The interrupt call yanked me out of a dream. A true meat-nightmare in which an army of dark figures struggled across a blasted moonscape, too sere to support any life. Yet there I stood, rooted in place like a dying tree, unable to move as towering metallic forms stomped all around me, flourishing blood-drenched claws.

One part of me clenched in terror, wholly subsumed in the mirage. Meanwhile, a more detached portion stood back, as we sometimes do in dreams, abstractly recognizing the scene from a sci-fi holofilm that scared me spitless, back when I was seven. One of the few deliberately cruel things my sister ever did to me, when we were young, was to play that creepy thing for me late one night, despite a "Toxic for Preteens" warning label.

I woke, floundering in the brief disorientation that comes from getting torn out of REM sleep, wondering where I was and how I got there.

"Wha -- ?" The induction cap fell off as I sat up, heart pounding.

Glancing left, I saw a moonlit desert landscape flowing gently past as the Volvo cruised a two-lane highway, without another vehicle insight. Spiky Joshua trees cast eerie shadows across the dry realm of rattlesnakes, scorpions, and maybe a few hardy tortoises. To my right, the privacy screen stood intact, swallowing light and sound. Fortunately. It kept Ritu from witnessing my undignified and undittolike wakening.

"Well? Are you up?"

The voice -- low and directional -- came from the car's control panel. A homunculus stared at me with a face like my own, only glossy black, wearing an expression that fell just short of insolent disdain.

"Uh, right." I rubbed my eyes. "What time izzit?"

"Twenty-three forty-six."

So. About three and a half hours since I curled up for a nap. This had better be important.

"What's up?" I croaked with a dry mouth.

"Urgent matters."

Behind the ebony duplicate I saw my home workroom. Every screen was lit, several tuned to news outlets.

"There's been an accident at Universal Kilns. Looks like industrial sabotage. Someone set off a prion-catalyst bomb."

"A ... what?"

"A cloud of organic replicators designed to spread and permeate the facility, ruining every synthetic soul-mesh in the place."

Blinking in surprise, I must have stared like an idiot.

"Why would anyone -- "

"Why isn't our chief concern right now," my jet golem interrupted, sharply and typically. my jet golem interrupted, sharply and typically. "It appears that two of our own duplicates were inside UK headquarters at the time. 'Behaving suspiciously' is the phrase I sifted out of a police decrypt. They're arranging warrants right now to come over and seize our records." "It appears that two of our own duplicates were inside UK headquarters at the time. 'Behaving suspiciously' is the phrase I sifted out of a police decrypt. They're arranging warrants right now to come over and seize our records."

I couldn't believe it.

"Two of them? Two Two of our dits?" of our dits?"

"Plus a couple of Pal's."

"P-Pal? But ... I haven't even spoken to him in ... there must be some mistake."

"Perhaps. But I have a bad feeling about this. Both logic and intuition suggest that we're being set up. I suggest you drop present concerns and return at once."

Appalled and mystified, I could only agree. This had much higher priority than nosing around Yosil Maharal's old cabin -- or my other impulsive aims for this trip.

"I'm turning around," I said, reaching for the controls. "At top speed I should reach home in about -- "

The jetto cut me off abruptly, raising a glossy hand.

"I'm picking up Citywatch -- a realtime alert. Unauthorized pyrotechnics, five klicks east of here ... "

A dreadful pause, then -- "A missile launch. The spectrum matches an Avengerator Six. They're tracking ... "

Dark eyes met mine.

"It's coming here. ETA ten seconds."

I stammered: "B-but ... "

With ineffable calm, ebony fingers danced. "I'm spilling everything to external cache twelve. You concentrate on saving our hide. Then find out who did this and "I'm spilling everything to external cache twelve. You concentrate on saving our hide. Then find out who did this and get get the bas -- " the bas -- "

Like a doomed mirror, my dark reflection abruptly shattered into millions of glittering shards that swirled briefly in front of me. Then, one by one, they rapidly winked out till only a faint stir of air remained.

The Volvo spoke up with the dull voice tones of silicon.

