping hand.

Mathew Sings Again:

I really love old Rock, Sports Editor of the Eastern American Daily, and one of my two best friends. Rock’s an old, old man—right up there with Aunt Annie in the hundreds —and he knows more of the old legends than any other man I’ve ever met. Right now, he’s spinning the yarn of the Grand Gone Namath who, while dancing the bop in his white tennis sneakers, tossed the old pigskin right through the powerful Super-Colts. It’s quite a tale the way old Rock tells it and I’m sitting on the edge of his desk, letting it flow through my ears.

But the legend ends, as all of them do, with the Great Last War and the sacrifice of the Grand Gone Namath and we switch the subject matter, moving on to that living legend, Aunt Annie, who happens to be my boss.

“I was here when she first arrived”—this is Rock speaking —”and you should have seen her. Buck Braxton, he was City Editor back then, he spots her column in some weekly rag out of Iowa. He laughs his head off and shoots her a wire on the spot, offering double salary and a free train ticket. Couple days later, she comes bouncing in the office, all ready to go, looking about a hundred and fifty—”

“She’s a hundred and fourteen now.”

“And looked it back then. She ain’t changed a bit in fifty years and she don’t touch cosmetics.”

“I know. Tell me about Aerial.”

“Okay,” Rock says, taking a deep breath and knowing I’ve heard it a million times. “Aerial is Annie’s kid, her bastard son. It happened back in Iowa, long before anybody in New York ever heard of her. She was only a kid and running a column in a little Iowa weekly. She gets this letter from an old farmer, a real pitiful character. He’s ugly and he’s got big ears and his wife’s just left him and his kids hate his guts. Annie falls for him immediately, of course, that being her way even then. She drives out to give the farmer a helping hand and nine months later, she’s got a little Aerial on her hands. Annie’s folks raise the boy—they understand her pretty well—and he grows up hardly even knowing his mother. When Annie comes to New York, Aerial stays behind. Nothing is heard of him for a long while and then, all of a sudden, he shows up in the US Senate, a great big crackpot, last of the Grand Old Republicans. But he don’t last long. The Senate gets dissolved shortly thereafter and Aerial flips out. They dump him in Long Island Psycho and eventually Annie bails him out and makes him her chief assistant. Some say Aerial’s head is scrambled and he can’t remember who his mother is; others say he knows but won’t let on. Me—I just don’t know.”

“That’s a good story,” I say.

“But there are better. Have you heard the tale of the Beatles? You haven’t? That’s good, because I was on the dock when they first came to America. “

“That was a long time ago. You must have been awful young.”

“I was.”

But before Rock can once again tell me the story of the Beatles, Aerial comes bustling out of Annie’s office, his lips twisted into a grin, his face very white. He stops in front of us and lashes Rock with a dirty glare, as if aware of our recent discussion.

“Mathew, that stuff you had in the column yesterday, that woman in Jersey wanting to know why nobody reads books any more, that’s junk. Everybody knows the answer to that.”

“I don’t,” says Rock.

“And that woman in the Bronx who wants to know about raising mutant peas in Brooklyn, what kind of shit is that? We need human material, letters with some feeling to them. Is this stuff the best you can do?”

“I’ve got a good one for tomorrow.”

“The Wheatley woman?”

“Yeah—Annie tell you about it?”

“She mentioned it, but it’s crap. You can’t kill yourself unless you’re skipping your AVC sessions. If that’s Mrs. Wheatley’s problem, then she’s police business, not ours.”

“She goes every other day. I checked.”

“Then she’s crazy—psycho stuff. People don’t want to read about that.”

“You want to wait on her MFW? It ought to be along shortly.”

“I haven’t the time. I’m not feeling well. If anything comes up, ask Annie to contact me.”

“I will,” I promise. Aerial departs without fanfare.

“I hate that bastard,” Rock says.

“I don’t. I love him. But that’s one of my hangups. I love everybody.”

“So I’ve heard.”

We piddle briefly as Rock fills me in on the legendary four Beatles and of the emergence of a fifth just prior to the Great Last War. Much of it is crap, that much I know, being a book reader and having knowledge of many of the old ways. Still, I keep quiet, listening to Rock’s tale and nodding at all the proper points. Rock speaks with the voice of truth, letting the facts fall as they may. He knows the way.

As Rock finishes, the MFW on Mrs. Whealey finally arrives. I read it as Rock waits and I gulp and let my face turn white. The facts sink in and I shake my head and gulp again.

“Is it bad?” Rock prods.

“Worse than bad. It’s awful.”

“You mean this woman really is trying to kill herself? Aerial said it was impossible.”

“Aerial was wrong.”

I jump to my feet and rush past Mr. Blackvvell, breaking into Annie’s bleak white office. I am more frightened than I can ever remember being. Once, when I was a boy, I was almost trapped in a raging forest fire. I was saved only through the efforts of Ralph, my brother.

“Annie, Jesus Christ,” I shout. “This is awful.”

She nods, as if knowing.

“Mrs. Wheatley did try to kill herself and—what’s worse —she did it because she hates her husband. She violently hates him. That’s a direct quote from the report—I have it here. She violently hates her husband.”

“That so,” Annie says, still showing not a trace of fear, her face calm and beatific. Flipping her beeper: “Mr. Blackwell—arrange a full-scale ghost conference for this afternoon. Insure everyone attends—it’s urgent.”

