The Memo-Scriber’s counter, set to 000 when I went to bed, was now at 012.
I put on the coffee, then went into the living room, whistling. All my imaginings of the last few days seemed silly this morning. Then the whistle died away. The Memo-Scriber’s counter, set to 000 when I went to bed, was now at 012.
I rewound it, hesitated with my finger over the PLAY button, told myself (in Jo’s voice) not to be a fool, and pushed it.
“Oh Mike,” a voice whispered—mourned, almost—on the tape, and I found myself having to press the heel of one hand to my mouth to hold back a scream. It was what I had heard in Jo’s office when the draft rushed past the sides of my face . . . only now the words were slowed down just enough for me to understand them. “Oh Mike,” it said again. There was a faint click. The machine had shut down for some length of time. And then, once more, spoken in the living room as I had slept in the north wing: “Oh Mike.”
Then it was gone.
