Darwin's Blade by Dan Simmons Read Free Book Online

game diffidently even though the four were watching him rather than their cards.
    â€œExcuse me, don’t mean to interrupt the game,” said Dar, “but is one of you gentlemen named Henry?”
    A man who looked to be in his late seventies sprang to his feet. He was short, perhaps five five, and could not have weighed more than 110 pounds. His skinny, white, old man’s legs emerged from oversized shorts, but he wore an expensive polo shirt, brand-new running shoes, and a baseball cap with an emblem on it advertising a Las Vegas casino. His gold wristwatch was a Rolex.
    â€œI’m Henry,” said the spry oldster, extending a mottled hand. “Henry Goldsmith. You the fella the insurance company sent around to hear about Bud’s accident?”
    Dar introduced himself and said, “Bud was Mr. William J. Treehorn?”
    One of the old men spoke without looking up from his cards. “Bud. Everybody called him Bud. Nobody never called him William or Bill. Bud.”
    â€œThat’s right,” said Henry Goldsmith. The man’s voice was soft and sad. “I knew Bud for—Jesus—almost thirty years, and he was always Bud.”
    â€œDid you see the accident, Mr. Goldsmith?”
    â€œHenry,” said the older man. “Call me Henry. And yeah…I was the only one that saw it. Hell, I probably caused it.” Henry’s voice had thickened so that the last few words were barely audible. “Let’s go find an empty table,” he added. “I’ll tell you all about it.”
    They sat at the farthest table. Dar identified himself again, explained who he worked for and where the information would be going, and asked Henry if he was willing to give a recorded statement. “You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to,” said Dar. “I’m just gathering information for the adjuster who reports to the owner’s attorney.”
    â€œSure I want to talk to you,” said Henry, waving his hand and waiving all his legal rights. “Tell you just what happened.”
    Dar nodded and turned on the recorder. The microphone was directional and highly sensitive.
    The first ten minutes or so was unnecessary background. Henry and his wife lived across the street from Bud and his wife in the park, and had since before the trailer park had reopened as a senior-citizen community. The families had known each other in Chicago, and when all the kids were gone, they moved to California together.
    â€œBud, he had a stroke about two years ago,” said Henry. “No…no, it was three years ago. Just after those goddamned Atlanta Braves won the World Series.”
    â€œDavid Justice hit the home run,” Dar said automatically. He was interested in no sport except baseball. Unless one considered chess a sport. Dar did not.
    â€œWhatever,” said Henry. “That’s when Bud had his stroke. Just after that.”
    â€œThat’s why Mr. Treehorn had to use the electric cart to get around?”
    â€œPard,” said Henry.
    â€œPardon me?”
    â€œThem carts, they’re made by a company named Pard and that’s what Bud called the cart—his pard. You know, like his buddy.”
    Dar knew the make. They were small and three-wheeled, almost like an oversized electric tricycle; a regular battery drove a small electric motor which powered the rear wheels. The little carts could be ordered with regular accelerator and brake pedals like a golf cart, or with brake and throttle controls on the handlebars for people without the use of their legs.
    â€œAfter the stroke, Bud’s left side didn’t work at all,” Henry was saying. “Left leg just dragged. Left arm…well, Bud used to cradle it in his lap. The left side of his face looked all dragged down and he had trouble talking.”
    â€œCould he communicate?” Dar asked softly. “Make his wishes known?”
    â€œOh, hell,