"I was born in 1958," said Sugiyama. "I am eighty-seven years old. I transferred six months ago — one of the very first civilians ever to upload into an artificial body. At the break, I'll walk around and let you examine me closely. You'll find that I don't look exactly right — I freely admit that — and there are certain movements that I just can't do. But I'm not the least bit concerned, because, as I said, these bodies are infinitely upgradeable as technology advances. Indeed, I just got new wrists yesterday, and they are much more nimble than my previous set. I have no doubt that within a few decades, artificial bodies indistinguishable from biological ones will be available." He smiled again. "And, of course, I — and all of you who undergo our procedure — will be around a few decades from now."

He was a master salesperson. Talking about centuries or millennia of additional life would have been too abstract — how does one even conceive of such a thing? But a few decades was something the potential customers, most with seven or more of them already under their belts, could appreciate. And every one of these people had been resigned to being in the last decade — if not the last year — of their lives. Until, that is, Immortex had announced this incredible process. I looked at Karen again; she was mesmerized.

Sugiyama held up his hand once more. "Of course, there are many advantages to artificial bodies, even at the current state of technology. Just like our artificial brains, they are virtually indestructible. The braincase, for instance, is titanium, reinforced with carbon-nanotube fibers. If you decide you want to go skydiving, and your parachute fails to open, your new brain still won't get damaged on impact. If — God forbid! — someone shoots you with a gun, or stabs you with a knife — well, you'd almost certainly still be fine."

New holographic images appeared floating behind him, replacing his face. "But our artificial bodies aren't just durable. They're strong — as strong as you'd like them to be." I'd expected to see video of fantastic stunts: I'd heard Immortex had developed super-powered limbs for the military, and that that technology was now available to civilian end-users, as well. But instead the display simply showed presumably artificial hands effortlessly opening a mason jar. I couldn't imagine what it must be like to be unable to do something so simple… but it was clear that many of the others in the room were blown away by this demonstration.

And Sugiyama had more to offer. "Naturally," he said, "you'll never need a walker, a cane, or an exoskeleton again. And stairs will no longer present a problem. You'll have perfect vision and hearing, and perfect reflexes; you'll be able to drive a car again, if you're not able to now."

Even I missed the reflexes and coordination I'd had back when I'd been younger.

Sugiyama continued: "You can kiss good-bye the pain of arthritis, and just about every other ailment associated with old age. And if you haven't yet contracted Parkinson's or Alzheimer's, you never will." I heard murmurs around me — including one from Karen. "And forget about cancer or broken hips. Say sayonara to arthritic joints and macular degeneration. With our process, you'll have a virtually unlimited lifespan, with perfect eyesight and hearing, vitality and strength, self-sufficiency and dignity." He beamed out at his audience, and I could see people nodding to themselves, or talking in positive tones with their neighbors. It did sound good, even for someone like me, whose day-to-day troubles were nothing more irritating than acid-reflux disease and the odd migraine.

Sugiyama let the crowd chatter for a while before raising his hand again. "Of course," he said, as if it were a mere trifle, "there is one catch…"

I knew what the "one catch" Sugiyama was referring to was. Despite all his salesperson's talk about transferring consciousness, Immortex couldn't really do that. At best, they were copying consciousness into a machine body. And that meant the original still existed.

"Yes," said Sugiyama to the audience of which the old woman — Karen, that was her name — and I were part, "from the moment the synthetic body is activated, there will be two of you — two entities who each feel they are you. But which one is the real you? Your first impulse might be to respond that the flesh-and-blood one is the real McCoy." Sugiyama tilted his head to one side. "An interesting philosophical point. I fully concede that that version did exist first — but does such primacy make it really you? In your own mental picture of yourself, which one do you consider the real you: the one that suffers aches and pains, the one that has trouble sleeping through the night, the one that is frail and old? Or the vigorous you, the you in full possession of all your mental and physical faculties? The you who faces each day with joy, instead of fear, with decades or centuries of life ahead, instead of — please do forgive me — scant months or years."

I could see that Sugiyama was winning people over. Of course, these individuals had self-selected to come to this sales seminar, so they presumably were already predisposed to at least open-mindedness about these issues. Perhaps the average Joe in the street wouldn't share their opinions — but, then, the average Joe in the street couldn't possibly afford the Immortex process.

"You know," said Sugiyama, "there used to be a lot of debate about this, but it's all evaporated in the last few years. The simplest interpretation turned out to be the correct one: the human mind is nothing but software running on the hardware we call the brain. Well, when your old computer hardware wears out, you don't think twice about junking it, buying a new machine, and reloading all your old software.

What we at Immortex do is the same: the software that is you starts running on a new, better hardware platform."

"It's still not the real you," grumbled someone in front of me.

If he heard the comment, Sugiyama was undaunted. "Here's an old poser from philosophy class. Your father gives you an ax. After a few years of good service, the wooden handle breaks, and so you replace it. Is it still the ax your father gave you?

Sure, why not? But then a few years after that, the metal head breaks, and you replace that. Now, nothing of the original is left — it wasn't replaced all at once, but rather piece-by-piece. Is it still your father's ax? Before you answer too quickly, consider the fact that the atoms that make up your own body are completely replaced every seven years: there's not one bit of the you who was once a baby that still exists; it's all been replaced. Are you still you? Of course you are: the body doesn't matter, the physical instantiation doesn't matter. What matters is the continuity of being: the ax traces its existence back to being a gift from your father; it is still that gift. And—" he underscored his next words with a pointing finger " — anyone who can remember having been you before is you now."

I wasn't sure I bought this, but I continued to listen.

"I don't mean to sound harsh," said Sugiyama, "but I know you are all realists — you wouldn't be here if you weren't. You each know that your natural lives are almost over. If you elect to undergo our procedure, it's the new you that will get to live on, in your house, your community, with your family. But that version of you will remember this moment right now when we discussed this, just as it will remember everything else you ever did; it will be you."

He stopped. I thought it must be awkward to be a synthetic lecturer; a real person could choreograph his pauses with sips of water. But after a moment, Sugiyama went on. "But what happens to the original you?" he asked.