Jaime Parrat set his hammer down, and stood up. His hands ached from the arthritis, but he didn’t care. The smell of the newly stained wood made up for that.

He felt a tap on his right shoulder. He looked over it, wondering who it was, and yet somehow suspecting it was Thom. He was right.

“What kind of a chair is it?” his great-grandson asked. Jaime did not sigh. He usually let his work speak for him, especially these days. The wood stain was dry now, anyway, so he supposed Thom could sit in it, try it out. He gestured to the nearest child seat in the chair.

It was a rocking chair which could seat five people. Mom’s & Dad’s armrests and seats were larger than the others, in the center. To the left was a seat and armrest for a teenager, and to the right, seats and armrests for two smaller children. The five seats were joined together laterally by several pieces of wood. The entire family would rock in one direction, and then the other, all at the same time. One chair for five people.

Carpentry was more of an art form these days, especially for Jaime. He had his pension. But it was a nice little family business. His daughter Iro had done quite nicely with the shop’s paperwork, and his youngest grandson Jaime Parrat, Jr. was just at that age where he was looking for a hobby he could make a life out of. Jaime Jr. and his nephew, Thom, were visiting today.

Jaime sat down in the father’s seat of the chair. The sun had set about an hour ago, and now the stars were beginning to come out. He pressed a button on his remote, and the roof to his workshop began to retract. The skies were clear over him tonight, and his view faced the ocean and the stars above him. He began to rock the chair absently. Thom, seated lower, helped with his firm young legs.

Would that his own legs were that firm! Jaime reflected. But old age robbed one of strength, he knew.

It also robbed one of hearing. But Jaime had lost his hearing decades ago, where no surgery or hearing aids would help him. He had never heard his daughter’s voice, nor his grandsons’, nor his great-grandsons’. He could tell what they said only when he could see their lips move.

So he rocked in silence. Thom tapped him on the shoulder again. He looked to Thom again, who said, “This chair is hard.”

“That’s because it’s a wood chair for the outdoors. Cushioning wouldn’t set well with it. The wood can handle the rain when it’s treated; you can’t treat leather or cloth the same way.”

He’d forgotten even the sound of his own voice. It no longer bothered him. Nonetheless, he felt like speaking. He pointed to the stars.

“You see that star? That’s Arcturus.” His hand moved to another sector. “And over there? Heu and Diapra. That way,” and his hand moved again, ”where most of the stars are clustered, is the Trantorian sector. And over there,” here his hand trembled, despite himself, “in that empty area over there, is the Terminian sector. Somewhere over there, anyway – I forget exactly where.”

Thom tugged on his shoulder again. “What’s Terminus like?”

He didn’t really feel like discussing the subject. Though he couldn’t hear himself speak, he knew he was whispering when he replied, “Small. Very, very small. And lonely.”

Thom asked another question, the question he always tried to avoid answering. “What was it like, to be the last Mayor of the Foundation?”

Jaime paused. He’d been asked that question hundreds, perhaps thousands of times. As always, he responded, “It was my finest hour.” He then looked Thom directly in the eye and spoke the thought he’d always kept private until now: “But every hour ends.”

Thom was old enough now. And, Jaime supposed, so was Jaime. If he didn’t tell the story now, he never would. He knew he would die in a few short weeks.

“Go get your audio recorder,” he told Thom. “It’s time to tell my story.”

To be continued…

Disclaimer: The characters and situations in this story are the legal property of the Estate of Isaac Asimov. This story is in no way intended as a challenge to that ownership, and is offered solely for entertainment purposes.