Part 45 (1/2)

The wrinkled eyelids made three or four quick traversals of the hazel-colored

fibergla.s.s bundles that were his optical inputs.

”When did all that happen?”

”The war's been over for a hundred years, Uncle James. A hundred years today.”

”No s.h.i.+t!” Muscle stalks moved slowly around in the crepey convolutions of his

cheeks. ”Imagine that. A hundred years. That's one G.o.dd.a.m.n long time.” Then he

said, after a moment, ”Who won?”

”We did, Uncle.”

”We did? You sure?”

”We're still a free country, aren't we? n.o.body tells the Empire of San Francisco

what to do, do they? We're the most powerful country in Northern California,

isn't that so?”

e digested that. ”Yeah. Yeah, of course we won. I knew that. Really I did.” He

sounded a little doubtful. He generally did. Well, he had a right. He was one

hundred forty-three years old, give or take a few months, and most of him was

machinery now, practically everything except the soggy old grey brain behind his

optical inputs. His wrists were silicon elastomer, his femurs were polyurethane