“Shoot,” I said.
“I’m thinking—why take lethal injection? I mean, I may be done here for now, but why should I make an irreversible decision?”
“Why did you want to before?” I asked.
“Oh, it was the macho thing, I guess. The finality and all. But hell, I don’t have to prove anything, right?”
“Sure,” I said, magnanimously.
“So,” he said, thoughtfully. “The question I’m asking is, how long can I deadhead for? There are folks who go down for a thousand years, ten thousand, right?”
“So, you’re thinking, what, a million?” I joked.
He laughed. “A million? You’re thinking too small, son. Try this on for size: the heat death of the universe.”
“The heat death of the universe,” I repeated.
“Sure,” he drawled, and I sensed his grin in the dark. “Ten to the hundred years or so. The Stelliferous Period—it’s when all the black holes have run dry and things get, you know, stupendously dull. Cold, too. So I’m thinking—why not leave a wake-up call for some time around then?”