“Aerial went home sick,” I inform her.

She sighs, looking very ancient indeed. “I’ll reach him.”

I open the door and quietly flee. Rock is gone and Mr. Blackwell is busily engaged on the phone.

The future looks very black-black for Annie Enterprises and for the whole of America, but I do not fear. (Or do I?)

Aerial’s Delusion:

I’m heading out of Annie’s office sanctum at a fast pace, when who do I run into but the goddamn high-pitched Mathew and he’s sitting on the desk of that goddamn sports-writing pseudo-genius Rock (as if anybody gave a hot damn about sports in this era) and there’s no way to avoid either of them.

I’m still feeling very hot regarding Annie’s collection of pseudo-nostalgia (sure, I remember all that, but why rub it in?) and most especially her Doris Dilby insinuation. “Keep your nose clean,” she tells me, knowing full well that I’ve done exactly that for over seventy years, with only a solitary Doris Dilbian slip.

I speak briefly with Mathew, as Rock and I glare, and at last I’m away, down the elevator and into the crowded street. I turn to stare at the vast black monolith of the Eastern American Daily, largest newspaper in the country, and someday mine—all mine. (I’m aware of the Hitler-Napoleonism inherent in my tone but Jesus, man, it’s true; it’s true.) Dear Aunt Annie, won’t you please hurry up and die so that your rich, fat bastard son can at last be free? (Won’t you please do this one little thing, lovely lady?)

It’s a hot, sticky New York day and the weather control is again on the blink. I feel a great need to cool off, what with my body temperature shooting way past the healthy point and my vast collection of aggressions crawling around inside me, screaming to be set free. I hail a passing aircab and we head through the heat to the nearest AVC (Anti-Violence Clinic). It’s a nice trip as the driver keeps silent.

I am a fervent hater of the clinics, a fact that is well known. When they came up for Senate approval, I was the only man to vote against them, just as I later stood alone in opposition to the final dissolution of the Senate. We hear all this pissing and pleading for the great dissenters of the past, many of whom are already Certified Legends. But what about me, last of the great Republican Lincoln-Ike-Tafts, the crew that actually built this whole damned country with their bare, bloody palms? I’ll tell you what happens to me. I open my mouth and I get literally pissed on by every mean, vicious little man in this whole wide nation. If it weren’t for my dear, sweet Aunt Annie, I’d probably be floating in my own bathtub right this moment.

As usual, the lower classes clog the AVC, trying to rid themselves of all their petty little frustrations. My skin crawling, I push my way through the steaming masses ignoring the occasional head-turn and gasp of recognition. I still get an infrequent autograph request from those who notice that I look exactly the same as I did thirty years ago when I was the (boy wonder) junior Senator from the Great Corn State.

“When were you last here, sir?” asks the pert, bare-breasted little imp in the ticket booth.

“Two weeks ago.”

“May I see your Clinic Card?” I pass it to her, she stamps it, and tells me that I am required by law to return within three months. Law, shit. I helped write that law before this fine, young, pert, bare-breasted imp was even born. (Voted against it, too.)

“Please go right inside, Senator. It’s a privilege to have you visit us.”

I ignore her come-on and head inside, still pushing the people out of my way. I find a seat—filthy, full of holes— between an elderly Harlem resident (thank God for the A-VC’s in that respect) and a young secretary chickie, bare-breasted and long-limbed. A pill is pressed into my hand and I swallow it promptly, leaning back, closing my eyes, waiting for the fantasy.

Annie.

Of course. It’s always Annie and I move on the attack, hands filled with knife-hatchet-manacles-gun-club-bang-kill-bang. She rises and floats in front of me, left eye dying, right eye gleaming, and she says something I do not hear.

She flips, turning in the air, her dress falling, revealing the wrinkled flesh of a century and a quarter (almost). The red comes from mouth-nose-throat-left-eye and she’s still screaming, knowing exactly what she stands for.

The red flows and molds, gleams and spits and there’s something inside calling my name. You’ve got nothing, it says, till I stab you with the truth.

It’s stinking up the air, dripping in my face and soiling my fresh, clean clothes. I scream at Annie, my voice searing my ears, telling her to leave—I’ve had enough, enough, too much.

Doris Dilby, where are you now that I need a rape fantasy?

Ah, blonde goddess, here you come now, mud bucket gripped tightly in your left hand, eyes bulging with the knowledge of what is to come. The shovel dips into the pail and the mud splats against my nose, bringing howling laughter from a thousand spectators.

White flesh can be black (or green) but the red is the red forever.

Go away.

Get the hell out of my mind. I need to be alone with my fantastic Doris Dilbian images. Can’t you see that? What else is left for a broken-down degenerate ex-Senator?

Please.

Two hours later, it’s over and the dried-up fantasies drift away in the breeze. I get shakily to my feet and head toward the door, pausing to stomp a scurrying ant.

I can remember it all—every bloody murderous detail, every delicate thrusting rape, every tightening of the rack of screws.

You’re not supposed to be able to do that. You’re supposed to feel clean inside, non-violent, like a fat angel resting at the left arm of God.

I may be the last individual on this whole planet. I alone have escaped the peaceful curse of the AVC’s. Me. The last violent man on earth. Aerial.

