"But therein lies a rub."

Standing in chains, wearing a miniature body and forced to listen to this drivel, I could only wonder. Was he being intentionally offensive, in order to gauge my reaction? I mean, why should the great Professor Maharal care what I think? Anyway, I'm just a cheap quarter-sized reddish-orange golem, imprinted off the gray he captured at Kaolin Manor on Tuesday. What kind of intellectual conversation can he hope to have with the likes of me?

Well, I don't feel feel mentally deficient. Ever since stepping from the kiln, I've checked and found no apparent memory gaps. I can't do a differential equation in my head ... but Albert himself was only able to manage that for about eight weeks, long ago, when he needed calculus to pa.s.s a college course. It took the hard, concentrated work of three ebonies to gain access to that painful beauty, then he flushed it away right after exams, making room amid a hundred billion neurons for more relevant memories. mentally deficient. Ever since stepping from the kiln, I've checked and found no apparent memory gaps. I can't do a differential equation in my head ... but Albert himself was only able to manage that for about eight weeks, long ago, when he needed calculus to pa.s.s a college course. It took the hard, concentrated work of three ebonies to gain access to that painful beauty, then he flushed it away right after exams, making room amid a hundred billion neurons for more relevant memories.

See? I can even do irony.

All right, apparently I'm better at copy-to-copy imprinting than even I realized -- something Yosil Maharal must have known for a long time. Maybe from back when I took part in that high school summer research project. Were my scores really so special? Has he been grabbing my copies to study ever since?

The thought makes me feel creepy. Worse -- violated. violated. Man, what a jerk. Man, what a jerk.

He claims to have reasons. And yet, don't all fanatics?

"Now here is my greatest treasure," Yosil said, leading me to another exhibit. "It was given to me by the Honorary Son of Heaven himself, three years ago, in grat.i.tude for my work at Sian."

Before me, preserved inside a sealed gla.s.s case, stood the statue -- life-size -- of a man with the upright bearing of a soldier, staring straight ahead, ready for action. So detailed was the sculpted handiwork that it portrayed rivets holding together strips of leather armor. A mustache, goatee, and stark cheekbones embellished strong Asiatic features -- touched off by hints of whimsy. The entire effigy was made of brown terracotta.

Naturally, I knew of Sian, one of the artistic gems of the world. It would be inconceivable for a private individual to own one of these statues -- if there had not been so many of them. Thousands, reclaimed from half a dozen buried regiments, discovered across more than a century, each of the effigies modeled after a particular soldier who served Ch'in, the first emperor, who conquered and united all the lands of the East. The same Ch'in who first built the Great Wall and gave his name to China.

"You know about my recent work there," ditYosil said -- not a question but statement of fact. Naturally. He's spoken to other Alberts, giving them the very same guided tour.

To what purpose? I wondered. I wondered. Why explain all this, knowing the memories will be lost and that I must be told again, the next time he ditnaps another me to serve as an unwilling subject? Why explain all this, knowing the memories will be lost and that I must be told again, the next time he ditnaps another me to serve as an unwilling subject?

Unless that's part of what he is trying to test ...

"I've read a thing or two about your Sian work, in the journals," I answered guardedly. "You claim to have found soul-traces in some of the clay statues."

"Something like that." ditYosil's thin smile carried evident pride, recalling the worldwide sensation that his discovery provoked. "Some call the evidence ambiguous, though I think it's clear enough to conclude that some kind of primitive imprinting process must have been at work. By what means? We still haven't determined. A fluke, perhaps -- or the work of some ancient prodigy -- helping to explain the astonishing political events of that era, as well as the terrified awe that his contemporaries held for Ch'in.

"As a direct result of my findings, the present-day Son of Heaven finally agreed to open the colossal Ch'in tomb next year! Some deep mysteries may come to light, having slept for millennia."

"Hm," I answered, a bit incautiously. "Too bad you won't be there to witness it."

"Perhaps not. Or maybe I will. So many delicious contradictions come laden in that one sentence of yours, Albert."

"Uh. What sentence was that?"

"You said 'too bad,' implying values. The word 'you' was directed at me, as a thinking being, the person who is holding you captive right now, right?"

"Uh ... right."

"Then there are the phrases 'be there' and 'witness it.' Oh, you said a mouthful, all right."

"I don't see -- "

"We live at a special time," ditMaharal expounded. "A time when religion and philosophy have become experimental sciences, subject to hands-on manipulation by engineers. Miracles become trademarked products, bottled and sold at discount. The direct descendants of men who used to chip flint spearheads by the riverbank are not only making life but redefining the very meaning of the word! And yet -- "

He paused. I finally had to coax him.

