But now she knew. What her father had said, the last time she had spoken to him, had been a lie. Kim had not forgotten her. Far from it. And if her father thought she would change her mind, then he simply did not understand her. Not the way Kim understood her, anyway.
She looked up again, smiling at the thought. Yes, he alone, perhaps, understood her—perfectly, instinctively—and trusted her, the way these people out here trusted each other. In the face of everything.
Six years they would have to wait. Six years until she came of age. But she would wait. And in the meantime she would make her slow way back to him. Inward, ever inward toward the great sun of her being.
Knowing he would be waiting. Knowing he would be there, his dark eyes watching for her.
MORE than A HUNDRED sedans filled the lawn before the Lever Mansion, their pole-men crouched quietly, waiting, while servants from the house went among them, offering bowls of noodles and tiny cups of rice wine.
Inside the house, the invited guests had gathered in the great library, talking in a hushed, slightly shocked tone. Only the day before, in the selfsame room, Old Man Lever had addressed them at a fund-raising meeting, his robust, no-nonsense manner inspiring many of them to believe he would be there a century from then, still urging them on. But now he was dead, and no end of rhetoric would bring him back. Not in this cycle of existence.
He lay now in a great casket at one end of the room, his gray hair combed neatly back, his massive chest unmoving beneath the pure white silks. For the first time in many years he seemed at peace, no longer striving for something that forever evaded him. No longer angry.
The guests had been arriving for the last four hours to pay their respects, coming from every comer of the great City. Last to arrive, tired by his journey from the clinic, was Lever's son, Michael.
For Michael, too, the news had come as a great shock. Like the rest, he had thought the Old Man would live forever. For an hour or two he had toyed with the idea of boycotting the funeral, of playing the part of the spurned son to the bitter end, but he had not felt right about that. No, for the truth was he still loved his father. The news of the old man's death had shaken him to the core. He had stood there, astonished; then later, alone with Mary, he had broken down, crying like a child while she held him. Now, solemn and dignified, he walked beside her through the door to his dead father's house, his biopros-thetics giving him an awkward, stilted gait.
"Steward Dann," he said, greeting his father's "Number One" in the great entrance hall. "I am most sorry that we have to meet again like this."
The Steward bowed his head low, clearly moved that Michael had come. "And I, Master Michael. I had hoped to welcome you back in happier circumstances."
Michael smiled tightly, then walked on, Mary silent at his side, as strong and supportive as ever.
At the entrance to the library he halted, turning to look at her, suddenly fearful. In answer she reached out, squeezing his arm gently, encouraging him to face what lay ahead.
He took a long, deep breath, then went on, the servants pushing the great doors open before him. Seeing him, the crowd within grew silent, all heads turning to watch as Michael crossed the room, making for his father's casket.
Looking down at the old man, Michael felt a wash of pain and longing so fierce, so intense, that it threatened to sweep him away. Then, with the faintest shudder, he bowed his head low and reached out to touch and briefly hold his father's hand.
So cold it was. So cold and hard.
He looked up, seeking Mary's eyes, for a brief moment a young boy again, fearful and bewildered; then, taking another long shuddering breath, he looked about him, smiling his thanks, his gratitude to all those friends of his father who had come to see him in this, his final moment on the Earth.
"Thank you," he said brokenly. "Thank you all. My father would have been touched. And I... I am greatly moved by your presence. He was a great man, my father. A great, great man."
Many looked down, moved by his tiny speech, but some stared at him openly, as if wondering what his game was; why he came now, the obedient son, when before he had denied his filial duty.
As he backed away from the casket, a faint murmur rose from all sides. Already that morning a rumor had gone about that Wu Shih would place a Steward in charge of the Company until a buyer could be found for ImmVac, either as a whole, or broken down into its composite parts. If the latter, many there hoped to benefit from Old Man Lever's death.
At the doorway, Michael looked back briefly, then walked on,
willing himself forward, Mary half running to catch up with him. Out on the lawn he stopped, among the pole-men and runners who had stood and bowed before one of the Masters. Mary caught up with him there and held him to her tightly while he sobbed.
Finally, he pushed back, away from her. "All right," he said softly. "We're done here. Let's go."
"Shih Lever?"
They turned. It was Ainsworth, Old Man Lever's lawyer.
Michael looked down. "What is it? Is there something I have to sign?"
Ainsworth shook his head, then held something out to Michael. Michael took it and studied it a moment. It was the original of the Disinheritance Statement, the final page signed with an angry flourish by his father.
"I have one," Michael answered coldly, drawing himself up straight and holding out the document for Ainsworth to take back, something of his father in him at that moment.
"No. You misunderstand. He signed it, but he never registered it. He wouldn't let me. Which means that it's all yours, Michael. ImmVac and all the rest. Yours."
Michael Lever narrowed his eyes a moment, eyeing the man as if he saw him for what he was. Then, throwing the paper down, he turned and stomped away, Mary hurrying to keep up with him as he made his way between the rows of sedans and out toward the transit.