Mosh drummed his fingers on the table until he noticed the racket he was causing. "Alright, people, let's figure out what to do here."

"Legally," answered Gil, "we have to keep him here until he's ready to leave. And that doesn't mean when he says he's ready. It means when we say we say he's ready. We're a medical facility first and a harried bunch of workers second. It's important we remember that." he's ready. We're a medical facility first and a harried bunch of workers second. It's important we remember that."

"Morally, we have an obligation to keep him till he's ready to go," added Eleanor, looking to Neela for support.

"He's ready," said Neela, "but he does have one condition."

"Name it," said Mosh, a little too quickly.

"Me."

Advertising media saturation in a society as advanced as this one is both a blessing and a curse. Indeed, had it not been for the market demand and successful application of products and services to help limit advertising, society would have experienced a second Grand Collapse (by the simple fact that no one would have wanted to leave their homes for fear of advertising inundation). Luckily, there was almost as much money to be made in antipublicity and antiadvertising product development as in the traditional fields of advertising, and so a healthy balance was reached. But if the public wanted to be informed of an event, or in effect allowed themselves to be advertised to, then what became known as "permissive" market saturation could easily reach so close to 100 percent as to make no statistical difference whatsoever. Of the four events in modern times to reach the magic 100, three of them involved Justin Cord.-FROM A LECTURE GIVEN BY PROFESSOR MARTIN JONES, UNIVERSITY OF SAN MIGUEL DE ALLENDE, POSTED AT MEDIA AND MODERN SOCIETY.

The press conference was held in the clinic's loading dock. Although not ideally suited, it was the only place big enough to hold the event. Floaters and reporters were busy scurrying about everywhere, except for a small area cordoned off by the main entrance leading into the clinic. And that's where most of them were encamped, waiting for the system's hottest news story to walk through the door.

Justin and Neela were waiting patiently on the other side of it, listening to the clamor, and occasionally peering out through the one-way mirror.

Justin couldn't help but laugh at the melee occurring in his honor.

"You're really enjoying this, aren't you?" Neela asked, resisting the urge to gently poke his ribs.

"Sure. What man wouldn't like to have the whole world-sorry-the whole solar system solar system waiting with bated breath to hear what he has to say?" waiting with bated breath to hear what he has to say?"

"In that case," chided Neela, "it'd better be good."

He laughed and smiled at her, indicating he was ready to go. Neela smiled back. He seemed, she thought, transformed. He also appeared to be totally accepting, and even eager, about beginning his new life. She wished she could have claimed some of the credit, but she wouldn't. Even though she'd helped Justin center himself, and was there for him during his first week, it was nothing like how a reintegration, especially of this sort, was supposed to go. If anything, she should have gotten him to slow down, not plow ahead. And now she realized she didn't want him to walk out that door, because when he did, everything would change again. Not that it hadn't already, but the few steps he was about to take into the world's waiting arms would solidify the change irrevocably. Neela wanted to keep this moment for herself before the world took him away.

"You know," she said, "it's not like the world knows nothing about you. Besides what's already on the Neuro, that interview you gave with Mr. Veritas is systemwide."

"True enough, Neela. I'm happy to say that they know about you as well, Miss Famous Reanimationist with a specialty in social integration. If I'm not mistaken, your interviews with Irma Sobbelge were broadcast systemwide as well."

Neela feigned amusement at Justin's remark, but inside she was worried. The associative fame of being so close to the system's newest frenzy had shot her stock value way up-beyond what she could have ever hoped to earn in her lifetime. The immediate effect was to make her a wealthy woman ... at least, on paper. The downside was that her dream of gaining self-majority was slipping further and further away. The more well-known she became, the more her stock shot up. And the more her stock shot up, the more difficult it became to buy it back. She likened it to a cat chasing its tail.

As a precaution she'd called her parents and sister before news of Justin broke and told them not to sell any shares that they owned, no matter how lucrative. As was customary, most parents promised not to sell their children's 20 percent, and usually willed it back to their offspring in the unfortunate event of an accidental permanent death. But it would have taken saints to turn down the type of offers Neela's stock was getting. While Neela understood that the decision to sell was her parents' and sister's to make, she didn't want them to get swindled. She'd breathed a sigh of relief when they'd told her that no matter what the going price, the shares would remain in their name alone. As far as her brother was concerned, she'd wisely bought back her few shares from him well over ten years ago.

Another downside to her newfound notoriety was how busy her schedule had become. She'd been booked for countless talk shows and speaking tours, something she looked forward to with loathing. She would have loved to refuse them all; however, as long as she was a minority shareholder of herself she had no choice but to agree. Even the extra credits she made did not make up for the loss of the quiet life she'd almost grown used to. In many ways, she'd often reflect, she was living a parallel life to that of her patient. Suddenly thrown into the spotlight, people fawning for her attention-almost as if she, too, had been reborn.

Incorporation headaches, she thought sadly. She put on a smile for Justin and wondered what it would be like to not owe anybody anything-to be that that free. free.

