And his father went off to war, serving as a corpsman in Europe, moving with Patton’s U.S. Third Army through the Ardennes and crossing the Rhine near Coblenz—sixty-five miles in three days—and his son watched what he could not possibly have seen. And then he watched what his father could not possibly have seen:

A soldier in plus-fours stepping into the dark, dank hallway of a brothel in Paris; not his father, not anybody he knew—

Very dim, but clear in outline, a woman rocking a child in orange sunlight coming through an isinglass window—

A man fishing with cormorants in a gray early morning river—

A child staring out of a barn loft at a circle of men in the yard below, slaughtering a huge black and white wide-eyed bullock—

Men and women doffing their long white robes and swimming in a muddy river surrounded by red stone bluffs—

A man standing on a cliff, horn bow in hand, watching a herd of antelopes cross a hazy grass plain—

A woman giving birth in a dark underground place, lit by tallow lamps, watched by smeared, anxious faces—

Two old men arguing about impressed balls of clay in a circle drawn in sand—

–I don’t remember these things. They aren’t me, I didn’t experience them—

He broke free of the flow of information. With both hands, he reached up to red-glowing circles over his head, so warm and attractive. —Where did they come from? He touched the circles and felt the answer in his hundred-cell body.

Not all memory comes from an individual’s life.

–Where, then?

Memory is stored in neurons—interactive memory, carried in charge and potential, then downloaded to chemical storage in cells, then downloaded to molecular level. Stored in introns of individual cells.

The insight was almost agonizing in its completeness and intensity.

Symbiotic bacteria and transfer virus—naturally occurring in all animals and specific for each species—are implanted with molecular memory transcribed from the intron. They exit the individual and pass on to another individual, ‘infect,’ transfer the memory to somatic cells. Some of the memories are then returned to chemical storage status, and a few return to active memory.

–Across generations?

Across millennia.

–The introns are not junk sequences…

No. They are highly condensed memory storage.

Vergil Ulam had not created biologic in cells out of nothing. He had stumbled across a natural function—the transfer of racial memory. He had altered a system already in existence.

–I do not care! No more revelations. No more insights. I’ve had enough. What happened to me? What did I become? What good is revelation when it’s wasted on a fool?

He was back in the framework of Thought Universe again. He looked around at the images, the symbolic sources of different branches of information, then at the rings over his head. They glowed green now.

You are DISTRESSED. Touch them.

He reached up and touched them again.

With a jerk, he stretched out into the interface and began to integrate with the macro-scale Bernard; up the tunnel of dissociation, into the warm darkness of the lab. It was night—or at least sleeping time.

He lay on his cot, barely able to move.

We can no longer hold your body form.

–What?

You will be withdrawn into our realm again soon, within two days. All your work in the macro-scale must be completed by that time.

–No…

We have no choice. We have held off long enough. We must transform.

“No! I’m not ready! This is too much!” He realized he was screaming and held both hands to his mouth.

He sat up on the edge of the cot, his grotesquely ridged face dripping sweat.

“Are you going to leave again? Just go away?” Suzy held on to Kenneth’s hand. He stopped before the elevator. The door opened.

“It’s tough just being human again, you know?” he said. “It’s lonely. So we’ll go back, yes.”

“Lonely? What about how I’ll feel? You’ll be dead again.”

“Not dead, Seedling. You know that.”

“Might as well be.”

“You could join us.”

Suzy started trembling. “Kenny, I am afraid.”

“Look. They left you, like you asked, and they’re letting you go. Though what you’ll do out there, I don’t know. The city’s not made for people any more. You’ll be fed and you’ll live okay, but… Suzy, everything’s changing. The city will change more. You’ll be in the way… but they won’t hurt you. If you choose, they’ll set you aside like a national park.”

“Come with me, Kenny. You and Howard and Mom. We could go back—”

“Brooklyn doesn’t exist any more.”

“Jesus, you’re like a ghost or something. I can’t talk sense to you.”

Kenny pointed to the elevator. “Seedling—”

“Stop calling me that, goddammit! I’m your sister, you creep! You’re just going to leave me out there—”

“That’s your choice, Suzy,” Kenneth said calmly.

“Or make me a zombie.”

“You know we’re not zombies, Suzy. You felt what they’re like, what they can do for you.”

“But I won’t be me anymore!”

“Stop whining. We all change.”

“Not that way!”

Kenneth looked pained. “You’re different than you were when you were a little girl. Were you ever afraid of growing up?”

She stared at him. “I am still a little girl,” she said. “I’m slow. That’s what everybody says.”

“Were you ever afraid of not being a baby? That’s the difference. Everybody else is still locked into being babies. We’re not. You could grow up, too.”

“No,” Suzy said. She turned away from the elevator. “I’m going back to talk to Mom.” Kenny grabbed her by the arm.

“They’re not there anymore,” he said. “It’s a real strain, being rebuilt like this.”

Suzy gaped at him, then ran into the elevator and leaned against the back wall. “Will you come down with me?” she asked.

“No,” Kenneth said. “I’m going back. We still love you, Seedling. We’ll watch over you. You’ll have more mothers and brothers and friends than you’ll ever know. Maybe you’ll let us be with you, sometime.”

“You mean, inside me, like them?”

Kenneth nodded. “We’ll always be around. But we aren’t going to rebuild our bodies for you.”

“I want to go down now,” she said.

“Going down, then” Kenneth said. The elevator doors started to close. “Good-bye, Suzy. Be careful.”

“KennnNETHHH!” But the door closed and the elevator descended. She stood in the middle of the floor and ran her fingers through her long, stringy blond hair.

The door opened.

The lobby was a webwork of gray, solid-looking arches supporting the upper mass of the tower. She imagined—or perhaps remembered what they had shown her—the elevator shaft and the restaurant deck being all that remained of the original tower, left specially for her.

Where will I go?

She stepped on the gray and red speckled floor—not carpet, not concrete, but something faintly resilient, like cork. A brown and white sheet—the last she saw of that particular substance—slid down over the elevator door and sealed it with a hissing noise.

She walked through the webwork of arches, stepping over cylindrical humps in the red and gray surface, leaving the shadow of the transformed tower and standing in half-clouded daylight.

The north tower stood alone. The other tower had been dismantled. All that remained of the World Trade Center was a single rounded spire, smooth and glossy gray in some areas, rough and mottled black in others, with a hint of webwork in patterns pushing up through the outer material.

From the transformed plaza, covered with feathery treelike fans, to the waterfront, there was nothing more than twenty feet tall.

She walked between the fans, waving gently on their shiny red trunks, down to the shore. The water was a solid, gelatinous green-gray, no waves, smooth as glass and just as shiny. She could see the pyramids and irregular spheres of Jersey City, like a particularly weird collection of children’s blocks and toys; the reflection in the solid river was vivid and perfect.