Very carefully he pushed his eyes back into the proper position in their sockets.
“Dear Aunt Maggie,” he began writing feverishly. “Your ties made the most beautiful gift of my Christmas. My only regret is—”
My only regret is that I have but one life to give for my Christmas present. Who could have gone to such fantastic lengths for a practical joke? Lew Knight? Even Lew must have some reverence in his insensitive body for the institution of Christmas. And Lew didn’t have the brains or the patience for a job so involved.
Tina? Tina had the fine talent for complication, all right. But Tina, while possessing a delightful abundance of all other physical attributes, was badly lacking in funny-bone.
Sam drew forth the leather wallet she’d given him and caressed it. Tina’s perfume seemed to cling to the surface and move the world back into focus.
The metallic greeting card glinted at him from the floor. Maybe the reverse side contained the sender’s name. He picked it up, turned it over.
Nothing but blank gold surface. He was sure of the gold; his father had been a jeweler. The very value of the sheet was rebuttal to the possibility of a practical joke. Besides, again, what was the point?
“Merry Christmas, 2353.” Where would humanity be in four hundred years? Traveling to the stars, or beyond—to unimaginable destinations? Using little mannikins to perform the work of machines and robots? Providing children with—
There might be another card or note inside the box. Weber bent down to remove its contents. His eye noted a large grayish jar and the label etched into its surface: Dehydrated Neurone Preparation, for human construction only.
He backed away and glared. “Close!”