"YOU ASKED TO BE TOLD OF ANY NEWS EVENTS EXCEEDING PRIORITY LEVEL FIVE THAT AFFECT YOUR HOME NEIGHBORHOOD. I AM PICKING UP FLASH REPORTS OF A LEVEL NINE EMERGENCY ON YOUR BLOCK, CENTERED AT YOUR ADDRESS.".

How I envied our ancestors, who were sometimes spared bad tidings for a few hours or days, back in technologically benighted eras when news traveled much slower than light and was channeled through journalists or bureaucrats. I didn't really want want to see. I barely managed to choke out: to see. I barely managed to choke out: "Show me."

A series of holo images erupted, showing instanews from half a dozen publicams and private voyeur-floaters, programmed to zoom like vultures toward anything unusual, selling their feeds directly to the Net. In this case, the attractive novelty was a conflagration. A house -- my house my house -- burning wildly and with such heat that a flame funnel had already formed, tipping any unwary cams that fluttered too close. -- burning wildly and with such heat that a flame funnel had already formed, tipping any unwary cams that fluttered too close.

Stunned, I worked for a while on pure reflex, paying top rates for pan-spectral composites till a clear picture converged out of darkness and flames.

"d.a.m.n," I muttered, hating whoever had done this. "They burned my garden, too."

I took the car offbeam and turned around, gunning it back toward the city. If I drove at thirty above the speed limit, I figured I could purge all the micro-fines with a public necessity plea. You know, rushing home to help authorities clear up this mess. Anyway, an act of good faith might help convince someone to listen when I proclaim my innocence.

Innocent of what? I still had no clear picture of what happened at Universal Kilns. I still had no clear picture of what happened at Universal Kilns.

Two copies of me ... and several of Pallie. But which copies? The one that disappeared at Kaolin Manor, presumably. And the gray that cut off communication after accepting a closed contract? Whatever job it took, things must have gone sour in a big way.

News began filtering out of UK headquarters. A prion bomb had had gone off, but preliminary reports were optimistic. Employees jabbered among themselves about an exceptional stroke of luck. The affected area was small because a brave forklift operator sat on the saboteur at the last moment, quenching the explosion with its huge golembody, limiting the poison's dispersal. gone off, but preliminary reports were optimistic. Employees jabbered among themselves about an exceptional stroke of luck. The affected area was small because a brave forklift operator sat on the saboteur at the last moment, quenching the explosion with its huge golembody, limiting the poison's dispersal.

Great, I thought. I thought. But what does it all have to do with me? But what does it all have to do with me?

I got no answer on Pallie's phone, or via our secret drop box. Not one of the four dittos I had made Tuesday replied to my ultra-urgent pellet flash. I could only account for one of them -- the loyal jetto who stayed at his post, striving until h.e.l.l plummeted into his lap, converting his damp clay body into drifting ceramic flakes.

I glanced at the privacy screen -- the curtain separating me from the car's pa.s.senger cell. Should I dissolve it and inform Ritu's gray? But surely, as a senior UK employee, she must have already received an alert about something amiss at her company. Or was her project so narrowly focused that she banished all distractions, like news?

Maybe she did did know, and preferred to keep the curtain up. Rumors, spreading across the Net, already named me as a likely suspect in the sabotage at Universal Kilns. I debated whether to dissolve the privacy screen from this side and try to explain. Practice my innocent plea, before trying it on the police ... know, and preferred to keep the curtain up. Rumors, spreading across the Net, already named me as a likely suspect in the sabotage at Universal Kilns. I debated whether to dissolve the privacy screen from this side and try to explain. Practice my innocent plea, before trying it on the police ...

Just then a pair of sharp glints caught my eye. Headlights. Reluctantly, I ratcheted down the Volvo's h.e.l.l-bent speed ... then brought it down some more. Something struck me as wrong about the lights. Their position on the road was odd. Maybe the highway swung a bit to the right, up ahead ...

Only it didn't seem about to. I kept edging rightward, instinctively planning to pa.s.s the headlights on that side, but unexpectedly the road drifted the other way, slightly left! Tapping the brake, I slackened speed some more, hoping to consult the nav computer.

The other car was close close!

