Mr. Witherspoon stared at the display and examined the "final" number. "Hmmmm," he said, "it seems you owe."

"What!" Roger sat up in his seat. "Are you sure?"

Mr. Witherspoon sighed. "I warned you that your Great Aunt's inheritance might tip the scales. I told you to do more community service."

Roger sat back. He owed, dear God, he owed. "But, my work with the homeless, my time teaching English to new immigrants, surely --"

Mr. Witherspoon shook his head. "Insufficient. I'm afraid you owe taxes this year."

"H-How much?"

Mr. Witherspoon looked down at his display again. "About six years. Of course, you would split it between you and your wife Rachel, three and three."


Roger swallowed hard. Three years of his life, poof, gone. He was 42. The life-draining process would make him 45. That was almost 50! "Did you factor in my investment losses?" He asked, desperate to find a way out.

"Yes."

"How about the loss of value on my home. The real estate market took a dive this year."

Mr. Witherspoon rolled his eyes. It was always like this. First Denial, then Negotiation. "Not allowable unless you sell your home at a loss. I could then factor in," Mr. Witherspoon's thin articulate fingers flew over the computer keyboard, "a Federal Homeless Credit but . . . you'd only save a year and a half. Honestly, you're better off keeping the roof over your head."

Roger's mind was racing. Rachel and he had discussed such a possibility. They had some cash in the house and Mexico was still accepting Tax Evaders. Teaching English to immigrants had
allowed him to learn Spanish. "I'd like to file for an extension," he said as calmly as he could. He'd go home, pick up Rachel, and they'd just start driving.

Mr. Witherspoon's pale blue eyes seemed to read his thoughts. He pushed a button on his desk. "Unfortunately, Federal Law limits the filing of extensions to those owing less than a year or who have a legitimate tax issue to resolve. I'm sure you understand, too many tax dodgers heading for Mexico. By the way, your passports have just been suspended." Two burly orderlies entered the room. "So, per Federal regulations, I am obligated to collect your life force now.
Look it at this way Mr. Spencer, it's not like your life will go to waste. It will be used to treat illness and ease pain. Your three years of life could buy a child, dying from cancer, the time to respond to treatment or allow a musician enough time to finish his masterwork."

Roger felt large capable hands clamp down on his shoulders. The orderlies moved with surprising speed. "I have money."

Mr. Witherspoon shook his head. "You've heard the expression: Time IS Money. Truth is, it's worth a whole lot more than money. That's why the government moved to a Time-Based Tax as soon as the technology became available to bottle a person's life force. It's a commodity no one has enough of."

"How about a Farm Credit? I grow tomatoes."

"Not in sufficient numbers."

"A School Tax Credit. We have no children to send to school."

"There is no credit for not using a government service." He indicated to the orderlies that they should take him away. "I'll send a team over to your home to attend to your wife. Don't fret Mr. Spencer, it'll all be over--"

Roger was physically lifted out of his seat. "What if we had a child?"

"Excuse me?"

"What if we had a child? There's a tax credit for children, isn't there?"

Mr. Witherspoon frowned. It was a valid question. A few brief clicks and he had the answer. "Yes, it would put you in the black. But, Mr. Spencer, I wasn't aware that you and Mrs. Spencer were expecting. You should have told me that up front."

"We're not."

"Then, why--"

"But we could be. Just as soon as I get home."

Mr. Witherspoon cocked an eyebrow. "I must say that I admire your confidence. But, assuming you are successful, I'm not sure your wife could give birth in time to qualify for this year's taxes."

"She doesn't have to," Roger said with confidence. "Last year the Supreme Court ruled that life begins at conception. Therefore, by law, we have a child starting on day one. It doesn't matter when we deliver. It only matters when we get pregnant."

"Yes, but--"

Roger attempted to shrug off the orderlies but they wouldn't let go. "Do you mind?" He looked at Witherspoon. The old accountant nodded at the two men who immediately stepped away. "And, since I have two weeks till the 15th, you can't prevent me from going home and working on my . . . taxes." Roger rose to his feet.

"I assume Mrs. Spencer is in agreement with this plan?"

Roger tugged on his right earlobe. He had Rachel on speed dial. The transmitter imbedded in his jaw dialed the house and she immediately picked it up. "Honey," he said out loud, wanting Mr. Witherspoon to hear their conversation, "we're going with Plan B. No, I mean a baby. Yes, it's the only way." He tugged on his earlobe again to hang up the call. "Right," he said, heading for the door, "if there's nothing else. I need to get busy." He left without giving Mr. Witherspoon the opportunity to respond.

Mr. Witherspoon shook his head and chuckled. He then dismissed the orderlies who were still awaiting his instructions. Ah youth, he thought, always so impetuous. He clicked on his screen to bring up the next case. Good. Mr. & Mrs. Abernathy were in their nineties. No chance for a last minute reproductive reprieve. After all, he thought with a rue smile, what would happen to society if everybody avoided their taxes? What indeed?