"Ten percent of all insurance monies," he corrected, "which is not necessarily the same thing." He drew a paper from his coat, opened it and handed her a pen.
"I have to sign something?" she asked. "But won't that incriminate me?"
"You promise to pay the ten percent in consideration of services rendered," the man explained. "The services are, of course, not stated."
She took the pen and signed before she could talk herself out of it.
"When will it be?"
Carefully, he folded the document and returned it to his coat. "Before we reach Arcturus," the man said, getting up. "Thank you very much, Mrs. Bennet. Glad to be of service to you." And he walked away.
She nodded vaguely and then began considering what she had done. George was an android, she told herself again, only an android. But how could you tell an android from a human? Certainly not outwardly. Blood chemistry was different, but the blood was red just the same. The skin was a different composition, yet it felt and looked like human skin. The personality and the character had human flaws in them. What, then, was the difference? The answer came: an android was not human because he was an android, which by definition was not human.
This reasoning tended to confuse her, and she tried to push the thoughts from her mind. It was done, and that was all that mattered, she told herself. Pangs of conscience might plague her now, but afterward the soothing balm of money would ease the pain. They'd never gotten along, so what difference did it make.
She forced her thoughts away from that and wondered how they'd do it. She hoped suddenly that it wouldn't be violent, and then she recalled that a double indemnity clause would give her twice the hundred thousand—less the ten percent, of course, for services rendered. At least, she hoped he wouldn't suffer. He'd suffered enough during his lifetime, just for being an android.