“Please, make yourself comfortable,” I said. “So, are you here to tell me that the fire baked my brain, or is this just a friendly call?”

“Your reputation suggests that you don’t have much brain left to bake,” he said. “No, I just wanted to see how you were feeling, and if there’s anything I can do for you.”

“I’m grateful. No, I don’t think I need anything. I’d just like to get out of here already.”

“Everyone says that. You’d think we tortured people in here.”

“I’ve had nicer holidays.”

“I have an offer for you, Mr. Audran,” said Dr. Yeniknani. “How would you like to hold off some of the effects of the aging process? Prevent the degeneration of your mind, the slow deterioration of your memory?”

“Uh oh,” I said. “There’s some kind of horrible catch coming, I can tell.”

“No catch. Dr. Lisan is experimenting with a technique that promises to do everything I just mentioned. Imagine never having to worry about your mental faculties wearing out as you get older. Your thought processes will be as sharp and quick when you’re two hundred as they are today.”

“Sounds great, Dr. Yeniknani. But you’re not talking about vitamin supplements here, are you?”

He gave me a rueful grin. “Well, no, not exactly. Dr. Lisan is working with plexiform cortical augmentation. He’s wrapping the cerebral cortex of the brain in a mesh of microscopic wire reticulations. The mesh is made of incredibly fine gold filaments to which are bonded the same organic nemes that link your corymbic implant to your central nervous system.”

“Uh huh.” It sounded like mad scientist stuff to me.

“The organic strands pass your brain’s electrical impulses from your cerebral cortex to the gold mesh, and back in the opposite direction. The mesh serves as an artificial storage mechanism. Our early results show that it can triple or quadruple the number of neuronal connections in your brain.”

“Like adding extra memory to a computer,” I said.

“That’s too easy an analogy,” said Dr. Yeniknani. I could tell that he was getting excited, explaining his research to me. “The nature of memory is holographic, you know, so we’re not just offering you a vast number of empty slots in which to file thoughts and recollections. It , goes beyond that — we’re supplying you with a better redundancy system. Your brain already stores each memory in many locations, but as brain cells wear out and die, some of these memories and learned activities disappear. With cortical augmentation, however, there is a capability for multiply storing information on a level many times higher than normal. Your mind will be safe, protected against gradual failure, except of course in the case of traumatic injury.”

“All I have to do,” I said dubiously, “is let you and Dr. Lisan plop my brain into a string bag, like a cabbage head at the market.”

“That’s all. You’ll never feel a thing.” Dr. Yeniknani grinned. “And I think I can promise, in addition, that the augmentation will speed up the processing in your brain. You’ll have the reflexes of a superman. You’ll—”

“How many people have you done this to, and how do they feel about it?”

He studied his long, tapered fingers. “We haven’t actually performed the operation on a human subject,” he said. “But our work with laboratory rats shows a lot of promise.”

I felt relieved. “I really thought you were trying to sell me on this,” I said.

“Just keep it in mind, Mr. Audran,” he said. “In a couple of years we’ll be looking for some brave volunteers to help us push back the frontiers of medicine.”

I reached up and tapped my two corymbic implants. “Not me. I’ve already done my part.”

Dr. Yeniknani shrugged. He leaned back in his chair and gazed at me thoughtfully. “I understand that you saved the life of your patron,” he said. “I once told you that death is desirable as our passage to paradise, and that you should not fear it. It is also true that life is even more desirable as our means of reconciliation with Allah, if we choose to follow the Straight Path. You are a courageous man.”

“I don’t think I really did anything brave,” I said. “I wasn’t really thinking about that at the time.”

“You do not strictly follow the commands of the Messenger of God,” said Dr. Yeniknani, “but you are a worshipful man in your own way. Two hundred years ago, a man said that the religions of the world are like a lantern with many different colored glass panels, but that God was the single flame within.” He shook my hand and stood up. “With your permission.”

It seemed that every time I spoke with Dr. Yeniknani, he gave me some Sufi wisdom to think about. “Peace be upon you,” I said.

“And upon you be peace,” he said. Then he turned and left my room. I ate supper later, a kind of baked lamb, chick-pea, and bean casserole with onions and tomatoes, which would have been pretty good if only someone would tell the kitchen staff about the existence of salt and maybe a little lemon juice. Then I was bored all over again, and I turned on the holoset, turned it off, stared at the walls, and turned it on again. Finally, to my great relief, the telephone beside my bed warbled. I answered it and said, “Praise Allah.”

I heard Morgan’s voice on the other end. I didn’t have an English-language daddy with me, and Morgan can’t even find the bathroom in Arabic, so the only words I understood were “Jawarski” and “Abu Adil.” I told him I’d talk to him when I got out of the hospital; I knew he didn’t understand any more of what I said than I’d understood of him, so I hung up.

I lay back on my pillow and stared up at the ceiling. I wasn’t really surprised to learn there might be a connection between Abu Adil and the crazy American killer. The way things were starting to shape up, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that Jawarski was really my own long-lost brother.

I spent almost a week in the hospital. I watched the holoset and got a lot of reading done, and despite my wishes a few people came to see me — Lily, the sexchange who had a crush on me, Chiri, Yasmin. There were two surprises: the first was a basket of fruit from Umar Abdul-Qawy; the second was a visit from six total strangers, people who lived in the Budayeen and the neighborhood around the copshop. Among them I recognized the young woman with the baby to whom I’d given some money, that day Shaknahyi and I had been sent to look for On Cheung.

She seemed just as shy and embarrassed as she had when she’d approached me in the street. “O Shaykh,” she said in a trembling voice, setting a cloth-covered basket on my tray table, “we all beseech Allah for your recovery.”

“Must be working,” I said, smiling, “because the doctor says I’ll be out of here today.”

“Praise God,” said the woman. She turned to the others who’d come with her. “These people are the parents of children, the children who call to you in the streets and at the police station house. They are grateful for your generosity.”

These men and women lived in the kind of poverty I’d known most of my life. The odd thing was that they didn’t show any petulance toward me. It may seem ungrateful, but sometimes you resent your benefactors. When I was young, I’d learned how humiliating it can be to take charity, especially when you’re so desperate that you can’t afford the luxury of pride.

It all depends on the attitude of the givers. I’ll never forget how much I hated Christmas as a kid in Algiers.

Christians in the neighborhood used to put together baskets of food for my mother, my baby brother, and me. Then they’d come by our shabby apartment and stand around beaming at us, proud of their good deeds. They’d look from my mother to Hussain to me, waiting until we’d acted appropriately grateful. How many times I wished that we weren’t so hungry, that we could just throw those goddamn canned goods back in their faces!

I was afraid these parents might feel the same way about me. I wanted them to know that they didn’t have to go through any forelock-tugging acts of appreciation for my benefit.