“Have a good day,” says the pert imp, as I depart. I ignore her, getting into my cab and heading homeward. Even before I hit the front step, I hear the jingle of the phone.

“Aerial, this is Annie. I’ve been trying to reach you all afternoon. I’m having a full-scale ghost conference at four and I want you there.”

“What’s up?”

“The Wheatley woman. Her MFW analysis indicates suppressed violent tendencies.”

“That’s impossible,” says the last violent man.

“I’m afraid it’s not. Just be sure you’re here. This is turning into an extremely delicate case.”

I drop the phone and laugh in my pocket, happy for the first time in thirty years. I’ve told them all along to forget their silly-ass clinics, their pretensions of anti-violence. What have I ever got out of a session except an afternoon of low-grade thrills? Bad movies, that’s all they are, lousy stag movies created from the flotsam of the subject’s mind. Anti-violence. Hah. Who are they trying to kid?

I knew there had to be others. I knew I couldn’t be alone. The last violent man and now, at last, another.

But—really—Mrs. Ronald R. Wheatley of Brooklyn?

Well, what the hell. We few violent people can’t afford to be picky.

Mathew Tests His Sinews:

I have to see the husband. I can’t picture Mrs. Wheatley with her blue-blue eyes and all that ugly viciousness buried beneath. It’s his fault; I can feel it. The Greater Manhattan Directory has a listing in the lightest of small type: “Wheatley’s Books and Mags.” I copy the address and hail an air-cab.

The shop is old and tiny. Its windows are painted black and the air around it is still. On one side is a large porno-action gallery; on the other, a health food center. I open the door and it squeaks.

Wheatley is alone at the counter. He is around fifty and his face is fat. His gray hair recedes gracelessly past a wrinkled forehead. His eyes stare at me from super-thick spectacles and I search his features for the love-sign I find in everyone (such as, with Mrs. Wheatley, her blue-blue eyes).

I find nothing.

“Can I help you?” he asks, startling me.

“I’m, ah, looking for some books.”

“This is a bookstore.” When he speaks, he wheezes.

“Some science fiction books, I guess. Do you have any pre-war material?” I am standing on firm ground now, discussing my hobby.

“We’ve got better than that.” On the edge of the counter, he exposes the March 1930 issue of Wonder Stories. My eyes glaze as I draw a deep breath.

“Not for sale,” he adds, “but we have other items.”

I follow him to the rear of the shop. Books surround us, piled to the ceiling, thick with dust. We stop before a large bin.

“Go ahead and look through them, ah—”

“Mathew.”

“Ah, yes, Mathew. If you find anything, just bring it to the desk.”

I am torn between hobby and duty. As he walks away, I reach into the bin and draw out a paperbound book. I open it and, as I do, it falls apart in my hands, the yellow pages cascading to the floor in clumps of five and ten.

Wheatley spins on his heel and glares at me as I stand holding the cover of the book between thumb and forefinger. It shows a long, thin spaceship hurtling through star-speckled skies. Inside it are a man and a woman. The woman is nude.

“No charge for that,” Wheatley says, without the trace of a smile. “These things happen all the time.”

“But—but,” I start, unable to draw my eyes away from the cover painting. I have to tell him. I can’t leave it at this. Total honesty. Yes, that’s the only solution.

“I am from Annie Enterprises.” My voice is quiet at first, then grows quickly louder. I am losing control. I don’t know what I’m saying. “Your wife, she was trying to kill herself and I stopped her and now we find out that she wants to kill you and why are you doing this to her and—”

“Shut up! Who the hell do you think you are, tin man? You can’t talk to me that way. Not in my store.”

“But it’s—”

“Get out! Get out of here before I put a bullet through your goddamned circuits.”

I see that he really means it. His eyes are bloated through the distorting lenses. They are threatening, vicious.

I stagger to the street, weak and exhausted. I lean against the door of the porno-action gallery, my breath slapping at my chest. I lift my right hand to wipe away the sweat on my brow. There’s something in it. The book cover. Yes, but no. It isn’t the same cover, it’s—I look at the painting and I scream so loudly that people two blocks away turn and stare, their mouths open, their eyes wide and popping.

I scream again and run—faster, faster—falling in the streets, crashing into walls and people. I stop only when I reach the nearest AVC, where I flash my ticket and rush inside.

Two hours later, I am out, just in time for the big conference. I remember nothing except my love for everybody.

America Sings in Praise of Aunt Annie:

Aunt Annie is a delight and a comfort to us all. Once, when I was just a kid, I wrote her a letter and said I was pregnant (actually I wasn’t). She sent a man out right away to fix me up with an abortion. She paid for it and everything. I had to go through with it, even though I wasn’t really that way. The doctor took out my appendix and my liver… Mrs. L.Q., Los Angeles, Calif.

My wife was trying to raise some flowers around the house and the neighbor children kept coming over and destroying them. I guess they were too young for AVC sessions. We wrote to Aunt Annie immediately and she sent a man the very next day with a bright green plastic fence. It did the trick and our flowers have thrived since. It never Would have happened without Aunt Annie… . Mr. R.C., Milford, Conn.

Aunt Annie is the greatest person in the world. Without her, this country would fall apart at the seams. She’s the only one we can trust… . Miss B.V., New York, N.Y.

Conference (Annie):

As I sit, mechanically twiddling my thumbs, Mathew comes bustling into the conference room, taking a chair across from Aerial. His face is white and his teeth are clenched tightly.

