"Maybe we'll get to like what we're doing, by then," suggested David hopefully. "Diplomatic service isn't as bad as all that, and I'd say—"
"What about me?" Paul yelped. "I can't paint and I know I can't paint. I've got nothing but starvation ahead of me unless I wise up and get into business in a hurry. You want me to keep messing up good white canvas the rest of my life?"
"It won't work," said Barry, in a doleful voice, "We'll have to tell her."
Douglas shook his head. "We can't do that. You know just what she'll do. She'll bring down the umpteen volumes of notes she's made on this experiment, and ask us if we're going to let it all come to naught."
"He's right," Albert said. "I can picture the scene now. The big organ-pipe voice blasting us for our lack of faith, the accusations of ingratitude—"
"Ingratitude?" William shouted. "She twisted us and pushed us and molded us without asking our permission. Hell, she created us with her laboratory tricks. But that didn't give her the right to make zombies out of us."
"Still," Martin said, "we can't just go to her and tell her that it's all over. The shock would kill her."
"Well?" Richard asked in the silence that followed. "What's wrong with that?"
For a moment, no one spoke. The house was quiet; we heard footsteps descending the stairs. We froze.
Mother appeared, an imperial figure even in her old housecoat. "You boys are kicking up too much of a racket down here," she boomed. "I know you're glad to see each other again after a year, but I need my sleep."