But that was little comfort for those who feared that their perceived need for curtailage — a defined space within which they could achieve solitude, anonymity, reserve and intimacy with loved ones — might no longer be met.

And now, as the WormCam’s history-view facilities deepened, even the past was no refuge.

Many people had been hurt, in one way or another, by the revelation of the truth. Many of them blamed not the truth, or themselves, but the WormCam, and those who had inflicted it on the world.

Hiram himself remained the most obvious target.

At first, Bobby suspected, he had almost enjoyed his notoriety. Any celebrity was good for business. But the hail of threats and assassination and sabotage attempts had worn him down. There were even libel actions, as people claimed Hiram must somehow be fabricating what the WormCam was showing about themselves, their loved ones, their enemies, or their heroes.

Hiram had taken to living in the light. His West Coast mansion was drenched in light from floods powered by multiple generators. He even slept in brilliant illumination. No security system was foolproof, but at least Hiram could ensure that anybody who got through would be visible to the WormCams of the future.

So Hiram lived, skewered by pitiless light, alone, scrutinized, loathed.

The gruesome procedure resumed.

Manning consulted his notebook. “Let me set out some of the facts: incontrovertible historical truths, all properly observed and notarized. First, Kingsley’s affair with Ms. Morris wasn’t his first in his time with you. He had a short, apparently unsatisfactory fling with another woman beginning a month after he met you. And another six months later.”

“No.”

“In all, he seems to have had six consummated relationships with other women before you challenged him over Jodie.” He smiled. “If it’s any consolation he’s also cheated on other partners, before and since. He seems to be something of a serial adulterer.”

“This is ridiculous. I’d have known.”

“But you’re also human. I can show you incidents where evidence of Kingsley’s unfaithfulness was clearly available to you, yet you turned aside, rationalizing it away without even being aware of what you were doing. Confabulation.”

She said coldly, “I’ve told you how it was. Kingsley started to cheat on me because the miscarriage screwed up our relationship.”

“Ah, the miscarriage: the great causal event in your life. But I’m afraid it wasn’t like that at all. Kingsley’s behaviour patterns were well established long before he met you, and were barely altered by the miscarriage incident. You’ve also said that you believe the miscarriage gave you a spur to working harder at developing your own career.”

“Yes. That’s obvious.”

“This is a little more difficult to establish, but again I can demonstrate to you that the upward trajectory of your career began some months before the miscarriage. Again, you were doing it anyhow; the miscarriage didn’t really change anything.” He studied her. “Kate, you’ve constructed a kind of story around the miscarriage. You’ve wanted to believe that it was significant beyond itself. The miscarriage was a horrible trial for you to endure. But it actually changed very little… I sense you don’t believe me.”

She said nothing.

Manning steepled his fingers and put them to his chin. “I think you’ve been both right and wrong about yourself. I think that the miscarriage you suffered did change your life. But not in the rather superficial way you think it did. It didn’t make you work harder, or cause cracks in your relationship with Kingsley. But the loss of your child did wound you deeply. And I think you’re now driven by a fear that it might happen again.”

“A fear?”

“Please believe I’m not judging you. I’m merely trying to explain. Your compensatory activity is your work. Perhaps this deeper fear has driven you to greater achievement, greater success. But you’ve also become obsessive. It has only been your work that has distracted you from what you see as a terrible darkness at the centre of your being. And so you’re driven to ever greater lengths.”

“Right. And that’s why I used Hiram’s wormholes to spy on his competitors.” She shook her head. “How much do they pay you for this stuff, Doctor?”

Manning paced slowly before his SoftScreen. “Kate, you’re one of the first human beings to endure this — umm, this truth shock — but you won’t be the last. We are all going to have to learn to live without the comforting lies we whisper to ourselves in the darkness of our minds.”

“I’m capable of forming relationships: even long lasting, stable ones. How does that square with your portrait of me as a shock trauma victim?”

Manning frowned, as if puzzled by the question. “You mean Mr. Patterson? But there’s no contradiction there.” He walked over to Bobby and, with a murmured apology, studied him. “In many ways, Bobby Patterson is one of the most child-like adults I have ever encountered. He is therefore an exact fit for the, umm, the child-shaped hole at the centre of your personality.” He turned to Kate. “You see?”

She stared at him, her colour high.

Heather sat at her home SoftScreen. She entered fresh search parameters. COUNTRY: Uzbekistan. TOWN: Nukus…

She wasn’t surprised to see an attractive turquoise blockout appear before her. Nukus was, after all, a war zone.

But that wouldn’t stop Heather for long. She had found reason in her time to find ways past censoring software before. And having access to a WormCam of her own was a powerful motivation. Smiling, she went to work.

When — after much public pressure — the first enterprising companies started offering WormCam access to private citizens via the Internet, Heather Mays was quick to subscribe.

She could even work from home. From a straightforward menu she selected a location to view. This could be anywhere in the world, specified by geographical coordinates or postal address as precisely as she could narrow it down. The mediating software would convert her request to latitude-longitude coordinates, and would offer her further options. The idea was to narrow her selection down until she had reached a specification of a room-sized volume, somewhere on or near the surface of the Earth, where a wormhole mouth would be established.

There was also a randomizing feature if she had no preference: for instance, if she wanted to view some remote picture-postcard coral atoll, but didn’t care which. She could even — at additional cost — select intermediate views, so for example she could view a street and select a house to call at.”

When she’d made her choice, a wormhole would be opened up between the supplier’s central server location and the site of her choice. Images from the WormCam would then be sent direct to her home terminal. She could even guide the viewpoint, within a limited volume.

The WormCam’s commercial interface made it feel like a toy, and every image was indelibly marked by intrusive OurWorld logos and ads. But Heather knew that intrinsically the WormCam was much more powerful than it appeared, in this first public incarnation.

When she’d first mastered the system, she was inordinately pleased, and called Mary to come see. “Look,” she said, pointing. The ’Cam image was of a nondescript house, in evening summer sunlight; the image frame was plastered with annoying ad logos. “That’s the house where I was born, in Boise, Idaho. In that very room, in fact.”

Mary shrugged. “Are you going to give me a turn?”

“Sure. In fact I got it for you, in part. Your homework assignments.”