"And yet?"

Maharal's gray face twisted. "And yet there are obstacles! obstacles! So many of the outstanding problems in soulistics seem to have no hope of being solved, due to the ineffable complexity of the Standing Wave. So many of the outstanding problems in soulistics seem to have no hope of being solved, due to the ineffable complexity of the Standing Wave.

"No computer can model it, Albert. Only the shortest and fattest superconducting cables can convey its subtle majesty, barely well enough to let you press an imprint upon a nearby receptacle of specially prepared clay. Mathematically, it's a horror! Given all the odds, I'm astonished the process works at all.

"In fact, many of today's deepest thinkers suggest that we should just be thankful and accept it as a gift, without understanding it, like intelligence, or music, or laughter."

He shook his head, offering a good facsimile of a disdainful snort.

"But naturally, people on the street know nothing of this. Born with the cantankerous human spirit, they are never satisfied with a marvel -- or with their vastly expanded lives. Not at all! They take it for granted, and keep demanding more.

"Make it possible for us to imprint distant distant golems, so we can teleport around the solar system! Give us telepathy, by letting us absorb each other's memories! Never mind what the metamath equations say. We want more! We want to golems, so we can teleport around the solar system! Give us telepathy, by letting us absorb each other's memories! Never mind what the metamath equations say. We want more! We want to be be more! more!

"And of course, people are right. Deep down, they sense the truth."

"What truth do you mean, Doctor?" I asked.

"That human beings are about to become become very much more! Though not in any of the ways they now imagine." very much more! Though not in any of the ways they now imagine."

With that cryptic remark, Maharal carefully put away the last of his dear collectibles -- the cuneiform tablets and pottery shards. The ancient amphora vessels and China dinnerware. The enigmatic/erotic Venus statuettes and snow-glazed Dresden figurines. The parchment texts in Hebrew, Sanskrit, and the cryptic coded charts of medieval alchemy. Finally he gave an affectionate nod to the stalwart terracotta soldier, still standing watch with his flickering, barely detectable imbuement of soul. Maharal took obvious comfort from these treasures, as if they proved his work part of a time-honored tradition.

Then, yanking the chain around my neck, he forced me to stumble after him like a small child following a heartless giant, back into the laboratory filled with machines that hissed and whirred and sparked, making the air tingle in frightening ways. I had a hunch that some of the effects might be for show. Yosil had a flair for the dramatic. Unlike some "mad scientists," he knew what he was and clearly relished the role.

A transparent soundproof part.i.tion divided the room. Beyond, I glimpsed the table where "I" became aware just an hour or so ago, still warm from the kiln. And nearby, strapped to another platform, lay a gray figure much taller than this body of mine. The self that I had been for several days. The one who provided a template for this narrating consciousness.

Poor gray. Left there to simmer and worry and scheme in vain. At least I had the distraction of an opponent.

"How did you manage to put all this together in secret?" I asked, gesturing around. The sheer amount of material -- not to mention the expensive gizmos -- would have been difficult to transport to this hidden underground lair (wherever it is) even in the old days of CIA plots and bad movieds about alien autopsies. To find it done today by a single person, somehow evading the all-seeing and all-shared public Eye of Accountability, showed that I was in the hands of a true genius. As if I didn't know it already.

A genius who clearly resented me me for some reason! Not only was he physically callous toward this body I wore, he kept oscillating between taciturn silence and bouts of sudden talkativeness, as if driven by some inner need to impress me. I recognized clear signs of a Smersh-Foxleitner inferiority complex ... and wondered what possible good the diagnosis was going to do me. for some reason! Not only was he physically callous toward this body I wore, he kept oscillating between taciturn silence and bouts of sudden talkativeness, as if driven by some inner need to impress me. I recognized clear signs of a Smersh-Foxleitner inferiority complex ... and wondered what possible good the diagnosis was going to do me.

Mostly, I kept looking for possible ways to escape, knowing that each of my earlier prisoner-incarnations must have done the very same thing. But all they accomplished with their efforts had been to turn Maharal hypercautious -- so that now he only imprints experimental copies of me that are too weak to punch their way out of paper manacles.

Fettering me to a chair beneath a machine resembling a giant microscope, he aimed the huge lens at my little reddish-orange head.

"I have access to ample resources, quite near here," Maharal said, answering my question -- though unhelpfully. Fiddling with dials and muttering into a computerized votroller, he looked more focused on the task at hand than on me personally. But I knew better by now.

The man worried about me -- a disquiet that ran deep. Anything I said could vex him.

