gaming rooms, a shooting range, and other luxuries. But
there was no solace in seeing all I possessed.
I went into the den and closed the door, looked around
without turning on the lights. The machine stood in the
corner, silent, monstrous. It was what I had gotten up for
in the first place, though I had needed a few minutes to
admit it.
The headrest was ominous, a bulky electrode-strung pad
that curved to encompass the skull.
But my nerves demanded soothing.
The chair that folded into the machine was like the
tongue of some mythical beast, some man-eater and steal-
er of souls.
I could see the hollow compartment which would swal-
low me with a single lick, and it terrified me. But I needed
soothing. My hands twitched, and a tic had begun in the
corner of my mouth. I reminded myself that other gener-
ations never had the advantage of a Porter-Rainey Solid-
State Psychiatrist and that many people, even these days,
could not afford one even when modern technology made
it possible. I forced myself to forget the emptiness that
would take me later. For the moment comfort was
enough. And a few explanations . . .
I sat down in the chair.
My head touched the pad.
The world swiveled up and away, while darkness de-
scended, while fingers probed where they should not be,
while my soul was split open like a nut and the meat of my
fractured personality was drawn forth for a close examina-
tion (in search of worms?).
Proteus Mother taking a thousand shapes, but never to
be caught and held to tell the future. . . .
The life spark flickering, then holding steady as a frozen
flame. And a very vague awareness even in the womb,
where plastic walls were soft and sophisticated thermostat-
ic computers maintained a succor-filled environment. Where
plastic walls were giving—but somehow unresponsive. . . .
He looked up into the lights overhead and sensed a man
named Edison. He sensed filaments even as his own fila-
ment was disconnected from the womb….
And there were metal hands to comfort him. . . .
And … and … there … and…
SAY IT WITHOUT HESITATION! The voice was
everywhere about me, was booming, was reassuring in its
depth of passion.
And there were simu-flesh breasts to feed him. . ..
And … and …
OUT WITH IT! The computerized psyche-prober imi-
tated thunderstorms and symphonies filled with cymbals.
And there were wire-cored arms to rock him; and he
looked out of his swaddling clothes and … and ..,
GO ON!
. . . looked up into a face without a nose and with blank
crystal eyes that reflected his reddened face. Unmoving
black lips crooned, “Rock-a-biiiii-bay-beeeee in theee treeeee
(thriddle-thriddle) tops . . .” The thriddle-thriddle rattling
interjection was, he found, the sound of voice tapes chang-
ing somewhere inside his mother’s head. He searched for
his own voice tapes. There were none.
GO ON, GO ON!
And he looked up out of swaddling clothes when he
esped an understanding and . . . and . . .
IF YOU HESITATE, YOU WILL BE LOST.
I don’t remember it after that.
YOU DO.
No!
Yes. YESYESYES. The machine touched part of my
mind with blue fingers. Dazzling clouds of neon gas ex-
ploded inside my head. I CAN MAKE THE MEMORY
EVEN SHARPER.
No! I’ll tell it.
TELL.
And he looked up out of swaddling clothes when he
esped an understanding, and his first words were … were
FINISH IT!
His first words were: “My God, my God, I’m not
human!”
FINE. NOW RELAX AND LISTEN. My electronic
David sorted through the miasma of our conversation and
interpreted my dreams for me. There wasn’t any simple
harp music to accompany his readings, though. YOU
KNOW THAT THE “HE” IS REALLY YOU. YOU
ARE SIMEON KELLY. THE HE OF YOUR ILLU-
SION IS ALSO SIMEON KELLY. YOUR PROBLEM IS
THIS: YOU ARE OF THE ARTIFICIAL WOMB. YOU
WERE CONDITIONED FROM CONCEPTION TO
HAVE HUMAN MORES AND VALUES. BUT YOU
CANNOT HOLD YOUR MANNER OF CREATION UP
TO THE LIGHT ALONGSIDE YOUR MORES AND
THEN MANAGE TO ACCEPT BOTH.