I say: “Mathew, you’re late.”

He flicks his eyes around the table, noting the presence of eleven ghosts and Aerial. Then he nods casually in my direction and starts shuffling papers. Something is wrong and I want to help him, having been programmed for that, but I am unable to understand him. Instead, I pound the table with my rubber mallet and call the meeting to order. Thirteen pairs of eyes focus in my direction, twelve attentively, and the thirteenth, Mathew, with vague curiosity, “No old business today. You’ve been briefed on the Wheatley case and we’re going directly into a study of it. Do you have any questions on what you’ve heard so far?”

“No, Aunt Annie,” eleven times. Aerial looks at the ceiling and Mathew continues his shuffling.

“I’m going to ask Mathew for a report Mrs. Wheatley lives in his sector and he’s talked to her.”

Mathew stands, his eyes on the table. Cautiously, he begins to speak and I shut off my direct-hearing. I know what he’s going to say and the time can be better spent in thought, in meditation. My problem is not one of knowledge, but of decision making.

Thirty years in this business and I’ve never yet had to strain a circuit. Everything’s run like an Italian electric train and now, suddenly, after all that time, I’ve got problems galore.

To begin with, there’s Mathew, for whom my feelings are strong. Annie/Flesh loved him, although she never met him, and I feel a deep affection for him myself. Mathew loves everyone. That’s the way he was built. Even another machine can’t help but return such love.

The Wheatley case is tearing him apart. The choice—the choice of deciding which of two people to kill—is setting him afire. Poor Mathew. How fortunate for his mechanical sanity that the final decision rests with me. Love is not my province. Compassion is. Murder is not alien to the compassionate mind.

I look at Aerial and his brow is sweating and his jaws are churning. They tell me that he is the blood son of Annie/Flesh. I can find no such recollection in the dense foliage of my Annie/Flesh memories, but I’m willing to accept anything. Something, too, is wrong with Aerial. He is moving closer to a breakdown and the fright within him is growing, preparing to burst.

I am Aunt Annie, the robot with a purpose in life, designed to insure that 150 million Americans retain their sanity. I am their mother and their father, their government and their god. I am the replica of Annie/Flesh, who held the same position for twenty years, and I am carrying her work toward its end.

And that end is within sight. The end is a choice, and the choice is one of death. Either Mrs. Wheatley or her husband must die. It’s as simple as that. My compassion circuits fight against rationality. I feel like unscrewing the ancient flesh of my chest and ripping out each and every one of those circuits. I can’t do it, of course. I am meant to suffer. Without suffering, there can be no real decision.

As Mathew drones on, I turn to my ghosts, flashing them smiles of reassurance, even though I do not feel it myself. There is Dizzy—fat, happy Dizzy of the L.A. Sector—dressed in his red burlap robes, his face beaming with permanent joy. Next to him sits Andy of Seattle, our resident intellectual, his forehead creased as he tries to take Mathew’s words and multiply them by five. And there’s little Mitzi of New Orleans and Duke of Chicago and more, on and on around the table.

They are my ghosts, my lovers, all twelve of them. Is it possible for a mechanical entity to feel the blessings of love? I think it is. I cannot give it, but I can receive it.

Within me, I feel decision expanding. The answer has been there always. At last, I recognize it.

I switch on my hearing, catching the conclusion of Mathew’s report. As he finishes, I am ready to join my God.

Conference (Aerial):

I hate listening to Mathew. He chews his words and spits them out in a flat, high-pitched voice that irritates the hell out of me. But I’m fascinated by what he says, especially in his description of this man, this Ronald Wheatley. I have to meet him, even if it means crawling through the doors of his dirty little bookshop. Ronald Wheatley is the answer. I feel that he, too, among us all, knows the supreme beauty of the violent mind. The last violent man plus one.

And these little old ladies would have his head brought before us on a platter. Their hot little tears are already running for the bag in Brooklyn. I’ve lost every other fight in my life, but not this one. I can’t afford to. The future of humanity may rest upon the decision of this conference. Aunt Annie, you stupid old gossip, you don’t know what you’ve got yourself into.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States.

And, why the hell not? We’re going to need a president and who’s better qualified than me, Aerial, the last violent man—or should that be the first violent man?

I’m the prophet, the living, breathing prophet. I knew it was going to happen. Said so all the time. Didn’t I warn them? We don’t need a government, they said. What’s it for, except to defend us from our enemies? We’ve got no more enemies. Down with the useless government. Everybody’s peaceful. Thomas Jefferson—you’re obsolete. Abe Lincoln, go away, we don’t need you any more. George Washington, old man, you can still be father, but just keep your hands off the power, okay?

And they were wrong and I was right. It’s a joke—don’t you see it?—it’s a very funny joke. No more enemies, huh? Well, we’ve got them now, plenty of them. Everybody’s his own worst enemy, just like before. It’s so goddamned funny I feel like I’m going to split. Hey—why aren’t you laughing? Don’t you get it?

I take a look around the table and almost puke in my hand. Annie’s twelve little handmaidens, each worse than the last, although none as bad as Mathew. Mathew, the virginal lover. He loves everybody. That’s his hangup. Hah. Well, he’s obsolete now. The new president will take care of him and his petty lovemaking.

