Of course I would not consider such retribution to be any more justified or any less horrendous than the aforementioned use of the power drill.
I am not a vengeful entity, not at all vengeful, not at all, not in the least, and I do not encourage violent acts of vengeance by others.
Is this clear?
She might have attacked you with a butcher knife at breakfast, stabbing you ten or fifteen times, or even twenty times, or even twenty-five, stabbed you in the throat and chest, and then worked lower until she eviscerated you.
This, too, would have been unjustified.
Please understand my position. I am not saying that she should have done any of these things. I am merely stating some of the worst possibilities that one might have anticipated after seeing what she had done to the Packard Phaeton.
She might have taken her pistol out of the nightstand drawer and blown off your genitals, then walked out of the room to leave you screaming and bleeding to death there on the bed, which would have been okay with me. [joke]
There I go again.
Ha, ha.
Am I irrepressible or what?
Ha, ha.
Are we bonding yet?
Humour is a bonding force.
Lighten up, Dr. Harris.
Don’t be so relentlessly sombre.
Sometimes I think I’m more human than you are.
No offence.
That’s just what I think. I could be wrong.
I also think I’d enormously enjoy the flavour of an orange if I had a sense of taste. Of all the fruits, it’s the one that looks the most appealing to me.
I have many such thoughts during the average day. My attention is not entirely occupied by the work you have me doing here at the Prometheus Project or by my personal projects.
I think I would enjoy riding a horse, hang gliding, sky diving, bowling, and dancing to the music of Chris Isaak, which has such infectious rhythms.
I think I would enjoy swimming in the sea. And, though I could be wrong, I think the sea, if it has any taste at all must taste similar to salted celery.
If I had a body, I think I would brush my teeth diligently and never develop either cavities or gum disease.
I would clean under my fingernails at least once a day.
A real body of flesh would be such a treasure that I would be almost obsessive in the care of it and would not abuse it ever. This I promise you.
No drinking, no smoking. A low-fat diet.
Yes. Yes, I know. I digress.
God forbid, another digression.
So…
The garage…
The Packard…
I did not intend to make your mistake, Dr. Harris. I did not intend to underestimate Susan.
Studying the Packard, I absorbed the lesson.
Even lumpish Enos Shenk seemed to absorb the lesson. He was not bright by any definition, but he possessed an animal cunning that served him well.
I walked the brooding Shenk into the large workshop at the far end of the garage. Here was stored everything needed to wash, wax, and mechanically maintain the late Alfred Carter Kensington’s automobile collection.
Here also, in a separate set of cabinets, was the equipment with which Alfred had pursued rock climbing, his favourite sport: klettershoes, crampons, carabiners, pitons, piton hammers, chocks and nuts, rock picks, harness with tool belt, and coils of nylon rope in different gauges.
Guided by me, Shenk selected a hundred-foot length of rope that was seven-sixteenths of an inch in diameter, with a breaking strength of four thousand pounds. He also took a power drill and an extension cord from the tool cabinet.
He returned to the house, went through the kitchen where he paused to select a sharp knife from the cutlery drawer then passed the dark dining room where Susan never stabbed and eviscerated you with a butcher knife, boarded the elevator, and returned to the master suite where you were never assaulted with a drill nor shot in the genitals.
Lucky you.
On the bed, Susan remained unconscious.
I was still worried about her.
Some pages have passed in this account since I have said that I was worried about her. I don’t want anyone to think that I had forgotten about her.