Already the moribund launcher sites down south were humming. The Arcists seemed to be working with Jeffers’s technicians— and even with Sergeov’s Uber Percells— in a new atmosphere of cooperation.

If only it can last, she wished. Somehow, though I want it to, I can’t believe it will.

“Let me see your arm,” she insisted. When Saul held it out she traced the tracks of numerous healing punctures. “Which one was from when you drew blood for JonVon’s serum?”

He laughed. “How should I know, Ginnie? I’ll tell you, though. I admit that this was my hardest case, so far. I never knew bio-organics processors were so complicated.” His expression turned thoughtful. “Actually, the infection agent was subtle, a prionlike, self-replicating molecule that somehow got inside JonVon’s cool-case during the years we were asleep. If it had been allowed to go on much longer…” He shrugged.

“But you caught it in time.” Virginia was still nervous enough that it came out as a question, in spite of her confidence in Saul.

He smiled. “Oh, our surrogate son will be fine. Using symbiosis methods, I turned the molecule into a variant JonVon can use in his self-correcting systems. It actually seems to make him a little faster. You’ll have to evaluate the effects yourself, of course.”

Virginia had blinked when Saul referred to JonVon as their “surrogate son.” Of course now Saul was just like her, unable to have any more children of his own. She realized a little guiltily that this made her feel even closer to him. They would comfort each other, now.

Oh, we’ll have our problems. As time passes, our relationship will never be perfect. That only happens in storybooks.

But a line of verse came to her, quite suddenly, as some of her poems had more and more often, lately. It was haiku.

Saul’s gaze was distant. “Actually, some of the techniques for working with colloidal organics seem applicable to biological cloning. Working on JonVon gave me some ideas.”

She laughed and tousled his hair, now turning astonishingly brown at the roots— though Saul had told her he wasn’t actually getting “younger,” only “perfect for a middle-aged man.”

“You’re always getting ideas. Come on, Saul. I want to talk to JonVon.”

She pushed off toward the webbing by her control station and gathered up her hair with one hand. She peeled back the dressing, uncovering her neural tap.

“Uh, you might want to wait.”

Her eyes flashed. “Is that an order, Doctor?”

He shrugged, smiling. “I guess you’d only do it the moment my back was turned, anyway.”

She grinned. “It’s been weeks. Much too long for an unrepentant dataline junkie like me.”

She lay back on the webbing. Her little assistant mech, Wendy, whirred up and presented the well-worn tapline, which locked into place with a soft snicking sound. She felt Saul slip alongside her as she settled back and closed her eves to the familiar throbbing along the direct line to her brain.

How are you, Johnny? she queried, shaping the subvocal words carefully, as one spoke to a child who has been ill.

The words shimmered in space above their heads, as well as echoing along her acoustic nerve. She could tell, just from the clarity of the tones, that things were much, much better.

Not yet, Johnny. First I want to run a complete diagnostic on you.

Saul had never seen this simulated personality before He laughed as a crystal-clear image formed, of a man in grimy overalls, wiping his hands on a cloth. Behind the workman scurried assistants, dashing about carrying stethoscopes and voltmeters and giant wrenches over a great scaffolding. Within, a huge, cumbersome machine clanked and throbbed. Steam hissed and a low humming permeated everything.

A clipboard appeared out of nowhere. The master mechanic smiled as he put on a pair of bifocals and scanned the list.

Well? What is it? she inquired.

Mr. Fixit looked at her over the rims of his glasses.

Her head jerked in surprise. The same exact words…

Something was going on here.

“What is it, Ginnie?” Saul asked, feeling some of her concern over his own link.

“Nothing, probably…” Virginia muttered. She concentrated on sending probes down several avenues at once to find out for herself what was behind this.

It felt so smooth! Was it just in comparison with JonVon’s former, wounded state? Or did it seem easier than ever to cruise these channels in the data streams? It was almost as if she could enter in true thought, instead of using simulations the computer provided to mimic the experience. Blocs of memory were represented by metaphors-card catalogs, filing cabinets, mile-long bookshelves-and rows of wizened storytellers…

There. She came upon a barrier. Something guarded behind a high abates and tightly locked gate. A blockage. A big accumulation of data, hidden away, inaccessible.

“I think he’s just a little constipated,” she said. Saul barked a sudden laugh, and cut it off just as quickly when he sensed her seriousness.

It’s big. What has JonVon got stuffed up in here?

She poked away at the jam with metaphorical levers that were actually carefully crafted mathematical subroutines.

Try a Kleinfeldt Transform… a rotation mapping… yes.

A resorting routine manifested itself as a key that kept changing shape until it slipped into the lock, and turned. Light streamed forth.

Well I’ll be a blue-nosed mongoose!

“Five hundred terabytes of poetry!” She gasped aloud. “And half of it is flashed as triple-A-priority data!”

“Poetry? Priority data?” Saul asked. “I don’t get it.”

“Neither do I.” Then Virginia stopped. “Oh!”

Amazed, she turned toward Saul and opened her eyes. He looked back at her.

“JonVon knew he was sick! And so he isolated part of himself, in order to save important information for me. He used a sub-cache I’d already double-guarded… my poetry!”

She looked back up at the ceiling, staring. “Five hundred terabytes… the overflow spilled into everything JonVon did. No wonder Carl kept stumbling over apparently random poems while he was doing routine calculations.”

Saul’s voice was bemused. “But poetry!”

She nodded. “Let’s see what this urgent scribbling is all about.”

Presentus with a sample selection of triple-A-priority poetry, please, she asked Mr. Fixit.

The dungareed figure shrugged.

He vanished, and suddenly words flowed.