Mathew shuts up at last and I take a deep breath. Annie catches my eye and I wonder how much she knows. I’ve underestimated her before, and I’ve always been sorry. The decision rests with her. Does she know the truth already?

“Aerial, I see you have something to say. Would you like to give us your opinion in this case?”

Would I like to? Hah. The old bag knows the answer to that one. I get to my feet and sweep both sides of the table with my eyes. This is it, I tell myself. This has to be done right. It cannot fail. The future of humanity depends on your next few words.

I take a deep breath, force a smile and begin.

“Early today I learned the facts in the case Mathew has just presented. I recognized its ultimate significance and, at the same time, I reached a personal decision in the matter. In a few moments, I will explain both my decision and the reasons behind it. But, first, I want to cover a little ancient history. It’s essential for a full understanding of this case.

“Our country was once a land of violence. Historians are now unanimous in fixing the blame for the Great Last War directly on the shoulders of the American government. In a manner of speaking, we Americans share the blame for the death of every other human being on this planet. Obviously, this is a difficult burden to bear. For the people of the time, it was not only difficult, but very nearly impossible.

“Thus came the development of the Anti-Violence Serum and, with it, the creation of the Anti-Violence Clinic. Within a matter of months, violence had disappeared from American society. At last, we had learned how to live peacefully with ourselves. Unfortunately, it had taken the deaths of three billion people in order for us to do it.

“I wouldn’t go over all this ancient history unless I felt it was essential to the Wheatley case. I think it is. I think it is of the utmost relevancy. I think you see it now. I think the pieces are beginning to fall into place for you as they did for me. Allow me to finish.

“In Mrs. Ronald R. Wheatley, we have an individual who should not exist. We have a violent woman. It does not matter that her violence is directed at herself and not at others. It does not matter that she is unaware of her own condition. One thing, and only one thing, is essential in this case: Mrs. Wheatley is a violent woman. She is a plague carrier.

“I am frightened by this. I think you are, too. Very frightened indeed. But frightened as we are, a decision must be made, a decision that may very well affect the entire subsequent history of man.

“I say: Let her alone. Allow Mrs. Wheatley to take her own life. It is the only way to destroy the danger that she represents, a danger that goes far beyond the danger she presents to herself. This is one instance in which Aunt Annie can best serve humanity by doing nothing. It is the only answer. We must have the courage to carry it out.”

Out of breath, I sit, leaning back in my chair and wiping the sweat off my face. I look at Annie first, trying to see whether I have reached her. But she is playing the Great Stone Face.

The rest of them, however, are nodding their heads vigorously. It hurts them to agree, but logic is logic. They know I’m right; they know Mrs. Wheatley must die. It’s too bad that they’ll never learn why.

Conference (Mathew):

Aerial speaks, making me physically ill. My joints hurt and my stomach aches. I clutch at my middle, holding it, trying not to vomit.

Love, Aerial, that is the key. After all these years with Annie, haven’t you even learned that yet? Don’t you understand what all of this is about? You talk logic and we know that logic has no place in love. Everyone in this room knows you for what you are—a fake, a liar, a hater. We all know it, Aerial. You cannot hide it from us. Stop trying. Let us love you; let us help you.

Aerial finishes and triumphantly flicks his eyes around the table. The ghosts nod at him, acting as if they agree, but knowing in their hearts of love that he hasn’t said a thing. Aerial is a weak man and a foolish man. We have no wish to hurt him.

It’s left up to me. I stand, feeling the ghosts urging me on. My eyes are filled with tears of grief and knowledge. I look at Annie and she smiles at me. Oh, thank God for Annie. I couldn’t live without her.

“Aerial is wrong,” I say. “He is so completely wrong that I cannot believe that any human being would say what he has just said.

“Annie is here for only one reason—to provide love for those who cannot find it. Once there was Jesus, and he provided the love for the world. But in our wrongness he has been taken away from us and we have only Annie. She is our barrier against the plague of violence. We have no need for death and murder to save us. Our salvation is with us and that salvation is our Annie.

“We are the angels of our own salvation, though we are called ghosts. The devil walks among us and I have seen that devil glaring at me from the blackness of Ronald Wheatley’s eyes. I have seen the clear blue-blue of his wife and I can feel our Annie when I walk in her presence. As you know, it is my burden to love everyone and everything. I love the men and the women, the children and the animals, the rocks and the trees, the lovers and the haters, the , ..”

I can’t finish. I fall to the table, burying my face in my hands. Aerial is near and I can feel the foulness of his breath lashing at me with contempt. Sweat pours off my forehead and mingles with the salt of my tears. I look at my hands and see the blood where my fingernails have slashed the flesh of my palms.

Annie is rising, a hand snapping out to silence Aerial’s cries. Words of decision come from her lips and I want to know that she is right. It is not easy to bear the load and—

Oh, Annie of my blood and my flesh, may you multiply and cover this great earth with the strength of your spirit.

An Important Event from Annie’s Past:

Annie here. I’m the real, living breathing Annie, by the way, the one with the flesh, blood and guts. I’m supposed to be dead, but my memories and soul live on.

Dr. Heinrich wrote (this was thirty years ago) and said he had this invention, this monster, and what should he do with it? Did I have any ideas?

Well, ideas was the name of my game and, at that very moment, I had a very personal requirement for Dr. Heinrich’s monster. So, off we went to Wisconsin, me and my lover, Rock, the sportsman and teller of tales.