"Besides," Justin said, breaking Neela out of her reverie, "those interviews explained the past. This press conference is about the future." He again motioned toward the doorway. "Shall we?"

"By all means, Justin," Neela said, sighing slightly. "Let's not keep the future waiting."

They stepped through the permiawall into a hailstorm of shouted questions and the associated sounds of buzzing contraptions used for high-quality recording. Justin was a little surprised by the lack of flashes going off but remembered that a civilization with sourceless lighting wouldn't need a flash to illuminate a face. Still, the noise was enough to deafen, and the shouted questions reminded Justin that this was indeed an old-fashioned media frenzy. He stood in front of a small dais and held up his hands, hoping it would bring some order. The mob quieted down. He pointed first to Irma Sobbelge. It was their agreement that she would get the first question, and then all special treatment would end. Justin felt he had more than lived up to his end of the bargain, and Irma had agreed.

He put both hands on the dais, readying himself for the onslaught. "Yes."

Irma stood up, basking momentarily in the special treatment accorded her and her paper. "Mr. Cord, Irma Sobbelge, Terran Daily News Terran Daily News. We have it on good authority that you're leaving the clinic. Is that true? And if so, where will you be living now?"

Justin smiled, knowing that Irma had just asked two questions instead of one, but he admired her desire to milk her moment for all it was worth.

"It is true," he answered, "that I will be leaving the clinic, and I wish to thank all the staff here for doing an amazing job under the most unusual of circumstances. I am grateful. But a man is reborn in a clinic; he is not meant to live there."

The room started to laugh, taking Justin by surprise. He didn't think what he'd said was all that funny, but it may have struck a cultural chord he knew nothing about. When the laughter subsided, he continued.

"I'll be living in New York City for the time being, though the asteroid belt is looking interesting to me. I may eventually settle in Ceres."

And in one fell swoop what had been meant as a joke set off a real-estate war on the tiny boulder that raised property values by an average of 37 percent.

He pointed to another reporter, a pretty woman of Asian descent. She stood up to speak.

"Miss Huan Lee Kim of the Neuro News," she belted out.

"Yes, Ms. Kim."

"Mr. Cord, will Dr. Harper be continuing on as your ... integrationist?"

"Yes. I have signed a contract with the director of the clinic for her services for the next year."

"May I ask as to the nature of that contract?" she pressed.

"No," snapped Justin.

Miss Kim was about to sit down, not expecting an answer but having more than enough to scandalize her readers for weeks, when Neela, who was standing behind and to the right of Justin, stepped forward.

"If you would allow me to answer that question, Justin," Neela said.

Justin nodded in surprise and took a small step backward to allow Neela front and center.

"Miss Kim, Mr. Cord has agreed to pay my salary for a year, as well as the cost of replacing me on staff for the year. In return he will be my exclusive patient, though I have contacted Dr. Gillette of the Vegas Clinic, and he will be consulting on this case. I would also like to say that the tone and emphasis of your questions were not becoming to my professional integrity or your own. Mr. Cord is my patient, period. Soon he may be mine and Dr. Gillette's."

"Doesn't he trust you?" someone shouted from the back.

"Completely," smiled Justin, "but Neela insisted, and who am I to argue with my specialist?" The crowd chuckled, and Justin picked someone else before they started shouting out their own questions. A well-dressed man in an intricately layered, multicolored suit stood up.

"Mr. Corwin of The Detroit Times The Detroit Times," he said, as proudly as he could manage.

"Yes, Mr. Corwin."

"Mr. Cord, I am sure that you will be will be a wealthy man, but where did you get the funds to pay for your own private specialist for a year?" a wealthy man, but where did you get the funds to pay for your own private specialist for a year?"

"Before I had myself suspended, I took the precaution of placing certain valuables in places around the world. Sadly, most of them were found and looted, but three of my troves went untouched. According to the appraisals I've received you can consider my financial status as 'comfortable.' "

Justin pointed at another woman standing off to the side but jumping in a manner that caught his eye.

"Yes, you over there with the impressive jump."

"Thank you. Miss Daniels, Boulder Sentinel Boulder Sentinel."

"Yes, Miss Daniels."

"How 'comfortable'?"

"Let's just say comfortable enough to hire my own specialist for a year and pay her salary."

Justin smiled in a way that let them all know that he had more than a sufficient amount, and in all likelihood enough to put most of their salaries to shame. And in a society that respected wealth and property as few others in history, his evasive answer only added to the mystique that was fast becoming associated with his name.

"Well, Mr. Cord," Miss Daniels said, "that is impressive. What will you buy first?"

"Happiness," said Justin, in all seriousness.

There was a shout from the back: "As long as you share it, I wish you all the happiness you're entitled to!"

The crowd buzzed and turned to see who had the temerity to interrupt their guest of honor. What they saw was a smug-looking Hektor Sambianco leaning against one of the open bay doors, arms folded across his chest.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Hektor Sambianco," Justin said, extending his arm in his bane's direction. "You can leave now, Mr. Sambianco, or, if you prefer, be removed."

