Although he had lost touch with himself, Michi still had command of vast treasures of factual information. He knew, for instance, that sloths were called sloths because the Tupi word for the three-toed sloth was ai, and AI had stood for artificial idiot or artificial imbecile ever since the concept of artificial intelligence had been subdivided. A sloth could not possibly judge whether or not he had lost his mind; for that he would have needed a silver. Silvers were called silver because the chemical symbol for silver was Ag, which stood for artificial genius. There was no popular shorthand for “artificial individual of average intelligence” because the obvious acronym sounded like a strangled scream. Because AP had been claimed by artificial photosynthesis—LAP for liquid, SAP for solid—there was no such thing as a mere artificial person, and an acronymic rendering of artificial mind would have been too confusing by half.

Actually, Michi thought, the attempt to possess an artificial mind of his very own had indeed led him into dire confusion.

“I am,” he said, and giggled. “I am an AM, or am not an AM, or am caught like a half-living cat between the two. Perhaps I was an AM, and am no longer, or was not but now am, or would be if only I could think straight, like an AM. Perhaps, on the other hand, I am no longer an AM, and am no longer, but am merely an it, held together by IT.” He sat in his armchair and breathed deeply: in, out; in, out; in, out. Slowly but surely, his sense of self came together again, and his sense of temporal location returned. His IT was probably stretched to the limit, but he was not yet an it. Precarious though his grip on reality was, the Miller effect still had not obliterated him from the community of human minds.

Morgan Miller must have been a kindred spirit, he thought. The first man ever to beat the Hayflick limit and discover a viable technology of longevity, and his reward for taking such infinite pains over the project had been two bullets in the back. Unfortunately—as Miller had understood, although his assassins had not—the method had worked far too well. It was so utterly irresistible in renewing the body that it wiped out the mind. Even internal nanotech did that eventually, but at least it gave a man time to breathe, time to play, time to work, time to be… and time, in the end, to lose himself.

“I am,” he said again. “I am Michi still, at least for a little while. Do I have any appointments today?” “Yes,” said the sloth. Before Michi could rephrase the question, he remembered.

Yes, indeed—today, he had an appointment.

“Oh yes,” he said aloud. “I am, I am, I definitely am.” He reached up his hand to caress his skull, running his fingertips over the numerous sockets which sat above the main sites of his implanted electrodes. He wondered whether he ought to put on a wig, or a hooded suitskin. Did she wear a wig, or a hooded suit-skin? Could that luscious hair really be rooted in her skull? Maybe, maybe not. He would find out. But in the meantime—to obscure or not to obscure? He decided not. She was fascinated by what he was, what he had been; why try to hide it? A martyr should wear his stigmata proudly, unafraid to display them.

They were, alas, mere relics of the past, but they were the remnants of a glorious endeavor.

Michi still wondered, sometimes, whether he ought to make one more attempt to break through to the unknown. If he were to flush out all his IT and douse the sockets so as to flood the underlying electrodes with neurostimulators, the neurons further beneath would resume the business of forging new connections, further extending the synaptic tangles which already bound the contacts to every part of his brain. The removal of his IT would condemn him to death, of course, but he was dying anyway. Suppose he could trade a few months of not knowing what day it was for just one moment of enlightenment, one flash of inspiration, one revelatory proof that everything he had tried to achieve was possible, was within the grasp of contemporary humankind, if only people were willing to try, to take the risk.

Just suppose… It would be his triumph, and his alone. Official sources of finance had bailed out on him a hundred years ago, and he had been forbidden to call for further volunteers. The funds channeled from the Pharaohs of Capitalism by way of Gabriel King and his fellow buccaneers had dried up fifty years ago. The private backers had held out a little longer, but the law had built walls around him to keep their funds out. Like Kwiatek, he had been left high and dry—but Kwiatek had at least avoided the indignity of a show trial and subsequent house arrest.

If Kwiatek eventually ended up in susan, it wouldn’t be the law that had put him there; he would go of his own accord, unbranded and uncondemned.

“I was the only one prepared to go all the way,” Michi said aloud. “If they hadn’t abandoned me, I might even have got to where I wanted to be. Do you hear me?” “Yes,” said the sloth, as pedantically terse as ever.

“How long is it before my visitor’s due?” Michi demanded, determined to make the stupid machine do a little work to justify its keep.

“Thirty seconds,” replied the conscientious machine. Doubtless, in some abstract and ideal sense, it was absolutely right—but even as it spoke, the door chime sounded.

The woman was early.

“Let her in,” said Michi, levering himself up from his armchair, hoping as he did so that he would not lose himself again before she left.

“I’m sorry,” Michi said to the young woman as they lay in bed together. “I’ve grown unused to visitors of any kind, let alone lovers. All the old skills…” “I understand,” the woman said very gently. “Fifty years of solitary confinement is a very harsh penalty to pay for trying to push back the frontiers of human understanding.” “Most people thought of it as getting off lightly,” Michi said morosely. “They don’t realize. There are millions of people in the world who spend days on end—weeks on end if they’re VE addicts—cocooned in their apartments, and there are millions who routinely protect their privacy by filtering all their electronic communications through clever sims. They don’t know the true value of the power of choice, which allows them to break the pattern anytime they wish.

They don’t understand how demeaning it is to be forbidden the use of credit, of the most elementary privacy screening. Everybody nowadays thinks that they’re under observation, but they don’t really know what it means to have ever attentive eyes trained so intensively on the minutiae of one’s everyday life.” “I can’t pretend to know how it feels to be withdrawn from human society for fifty years, after having lived in it for over a hundred,” the young woman told him as she eased herself from his embrace and reached for her suitskin, “but I have spent a good deal of my own brief life in enforced solitude. I’ve learned very quickly to appreciate the worth of being in the world.” “Part of the problem,” Michi observed, grateful for the opportunity to mumble on, hoping thereby to cover his embarrassment, “is the ongoing debate about the susan long-termers. They’re the ones whose punishments attract all the public attention. Everybody carps about the unreasonableness of the jurists of the past, who just wanted to get supposedly dangerous individuals off the streets during their own lifetimes and didn’t care about the ethical problems they were handing down to their descendants. House arrest is seen as a more reasonable alternative—but communication control ensures that the victims don’t have a voice. When the sentence ended… I was a hundred and eighty-three years old, and I hadn’t talked face-to-face with anyone for fifty years. Most of my former acquaintances were dead, and most of the rest had forgotten me. Even the ones who had stood by me and helped me as best they could, had to impersonalize the communication process. The ones who wanted to carry forward my work—the ones who did carry it forward, insofar as the law allowed them to, had to do so without any input from me—I wasn’t even allowed to help. By the time it ended, it was impossible to pick up the fifty-year-old threads, and there was no hope of changing everything back again. The only real relationships I’ve been able to form in the last thirteen years have been new ones, but so many of the authentically young seem to think of me as some kind of monster or demon… sometimes I feel like the Minotaur made by Daedalus, lost in the labyrinth of Minos.” Michi knew that he should not be running on and on in this ridiculous manner, but he couldn’t help himself. He had lost the knack of conversation as well as the knack of making love. His social skills had atrophied.