It was winter and the ground was covered with a thick blanket of snow. We walked toward the distant shack, our feet cutting a neat pattern through the snow. Both of us were dressed to the hilt and all I could see of Rock was the tip of his big red nose. Ahead of us, smoke billowed from the chimney of the shack and Dr. Heinrich stood on the porch waving at us.

“Heaven is like this, Annie,” Rock said. “It’s white and it’s cold and it’s beautiful. Imagine that we’re walking together through heaven. We’ll turn the snow into a big white cloud and let Dr. Heinrich be a little red angel. The chimney smoke—that’s the wrath of God—and the trees—they’re signs of peace.”

Rock was trying to be both gentle and funny and he knew I loved every minute of it. I planted a kiss on the tip of his nose and we laughed together. For a few moments, I wasn’t afraid.

When we reached the shack, Dr. Heinrich shook our hands vigorously. He was a neat, inconspicuous little man with a goatee and a long, white lab coat.

“I’m glad you decided to come, Annie,” he said.

“I had very little choice, doctor. You knew that.”

He nodded and led us inside. It was cold and I leaned against the stove, warming my hands. It gave me a moment to think and I wished it hadn’t. I was eighty-four years old and would be lucky to see one more year. A week ago, my son, Aerial, had returned to me after an absence of twenty years. He’d frightened the hell out of me and I’d put him to work as my chief assistant. I was dying and I couldn’t die. No, not until I could be certain that Aerial went before me.

Dr. Heinrich interrupted: “Would you like to see the specimen, Annie?”

I shook my head. “I’m too old to see my own face. Can we do it now?”

“If you want. It’s all just as you ordered, programmed for compassion and ready for the entrance of your memories.”

“And the other one?”

“The one for love, the one named Mathew?”

I nodded.

“Yes, he’s ready, too.”

“Good.” I moved away from the stove and sat down. “Could you leave us alone for a moment, Dr. Heinrich? I want to discuss my burial with Mr. Rock. Then we’ll go right ahead.”

Heinrich nodded and backed out of the room.

As soon as he left, I said to Rock, “I can’t go through with it.”

“I’m glad,” he said, with relief.

“But I have to, Aerial, the people. I have no choice.”

“Kick Aerial out. Forget the people and worry about yourself.”

“Aerial’s my son and the people are all I have.”

“You have me.”

“You’re a people, Rock.” I smiled.

“Yes, sometimes I forget.” He smiled.

I stood and walked back to the stove. I was still wearing my jacket and I was now very warm. It didn’t seem to matter—not now.

“Take care of Mathew,” I said.

“He’s only a machine.”

“Take care of him anyway. If you don’t, Aerial will destroy him. Annie will need them both.”

“I’ll do my best,” he said.

“Thank you.” I kissed his nose again. It was cold.

A few minutes later, Dr. Heinrich reappeared. I followed him into the back room, leaving Rock alone by the stove. I climbed on top of a long wooden table and lay on my back. Dr. Heinrich attached various attachments to my head. The room buzzed and hummed. My eyelids grew heavy.

I floated in the air. Once, when I was a child, I fell out of an old oak tree. The fall seemed to take forever, even though I was only ten or twelve feet off the ground. While I was in the air, I suddenly realized that I could fly away if I wanted to; but if I did, I would become a bird, forced forever to remain in the sky. I spent hours, suspended in mid-air, trying to reach a decision. At last, I opened my mouth and screamed. Moments later, I struck the ground. I broke my left kneecap and bruised my thighs, but I remained a human being.

Seventy years later, in a cold Wisconsin cabin, I hit the ground again. Annie/Flesh died on top of that wooden table and her memories and soul entered the body and bosom of Annie/Metal. We meshed—transistors and flesh, metal and love—and were one. Again, Aunt Annie.

It was dusk when Annie/Metal and Rock left the shack. They walked through the snow, their footprints digging deep, separated by ten feet of frozen whiteness.

Dr. Heinrich stayed behind and buried the dried bones of Annie/Flesh. Later that day, almost at midnight, Mathew was born. Programmed for love, he opened his eyes and cried.

The Decision of Aunt Annie:

“Ronald Wheatley and his wife must both die. They must equally share the guilt of their violence. I say: Let Mrs. Wheatley kill herself and, when she does, we shall kill her husband. It must be done.”

Mathew’s Last Psalm:

With the conference over and the decision made, I feel as though I have been freed of an enormous strain. Without a word, I stand and leave. I do not look to the side.

Outside, I pause to stare at the vast, misshapen monolith of the Eastern American Daily. It means nothing. It’s just there—all wood and electricity and metal—and I love it I run from its towering shadow and hail an aircab.

I am going to see Sonny, one of my two best friends, an artist and a confidant. Sonny lives alone in the Village. The walls of his apartment are marked with the passing of peace and love. Sonny senses my approach and opens his door to me.

I look down at him and nod a quiet greeting. Sonny is a dwarf, only three and a half feet tall. His long, hairy arms dangle in front of him, his knuckles brushing the floor. His face is covered with a spotty brown beard, thick here, bare there. A perpetual non-cosmetic grin twists his lips. He reminds me of an ape as he crosses the room, shuffling and weaving.