Expecting to finally avoid him on the right, I nearly plowed into the other fellow before comprehending the situation in an instant. The imbecile had pulled onto the shoulder on my my side, pointing his high beams at oncoming traffic! Only a last-second left swerve took me back onto the road, missing the fool by inches! side, pointing his high beams at oncoming traffic! Only a last-second left swerve took me back onto the road, missing the fool by inches!

The swerve turned into a spin, tires squealing and smoking as the world reeled. I had time to regret a life spent blithely ignoring basic traffic safety rules. No wonder Clara insisted on doing the driving, whenever we went somewhere together. My wonderful, fierce Clara ... and no ghost of mine to console her.

I envisioned ending up like Yosil Maharal, crumpled at the bottom of a ditch ... till the whirling spin finally ended with the Volvo squat and safe, sitting in the middle of the two-lane highway, shining its twin beams back at the idiot who almost caused a wreck.

A dark figure stepped from the other car, hard to picture amid the glare. I was about to get out too, and have some choice words with the fellow. Then I saw that he carried something long and heavy. Shading my eyes against the dazzle, I watched him raise the bulky, tubelike thing to his shoulder.

"Pulp!" I cursed, slamming into second gear and pounding the accelerator. Instinct urged me to turn the wheel, frantically swerving to flee whatever weapon he was bringing to bear! Only Albert's forebrain knew better.

Clara explained it to me long ago -- a basic military principle.

Sometimes your only hope is to scream defiance, charge ahead; and hope for the best.

Evidently. The tactic sure surprised my attacker, who leaped back, colliding with the hood of his car before trying to steady his aim. I howled, shoving my right foot to the floor, spurring the Volvo's engine to an emergency-power roar.

In that split instant, amid the glare of two converging sets of headlights, I knew several things at once.

Good lord, it's Aeneas Kaolin!

And -- he's going to get his shot off before I reach him. he's going to get his shot off before I reach him.

And -- no matter what weapon he's got, I'll still have the satisfaction of turning his sorry clay a.s.s into pottery shards. no matter what weapon he's got, I'll still have the satisfaction of turning his sorry clay a.s.s into pottery shards.

That offered small comfort as a bolt of horrid lightning spewed from Kaolin's gun, enveloping my car in fireworks. Pain followed right behind.

Still, through the blinding coruscation I got to see the platinum ditto throw both arms up, venting a last-instant wail of spontaneous despair.

PART II.

Remember, I beseech thee, that thou hast made me as the clay; and wilt thou bring me unto dust again?

-- The Book of Job

21.

Duplicity ... on Wednesday, Tuesday's first gray protests the unfairness of life ...

My first clear realization, as I awake, is not about the cramped tube where I find myself confined. I've been ambushed, snared, boxed, and crated so many times, I hardly notice anymore. No, my first thought is that I should not have been sleeping. I should not have been sleeping. I'm a ditto, after all. With just a ticking enzyme clock, I don't have time for frivolities. I'm a ditto, after all. With just a ticking enzyme clock, I don't have time for frivolities.

Then it comes rushing back -- I was hurrying along a ragged hedge in an old-fashioned suburban enclave, created for Aeneas Kaolin's servants. Stepping over a bike, I wondered -- where did Maharal's ghost hurry off to? Why did the inventor's final golem run off, instead of helping solve its maker's killing?

I hastened around the hedge, only to find -- ditMaharal! The gray stood there, smiling, aiming a weapon with a flared nozzle ...

The memory's distressing. Worse, I have a weird impression that more than a little time pa.s.sed since. Hours. More than I can afford.

It's a good thing I pay to give my ditto blanks phobia blocks, or I'd be having fits right now, pinned inside a narrow cylinder, pickled in a syrup of oily sustaino-fluid. All right, Albert ... ditAlbert ditAlbert ... quit banging the walls. You'll never break out of here by force. Concentrate! ... quit banging the walls. You'll never break out of here by force. Concentrate!

I remember hurrying to catch up with Maharal's ghost, rounding the corner of a tall hedge, only to find my quarry had turned, pointing spray gun at my face. I plunged into a diving tackle, hoping fresh reflexes would prove quicker than his day-old body.

It must not have worked.

How long have I been out? I send a time query to my tracker pellet and the response is a sharp pain -- someone must have ripped it from my brow. A throbbing hole gapes when I wriggle up a hand to poke the wound.