"All right, so we ruled out teleportation and telepathy. Even so, you've made impressive breakthroughs, Doctor. Your process to extend a ditto's pseudolifespan, for instance. Wow. Imagine if all golems could replenish their elan elan a week or two ... it could really hurt the value of Universal Kilns stock, I bet. Is that why you had a falling out with Aeneas Kaolin?" a week or two ... it could really hurt the value of Universal Kilns stock, I bet. Is that why you had a falling out with Aeneas Kaolin?"

My remark drew a sharp look. Gray lips pressed together in a line, silent.

"Come on, Doc. Admit it. I could feel feel tension between you two, under all the feigned affection back at Kaolin Manor, when you showed up as a ghost to view your own corpse. The Vic seemed anxious to get his hands on that artificial brain of yours, and dice it to bits. Why? In order to learn more about all this?" I gestured at the big lab with its mysterious stolen equipment. "Or was he trying to hush you?" tension between you two, under all the feigned affection back at Kaolin Manor, when you showed up as a ghost to view your own corpse. The Vic seemed anxious to get his hands on that artificial brain of yours, and dice it to bits. Why? In order to learn more about all this?" I gestured at the big lab with its mysterious stolen equipment. "Or was he trying to hush you?"

Maharal's grimace told me I hit home.

"Is that it? Did Aeneas Kaolin murder your real self? Did Aeneas Kaolin murder your real self?"

The police hadn't found any signs of foul play at the desert crash site where realYosil Maharal had died. But in searching for clues, they only considered today's technology. Aeneas Kaolin possessed tomorrow's.

"As usual, you are thinking small, Mr. Morris. Like poor Aeneas."

"Yeah? Then try explaining, Professor. Starting with why I'm here. All right, so I make great copies. How does that help you solve those great mysteries of soulistics?"

His eyes rolled upward and shoulders shrugged -- an expression of fatigued contempt, exactly according to the Smersh-Foxleitner pattern. Maharal doesn't just envy my ability. He actually fears me! So he must exaggerate the intellectual gulf between us and minimize my humanity. Maharal doesn't just envy my ability. He actually fears me! So he must exaggerate the intellectual gulf between us and minimize my humanity.

Did my other selves notice this? They must have!

"You would not understand," he muttered, returning to his preparations. I heard the crackle of high-power equipment, warming up with me sitting at the focus.

"I'm sure you said that to the other Alberts you captured. But tell me this, did you ever, even once, try try to explain? Maybe offer me collaboration, instead of unwilling experimental torment? Science isn't meant to be a lonely business, after all. Whatever your reasons for working in isolation -- " to explain? Maybe offer me collaboration, instead of unwilling experimental torment? Science isn't meant to be a lonely business, after all. Whatever your reasons for working in isolation -- "

" -- are my reasons. And they are more than sufficient to justify these means." Maharal turned to regard me tiredly. "Now you'll spout moral moral arguments, about how wrong it is to treat another thinking ent.i.ty this way. Even though you showed no such regard for your own dittos! Never even bothering to investigate why so many went missing over the years." arguments, about how wrong it is to treat another thinking ent.i.ty this way. Even though you showed no such regard for your own dittos! Never even bothering to investigate why so many went missing over the years."

"But ... I'm a private eye. That involves sending myselves into dangerous situations. Taking risks. I came to think of them -- "

" -- as disposable disposable selves. Their loss to be regretted no more than our grandparents would lament the waste of an irritating day. Well, that's your privilege. But then, don't call me a monster if I take advantage." selves. Their loss to be regretted no more than our grandparents would lament the waste of an irritating day. Well, that's your privilege. But then, don't call me a monster if I take advantage."

That gave me pause. "Have I called you a monster?"

Stone-faced. "Several times."

I pondered this a moment.

"Well, then, I have to guess that your ... procedure procedure is gonna hurt. A lot." is gonna hurt. A lot."

"Rather, I'm afraid. Sorry. But there is good news! I have reason to hope things will go much smoother this time."

"Because you've improved your method?"

"In part. And because circ.u.mstances have changed. I expect your Standing Wave will be more malleable ... more mobile mobile ... now that it's no longer anch.o.r.ed to organic reality." ... now that it's no longer anch.o.r.ed to organic reality."

I didn't like the sound of that.

"What do you mean, no longer anch.o.r.ed? no longer anch.o.r.ed?"

Maharal frowned, but I could tell the expression masked a layer of pleasure. Perhaps he wasn't even aware how much he enjoyed telling me the news.

"I mean that you're dead, Mr. Morris. Your original body was vaporized late Tuesday night, in a missile attack that destroyed your home."

"A ... what?"

"Yes, my poor fellow artifact. Like me, you are now -- as they say -- a ghost."

29.