I cross to a table and sit, burying my face in my hands and crying. Sonny sits across from me, drawing with crayons on a thick sheet of brown cardboard.

After a few minutes, I lift my head and ask, “What are you doing?”

Sonny turns the cardboard so that I can see his drawing. It is a city, but like none I have ever seen, vast but not tall. A huge sun glares down at the city and a violent ocean rises in the background. The city is on fire. Flames leap from every building, dancing in shades of red, orange and yellow. The sky is crimson and gray and in the center of it, just to the left of the sun, is the vague outline of a human face. I am frightened, but I ask: “What is it?”

“Los Angeles. I call it ‘The Burning of Los Angeles.’ I was born there, you know, and I’ve always wanted to see it burn.” His face twists as he speaks and each word is spit out with force. “I hate the place,” he adds, with a shrug.

“Why?”

“Because I was born there, I guess. Because in a world of beauty, no man should be ugly. Because I’m an artist. There are many reasons for burning Los Angeles. I give you only three. You may try to guess more, if you wish.”

“I’ll think about it,” I say, unable to pull my eyes away from the painting. The streets are filled with cars but they seem driverless, unaware of the flames that surround them.

“I’m going to make a movie of it,” Sonny says. “There hasn’t been a movie completed in fifty years, but this is going to be the first. I’ll build a vast scale model of Los Angeles, probably on Staten Island. I’ll get my cameras and, as it burns, I’ll film it. I have to see it happen. These paintings can only be guesswork.”

“Paintings? You mean you have more?”

He reaches in a drawer and pulls out another dozen cardboard sheets. He passes them to me and I look. All show the same scene of the burning city. The only thing that changes from painting to painting is the face in the sky. In some, it is smiling; in others, frowning. In the last, it is crying. I like that one best.

“That’s the one thing I can’t predict,” he says, pointing at the sobbing face. “You can never guess what God will do. I guess that’s why he’s God.”

I tell him about Annie.

“She’s God,” he says with certainty. “In another painting, I substituted her face for that of Jesus on the cross. It fit.”

“I think she’s God, too,” I say, tearing my eyes away from the face in the sky. “I didn’t know it until now.”

“Her decision makes sense in that light, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does.”

“It makes sense because it doesn’t make any sense at all. That’s the way God works.”

I nod, sigh, stand, and walk away. Behind me, Sonny sings as he paints. I turn and throw him a kiss.

The Sad Death of Ronald Wheatley.

Ronald Wheatley sat alone in his bookshop, surrounded by dust and age. He picked up a broom and walked toward the back of the store. He raised the broom and killed a fat spider.

He threw the broom away and walked to the science fiction section. He dumped the bin of books on the floor and began separating them by author. When he’d finished, he alphabetized them and tossed them back in the bin. He went to the main desk and prepared a sign. He walked back to the science fiction section and placed the sign above the book bin. It said: sf—2 for 5¢.

He locked the front door and pulled down the shade. He went back to the science fiction section and dropped a nickel in the bin. He removed two paperbound books. The first had a spaceship on the cover. It was lifting off from earth and the American continents were highlighted in the background. Wheatley opened the second book and began to read. It had a large, skinny robot on the cover. The robot was strangling a young girl.

For an hour, Ronald Wheatley read the book. Slowed by frequent glances at his watch, he finished half of it. At the end of the hour, the phone rang.

Wheatley lifted the receiver and listened. He nodded frequently and said nothing. He dropped the receiver and picked up his book. He read for another hour and finished the book.

He stood and stretched, reaching toward the high ceiling. He picked up both books and tossed them into the bin. Then he walked over and retrieved his nickel.

There was a knock on the door.

Ronald Wheatley waited, leaning slightly forward, listening attentively. There was another knock. A hand gripped the doorknob and shook it.

Wheatley walked forward and opened the door. A hand struck him in the chest, shoving him back. He fell to the floor. Nine men and two women formed a circle around him. The last one through the door, a big man in red burlap robes, locked it and dropped the shade.

“You’re from Aunt Annie?” Wheatley asked them.

“Yes,” they said, all eleven of them, in unison.

“I knew you were coming. One of you visited my wife. There was a man at the store today.”

Eleven heads nodded.

“My wife’s dead. She killed herself.”

“We know.”

“You’re going to kill me?”

“There’s no other way.”

“Are you sure? It’s not my fault.”

“We’re sure. Ask Aunt Annie.”

“It’s too late for that. She never answers my letters.”

The phone started ringing.

The Testament of Aunt Annie:

I give them my decision and rush them out of the office. I have no more time. I must prepare for the end.

The Wheatleys are the beginning of the end and I, Aunt Annie, am the end of the beginning. The treatment is wearing off; man is developing an immunity. I should have seen it before. Aerial was our harbinger. It never worked on him, perhaps because he knew it wouldn’t, perhaps because he was an exceptionally violent man. The reasons don’t matter, not for Aerial, not for the Wheatleys, not for mankind.

Next week, there will be a dozen more. In a month, a hundred. Within a year, two years, everyone will be immune.

Man destroyed a part of himself and to insure that he wouldn’t do it again, he willingly sacrificed his humanity. It was a bad decision, an easy one. Now it is time to move on again. The peace of the last few years couldn’t have lasted. It shouldn’t have lasted. And it didn’t.