In countries with strict laws, pellet removal automatically kills the ditto. In PEZ, the old precautions faded till there's just a cheap transponder and data chip. I can live without it. But my archie will have a hard time retrieving his lost property, which is why bad guys dig the pellets out.

Did they also think to remove the rest of my implants? I can't tell if my auto-recorder is still running. For all I know, this subvocal narration may be futile, words vanishing into entropy, like my thoughts. But I can't stop compulsively reciting. It's built in to keep doing it till this pathetic clay brain dissolves.

Wait. Most sustaino-tanks come equipped with a little window, so owners can view their a.s.sets. All I see right now is blank metal, but there's light coming from somewhere.

Behind me. Pressing both palms against the tank's inner wall, I rotate slowly ... and there it is. Beyond a thick sheet of gla.s.s, I see a room that resembles some mad scientist's laboratory. Pressing both palms against the tank's inner wall, I rotate slowly ... and there it is. Beyond a thick sheet of gla.s.s, I see a room that resembles some mad scientist's laboratory.

Mine isn't the only preservation cylinder. Dozens lean haphazardly on rough, stony walls. Beyond, I see storage freezers for raw blanks, several imprinting units, and a large kiln for baking fresh duplicates. Every piece of equipment bears the same logo -- a U U followed by a followed by a K, K, each letter enclosed by its own circle. Side by side, they blend into something like the symbol for infinity. All over the world, it stands for quality. The genuine article. Kosher. The real McCoy. each letter enclosed by its own circle. Side by side, they blend into something like the symbol for infinity. All over the world, it stands for quality. The genuine article. Kosher. The real McCoy.

Could I be inside the gleaming headquarters of Universal Kilns? Something about the stark rock wall says no. High-bandwidth superconducting cables lay haphazardly draped across cluttered work benches. Shabby dust layers show that no contract janitorial service sends striped golems to clean here. Wherever "here" is.

At a guess, I'd say the loyal Dr. Maharal was pilfering office supplies, and possibly a lot more, before his demise.

Beyond the normal run of dittoing equipment, several machines look unfamiliar, with the open-scaffold look of prototypes. One array of high-pressure tanks and nozzles had been hissing and fuming, obscured in multicolored fog till a few seconds ago, before reaching a climax and abruptly falling silent.

A horizontal panel swings back and clouds of vapor spill away from a naked figure, lying on a cushioned platform -- with that fresh, doughy look that you always have when emerging from the kiln. The features are those of Yosil Maharal, resembling the corpse I saw at Kaolin Manor, though hairless and metallic gray, flushed with glimmering reddish undertones.

A sudden jerk and gasp; it starts to breathe, sucking air to feed the catalysis cells. Eyes snap open, dark, without pupils. They turn, as if sensing my gaze.

There is a coldness in their regard. Icy, with an agony. That is, if you can read anything in a ditto's eyes.

Sitting up and swiveling to plant both feet on the floor, Maharal's golem starts toward me. Limping. Limping. The same uneven gait I once attributed to some recent injury. But that was a different copy. It had to be. This ditto is new. Its uneven gait must have some other explanation. Habit, perhaps. The same uneven gait I once attributed to some recent injury. But that was a different copy. It had to be. This ditto is new. Its uneven gait must have some other explanation. Habit, perhaps.

New? How could it be new? Maharal is dead! There's no template to copy anymore. No soul to lay its impression into clay. Unless he happened to have a few imprinted spares, stored in a fridge. But the machine this creature just stepped out of doesn't look like any fridge or kiln I ever saw.

Even before he speaks, I wonder -- Am I looking at some kind of technological marvel? A breakthrough? Project Zoroaster?

Still naked, ditMaharal peers through the small window of my container, as if inspecting a valuable acquisition.

"You appear to be managing well enough." The words enter via a small diaphragm, vibrating the greasy fluid within. The words enter via a small diaphragm, vibrating the greasy fluid within. "I hope you're comfortable, Albert." "I hope you're comfortable, Albert."

How can I answer? I shrug helplessly.

"There is a speaking tube," the gray golem explains. the gray golem explains. "Below the window." "Below the window."