How much time has passed he cannot tell, when Anubis says, “Servant!”

He stands, turns.

“Approach!” says Anubis, and he does so.

“You may rise. You know what night tonight is?”

“Yes, Master. It is Thousandyear Eve.”

“It is your Thousandyear Eve. This night we celebrate an anniversary. You have served me for a full thousand years in the House of the Dead. Are you glad?”

“Yes, Master…”

“You recall my promise?”

“Yes. You told me that if I served you faithfully for a thousand years, then you would give me back my name. You would tell me who I had been in the Middle Worlds of Life.”

“I beg your pardon, but I did not.”

“You…?”

“I told you that I would give you a name, which is a different thing altogether.”

“But I thought…”

“I do not care what you thought. Do you want a name?”

“Yes, Master…”

“… But you would prefer your old one? Is that what you are trying to say?”

“Yes.”

“Do you really think that anyone would remember your name after ten centuries? Do you think that you were so important in the Middle Worlds that someone would have noted down your name, that it would have mattered to anyone?”

“I do not know.”

“But you want it back?”

“If I may have it, Master.”

“Why? Why do you want it?”

“Because I remember nothing of the Worlds of Life. I would like to know who I was when I dwelled there.”

“Why? For what purpose?”

“I cannot answer you, because I do not know.”

“Of all the dead,” says Anubis, “you know that I have brought only you back to full consciousness to serve me here. Do you feel this means that perhaps there is something special about you?”

“I have often wondered why you did as you did.”

“Then let me give you ease, man: You are nothing. You were nothing. You are not remembered. Your mortal name does not signify anything.”

The man lowers his eyes.

“Do you doubt me?”

“No, Master…”

“Why not?”

“Because you do not lie.”

“Then let me show it I took away your memories of life only because they would give you pain among the dead. But now let me demonstrate your anonymity. There are over five thousand of the dead in this room, from many ages and places.”

Anubis stands, and his voice carries to every presence in the Hall:

“Attend me, maggots! Turn your eyes toward this man who stands before my throne! -Face them, man!”

The man turns about.

“Man, know that today you do not wear the body you slept in last night. You look now as you did a thousand years ago, when you came into the House of the Dead.”

“My dead ones, are there any of you here present who can look upon this man and say that you know him?”

A golden girl steps forward.

“I know this man,” she says, through orange lips, “because he spoke to me in the other hall.”

“That I know,” says Anubis, “but who is he?”

“He is the one who spoke to me.”

“That is no answer. Go and copulate with yon purple lizard. -And what of you, old man?”

“He spoke to me also.”

“That I know. Can you name him?”

“I cannot.”

“Then go dance on yonder table and pour wine over your head. -What of you, black man?”

“This man also spoke with me.”

“Do you know his name?”

“I did not know it when he asked me-”

“Then burn!” cries Anubis, and fires fall down from the ceiling and leap out from the walls and crisp the black man to ashes, which move then in slow eddies across the floor, passing among the ankles of the stopped dancers, falling finally into final dust.

“You see?” says Anubis. “There is none to name you as once you were known.”

“I see,” says the man, “but the last might have had further words-”

“To waste! You are unknown and unwanted, save by me. This, because you are fairly adept at the various embalming arts and you occasionally compose a clever epitaph.”

“Thank you, Master.”

“What good would a name and memories do you here?”

“None, I suppose.”

“Yet you wish a name, so I shall give you one. Draw your dagger.”

The man draws the blade which hangs at his left side.

“Now cut off your thumb.”

"Which thumb, Master?"

“The left one will do.”

The man bites his lower lip and tightens his eyes as he drags the blade against the joint of his thumb. His blood falls upon the floor. It runs along the blade of the knife and trickles from its point. He drops to his knees and continues to cut, tears streaming down his cheeks and falling to mingle with the blood. His breath comes in gasps and a single sob escapes him.

Then, “It is done,” he says. “Here!” He drops the blade and offers Anubis his thumb.

“I don’t want the thing! Throw it into the flames!”

With his right hand, the man throws his thumb into a brazier. It sputters, sizzles, flares.

“Now cup your left hand and collect the blood within it.”

The man does this thing.

“Now raise it above your head and let it drip down upon you.”

He raises his hand and the blood falls onto his forehead.

“Now repeat after me: ‘I baptize me…’ ”

“ ‘I baptize me…’ ”

“ ‘Wakim, of the House of the Dead…’ ”

“ ‘Wakim, of the House of the Dead…’ ”

“ ‘In the name of Anubis…’ ”

“ ‘In the name of Anubis…’ ”

“ ‘Wakim…’ ”

“ ‘Wakim…’ ”

“ ‘Emissary of Anubis in the Middle Worlds…’ ”

“ ‘Emissary of Anubis in the Middle Worlds…’ ”

“ ‘… and beyond.’ ”

“ ‘… and beyond.’ ”

“Hear me now, oh you dead ones: I proclaim this man Wakim. Repeat his name!”

“Wakim” comes the word, through dead lips.

“So be it! You are named now, Wakim,” he says. “It is fitting, therefore, that you feel your birth into namehood, that you come away changed by this thing, oh my named one!”

Anubis raises both hands about his head and lowers them to his sides.

“Resume dancing!” he commands the dead.

They move to the music once more.

The body-cutting machine rolls into the hall, and the prosthetic replacement machine follows it.

Wakim looks away from them, but they draw up beside him and stop.

The first machine extrudes restrainers and holds him.

“Human arms are weak,” says Anubis. “Let these be removed.”

The man screams as the saw blades hum. Then he passes out. The dead continue their dance.

When Wakim awakens, two seamless silver arms hang at his sides, cold and insensitive. He flexes the fingers.

“And human legs be slow, and capable of fatigue. Let those he wears be exchanged for tireless metal.”

When Wakim awakens the second time, he stands upon silver pillars. He wiggles his toes. Anubis’ tongue darts forth.

“Place your right hand into the flames,” he says, “and hold it there until it glows white.”

The music falls around him, and the flames caress his hand until it matches their red. The dead talk their dead talk and drink the wine they do not taste. They embrace one another without pleasure. The hand glows white.

“Now,” says Anubis, “seize your manhood in your right hand and burn it away.”

Wakim licks his lips.

“Master…” he says.

“Do it!”

He does this thing, and he falls to unconsciousness before he has finished.

When he awakens again and looks down upon himself, he is all of gleaming silver, sexless and strong. When he touches his forehead, there comes the sound of metal upon metal.

“How do you feel, Wakim?” asks Anubis.

“I do not know,” he answers, and his voice comes strange and harsh.

Anubis gestures, and the nearest side of the cutting machine becomes a reflecting surface.

“Regard yourself.”

Wakim stares at the shining egg that is his head, at the yellow lenses, his eyes, the gleaming barrel, his chest.

“Men may begin and end in many ways,” says Anubis. “Some may start as machines and gain their humanity slowly. Others may end as machines, losing humanity by pieces as they live. That which is lost may always be regained. That which is gained may always be lost. -What are you, Wakim, a man or a machine?”