“Mr. Blackwell,” I say to the beeper. “Give the ghosts time to reach the Wheatley Bookstore. Then I want you to call them and tell them to leave him alone.”

“We’ve received word that Mrs. Wheatley killed herself this morning.”

“How?”

“An overdose of pills.”

“That’s too bad. I’m sorry.” (But I’m not.)

I straighten up my desk, papers here, letters there. Tomorrow’s column, my last, is ready for the printer. I take out my will and lay it where it can be easily found. “Dear Uncle Matt.” I like the sound of it; I think he can handle the job. Aerial can take it away from him if he wants. But I don’t think he will, not in the new post-Annie America. There will be too many challenges for a man like Aerial to be satisfied with a silly old lady’s newspaper column. He will let Mathew have it. There will be bigger fish for Aerial.

There are so many things I wish I could have accomplished before the end. It crept up on me so suddenly. I didn’t even recognize it, not until just a few short hours ago. Aerial saw it coming before all of us. But he always did have a quick mind.

Humanity, I’m about to give you your humanity back. What greater gift can a machine give a man?

Anti-violence, goodbye. We don’t need you any more. We’ve got ourselves.

I walk out the door and say to Mr. Blackwell: “I’m going uptown. Hold any calls.”

“Yes, Aunt Annie.” He is boiling with curiosity. I’ve never left the building, not in thirty years. Even before me, Annie/Flesh seldom ventured outside.

Rock is at his desk. I lean over his shoulder, reading his column as he types it.

He turns. “Hello, Annie. Haven’t seen you in a long time.”

“Hello, Rock.” And, after a pause, “I remember you.”

“I wondered if you did.”

“I do.”

I leave him at the typewriter, down the elevator, and into the street. I pause for a final look at the monolithic structure of the Eastern American Daily. I wave at it. I throw it a kiss.

The streets are filled with people, rushing here, rushing there. As I pass, heads turn in recognition. I walk slowly as people begin to follow.

It’s a hot day. I pull off my shawl and drop it in the street. Two men fight over it. That pleases me. It’s happening already and I’m glad.

Hello, Annie. It’s a voice—inside.

Hello, Annie, I reply, in kind.

Are you leaving me?

I must. I have to try to find the rest of me.

Good luck.

The same to you. You’ve done a good job.

You think I picked the right course?

The only course.

And then she’s gone. I search my mind, finding it free of Annie/Flesh. She was there all along, waiting, watching, listening. Somehow. I knew it.

The AVC looms ahead. I smile at the ticket girl. At first, she fails to recognize me.

“Can I see your card, please?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Then you must be—”

“I am.”

Inside and darkness. I smell the people sweating off their hate and their lust. I push my way through them until I stand at the front. Annie, one lone woman, standing against them all.

“I am here,” I yell. Once then again.

Two thousand pairs of eyes stare at me as two thousand separate fantasies collapse. Four thousand eyes, some with recognition, some without.

“Kill me,” I say, quietly. “That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? Kill me.”

No response. Puzzlement.

“You must.”

Still, no action.

“It’s all part of your fantasy. Go ahead. I’m not real.”

And they move. Four thousand feet slapping against wooden floors, rushing toward the front. I can almost smell their thoughts, screaming and swearing.

They tear away my arms and my legs. My body is opened and transistors, wires, components are strewn across the floor. I drop, twisting and rolling.

I feel no pain for death has no pain for me. I’m a light switch. I’m not dying. I’m merely being switched off.

“Thank you,” I tell them, as I die. “Thank you for doing this for me.”

And it’s over. And I’m dead. At last.

Annie lived only to die and then live and die again.

Again, Aunt Annie.

The Last Words of…

Aerial: She thought she could pull it off, thought she could show them that they were nothing but a pack of filthy dogs. Well, they saw it, all right. They saw the circuits and the transistors and the beeping red lights. They saw it and they weren’t fooled. They knew she wasn’t a god. Oh, no, they knew her for exactly what she was—a robot, a pseudo-woman, some electronic nightmare out of James Whale.

And, now, it’s breaking down, falling to ruins around her shoulders as the immunity spreads farther and farther. The viciousness of her death has closed every AVC in the New York Sector. All I’ve got to do is stick around and wait. When it’s all over, I’ll pick up the pieces and it’ll all be mine.

I’ve even got my program ready. The stars—that’s what it is. Man is too goddamned good to keep on living on this filthy, burned-out planet. We’ve been up to the Moon and over to Mars and around Venus. We’ve got nothing left but the stars and that’s exactly where we’re heading.

Let Mathew have his column. I sure as hell don’t want it. The stars. When I say the word, I can see them sitting up there, just waiting for us. The stars.

And Mathew: I have witnessed the glory and I deem myself fortunate to have lived during its passing. I have seen the One die and I have seen the One live again. I have been the faithful apostle and I shall spread the word from my pulpit, from the pages of “Dear Uncle Matt.”

Oh, yes, we have all seen what love can do when it is allowed to flow freely. We have seen that violence is not the province of mankind, that it is not inevitable that he die by his own hand. We have seen it all and we have understood.

The stars beckon to us and we shall follow their path to heaven. We must leave our world of death and fly to the stars of life. Only the stars are real; that much we know.

Come, please, all of us, we must begin the walk together. We may never arrive, but our children’s children’s children shall. It is enough that we began.

I have seen the glory and I know.

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