Imitation of a Counterfeit Life ... Gumby and Pal, poking around ...

The interior of the Rainbow Lounge lay eerily empty.

Some holoflashers had been left on, illuminating the dance floor and the Grudge Pit with twisted images, like multidimensional Dali landscapes roamed by erotic figures possessing far too many limbs. But without the intense background beat of CeramoPunk music, the flickering shapes were rather pathetic. This place demanded crowding -- a hot press of several hundred brightly colored bodies, hyped to wear their standing waves exposed, ultrasensitive, like the p.r.i.c.kly emotions of teenagers.

"I wonder who's gonna take over the Rainbow," Palloid mused. "Do you think Irene had heirs or left a will? Does it all go up for auction?"

"Why? Thinking of becoming a tavernkeeper?"

"It's tempting." He leaped from my shoulder onto the bar, a broad expanse of heavily lacquered teakwood. "But maybe I don't have the personality for it."

"You mean the patience, concentration, or tact," I commented while poking around. The bar featured a dazzling array of tubes, faucets, bottles, and dispensers of intoxicants, euphorics, stimulants, levelers, speeders, slowers, uppers, downers, horizoners, myopics, stigmatics, zealotropics, hystericogens -- "Touche, Albert. Though Irene's idea of tact was rather specialized. The kind used by pimps, bouncers, and cops. Screw 'em all."

"Nihilist," I muttered while scanning labels for a dizzying array of concoctions. My search wasn't going to be easy. The varieties of abuse that you can put a clay body through never cease to amaze me, and almost certainly astonished the inventors of dittotech, back when people started fiddling with home modification kits. You can fine-tune a golem so it will react spectacularly to alcohol or acetone, electric or magnetic fields, sonic or radar stimulation, images or aromatics ... not to mention a thousand specially designed pseudoparasites. In other words, you can pound, pluck, or molest the Standing Wave in countless ways that would be lethal to your real body, and transfer home vivid memories when the busy day is done.

No wonder there are experience addicts. By comparison, the opiate-alkaloid c.o.c.ktails that sad folks used to inject in Grandpa's day were like a dose of vitamins.

"Nihilist? You dare call me that? Who's standing here, using up lifespan helping you, friend?"

"You call it help help to squat up there, kibitzing? How about some a.s.sistance down here, behind the bar?" to squat up there, kibitzing? How about some a.s.sistance down here, behind the bar?"

He replied with a desultory snarl, but did leap to ground at the far end, sniffing as he scanned labels, grumbling audibly that I owed him for this. I wasn't buying any of his act, of course. My friend's personal addiction was to poke away at the world's weirdness. After events of the last hour, he never seemed happier.

I hope he gets to inload all this, I thought, recalling the real Pal, imprisoned in his life-sustaining chair. He'd get a kick out of remembering old Horus, toppling onto his b.u.t.t from the Final Options van. Pal might also help distract Clara from her grief by describing how we spent these haunted hours ... I thought, recalling the real Pal, imprisoned in his life-sustaining chair. He'd get a kick out of remembering old Horus, toppling onto his b.u.t.t from the Final Options van. Pal might also help distract Clara from her grief by describing how we spent these haunted hours ...

No, I shied away from thinking about her. Anyway, Clara would remember Albert with fondness. That beat most kinds of immortality that I'd heard of. A lot more immortality than this this particular green frankie was going to get. particular green frankie was going to get.

Anyway, who wants to live forever?

I kept marveling at the variety of substances stored behind the bar. Irene must've had real political clout, to get an environmental variance. Irene must've had real political clout, to get an environmental variance. There are more toxic brews here than in the late state of Delaware. There are more toxic brews here than in the late state of Delaware.

"Got it!" Palloid announced, punctuating his triumph with a smug somersault. I hurried over to his end of the bar where a series of large wooden pull levers stood -- like those used to serve draft beer in a real people tavern. One of them bore a designation that said: Ketone k.o.c.ktail. Ketone k.o.c.ktail.

"Hm, could be. If she had said, 'ketone tap. tap.' "

"Are you sure she said 'cap'?"

"Pretty sure." I jiggled the pull lever, not eager to dispense any of the pressurized contents. My cheap green body -- even renewed under artificial dyes of orange and gray -- couldn't endure most of the exotic mixtures offered for sale here.

"The cap -- " Palloid began.

"I know. I'm checking it now." The lever had a large decorative tip, like a tapered bra.s.s tube covering the end. I twisted one way, then the other. It gave a little, then no more. Even when I wrenched hard.

I was about to give up, then thought, Maybe it works in several Maybe it works in several successive directions, like a Chinese puzzle box. successive directions, like a Chinese puzzle box.