Hektor didn't budge. Instead he stood there smiling, almost daring Justin to follow through.

"You're forgetting, Mr. Cord, that as a duly authorized representative of GCI I have every right to be here. But I will not stay long if I'm not wanted."

"You're not," answered Neela. "Now please leave."

"Suit yourself. I'll just drop this off and be on my way." Hektor approached to within five feet of the podium and took out a small device that looked like a pen and pointed it toward the ceiling, where there appeared a document with dense legal script. After a few moments the image faded. "There, that should do it," he said.

"What was that?" Justin whispered into Neela's ear, but before she could respond Hektor delivered the answer.

"Forgive me, Justin. I would have handed you the papers digitally and in person, but you looked so hostile. I served the documents in a more public fashion than is traditional. But no one can argue that you didn't see them. And if by some odd chance you didn't, well then, I'm sure you can pick them up by watching the news-any channel should do."

"Served, as in court papers?" Miss Kim asked. The whole room had done an about-face, turning toward Hektor.

"Precisely, Miss Kim. Yes, GCI will see Mr. Cord in court."

Justin gripped the dais. "Don't say anything," Neela urged.

Another reporter's question rang out. "Would that be about Mr. Cord's suspension unit?"

"No, it would not, Mr. Haddad. We're dropping that claim for now." The reporter was clearly impressed that Hektor had known his name.

"Then," Mr. Haddad pressed, "what is it about?"

"Justin, we should go," implored Neela, grabbing his arm and trying unsuccessfully to drag him out of the room. She'd sensed his agitation and knew instinctively that Hektor was getting to him-baiting him further. She could also see Justin trying desperately to control his emotions. This was supposed to be his day, his big coming-out party; Hektor had effectively destroyed it.

"Good question, Mr. Haddad." Hektor continued. "As I said before, we're not interested in Mr. Cord's suspension unit, though I'm sure it's worth quite a credit or two. No, GCI is suing for something far more valuable-a percentage of Mr. Cord himself. A percentage that we will hold forever."

Hektor let that sink in, and watched, almost in slow motion, as the entire press corps turned around to get Justin's reaction.

Then all hell broke loose.

Omad grunted as he carried the last box across the threshold, actually breaking a sweat-a rare occurrence now that he'd gone majority.

"OK, Justin," Omad asked, wiping his brow, "why didn't you kill him?"

"You mean Sambianco?" he answered, shoving a set of boxes into a corner of the room. "I wasn't trying to kill him, Omad, just ... punch his lights out."

"Could have fooled me."

"Look, man," Justin said, "the guards broke us up and the rest is up to the lawyers. It happened over a week ago. I'm just trying to start up a new life here in the Big Apple and enjoy the future."

Omad put a box down at his feet, emitting a grunt. "Enjoy the future? Enjoy the future, my ass. You know, Justin, they have things in the 'future' called drones. They could have done almost all of this moving without us. If it had to be done by hu-lab ... sorry," he said, realizing yet another abbreviation was escaping his perplexing friend's grasp, "human labor, why not just hire people? You're richer than God. Is there some tradition in your time that states your friends must be the first to suffer when you you move?" move?"

Justin turned around, laughing. "Well, now that you mention it, yeah. But even more than that, I always felt that a place wasn't really yours unless you personally moved in some of the stuff and unpacked some boxes."

Omad wasn't buying it. In fact, it made about as much sense to him as would his heading back into the mines. "That's another thing," he snapped. "What the hell are those boxes made out of, some sort of biscuit?"

"It's called cardboard, Omad," Justin said, tapping one lightly with his foot for good measure. "All boxes used to be made out of it."

Omad shrugged. "Whatever."

"You might be surprised to know," continued Justin, "that it cost a fortune to have those boxes re-created. Maybe even more than the stuff inside ... for the most part."

Omad grinned. "Why? Ya got another Timex in there for your buddy ... your moving moving buddy?" buddy?"

Justin shook his head, palms flat out. "Sorry."

"Then why?" asked Omad. "Why have these boxes made at all? You live in a fluid apartment, shouldn't you enjoy it? I know I would."

Justin sat down on a conveniently located pile. "Neela suggested that this exercise in moving might help me assimilate into the future better. It may seem weird, but I think she's right. I'm moving into a whole new life, but doing it like this doesn't make it seem as daunting."

"Smart doc, that doc," Omad said, a little too facetiously for Justin's taste. "Did she ever mention anything about torturing friends in your little exercise?"

Justin didn't answer.

"I thought not. Well then, you can make it up to me. You're pretty much in the center of the universe here, so I say we hit some clubs. I might just happen to know of a few fine establishments of exotic entertainment."

"Maybe later, friend," Justin said, fishing through his pockets for a scrap of paper. "I really had something else in mind." He handed Omad the scrap.

Omad read it, then looked up in disgust. "You're taking the ESB over the Virgin Rockets club and casino?"

"Not forever, Omad, but for today. I'd really like to see the Empire State. It would be like visiting an old friend."

Omad softened. "Lemme guess. Part of the exercise?"