The Cookie Monster

Vernor Vinge

				     Man is "the time-binding animal."
				     But  in the  future, that  simple
				     statement  may  take  on meanings
				     that Korzybski  never imagined...

"So how do you like the new job?"

Dixie  Mae looked  up from  her keyboard  and spotted  a pimply  face
peering at her from over the cubicle partition.

"It beats flipping burgers, Victor," she said.

Victor bounced up so his whole face was visible. "Yeah? Itós going  to
get old awfully fast."

Actually, Dixie Mae felt the  same way. But doing customer  support at
Lotsa-Tech was a real job, a foot in the door at the biggest high-tech
company in the world. "Gimme a break, Victor! This is our first  day."
Well,  it was  the first  day not  counting the  six days  of product
familiarization  classes.  "If you  canót  take this,  youóve  got the
attention span of a cricket."

"Thatós a mark  of intelligence, Dixie  Mae. Ióm smart  enough to know
whatós not worth the attention of a first-rate creative mind."

Grr. "Then your  first-rate creative mind  is going to  be out of  its
gourd by the end of the summer."

Victor smirked. "Good point." He thought a second, then continued more
quietly, "But see, um, Ióm doing this to get material for my column in
the Bruin. You know, big headlines like òThe New Sweatshopsó or òDeath
by Boredomó. I havenót decided whether to play it for laughs or go for
heavy social consciousness. In any case,"ïhe lowered his voice another
notchï"Ióm bailing  out of  here, um,  by the  end of  next week, thus
suffering only minimal brain damage from the whole sordid experience."

"And youóre not seriously helping  the customers at all, huh,  Victor?
Just giving them hilarious misdirections?"

Victorós eyebrows shot  up. "Ióll have  you know Ióm  being articulate
and seriously  helpful .  . .  at least  for another  day or two." The
weasel grin crawled back onto  his face. "I wonót start  being Bastard
Consultant from Hell till right before I quit."

That figures. Dixie  Mae turned back  to her keyboard.  "Okay, Victor.
Meantime, how about letting me do the job Ióm being paid for?"

Silence.  Angry,  insulted  silence?  No,  this  was  more  a leering,
undressing-you-with-my-eyes silence.  But Dixie  Mae did  not look up.
She could tolerate such silence as long as the leerer was out of armós
reach.

After a moment, there was the  sound of Victor dropping back into  his
chair in the next cubicle.

Oló Victor had been a pain in  the neck from the get-go. He was  slick
with  words; if  he wanted  to, he  could explain  things as  good as
anybody Dixie Mae had ever met.  At the same time, he kept  rubbing it
in how educated he was and  what a dead-end this customer support  gig
was.  Mr. Johnsonïthe  guy running  the familiarization  courseïwas a
great teacher, but smart-ass Victor had tested the manós patience  all
week long.  Yeah, Victor  really didnót  belong here,  but not for the
reasons he bragged about.

It took Dixie Mae almost an hour to finish off seven more queries. One
took some research, being a really bizarre question about Voxalot  for
Norwegian. Okay, this job  would get old after  a few days, but  there
was  a virtuous  feeling in  helping people.  And from  Mr. Johnsonós
lectures, she  knew that  as long  as she  got the  reply turned in by
closing  time  this  evening,  she  could  spend  the  whole afternoon
researching  just  how  to  make  LotsaTechós  vox  program  recognize
Norwegian vowels.

Dixie Mae had never done  customer support before this; till  she took
Prof. Reichós tests last week, her highest-paying job really had  been
flipping burgers.  But like  the world  and your  Aunt Sally,  she had
often been the victim of customer  support. Dixie Mae would buy a  new
book or a cute dress, and it would break or wouldnót fitïand then when
she wrote customer support, they wouldnót reply, or had useless canned
answers, or just tried to sell her something moreïall the time talking
about how their greatest goal was serving the customer.

But now LotsaTech  was turning all  that around. Their  top bosses had
realized  how  important  real  humans  were  to  helping  real  human
customers. They were hiring hundreds and hundreds of people like Dixie
Mae. They werenót paying very much, and this first week had been kinda
tough  since they  were all  cooped up  here during  the crash  intro
classes.

But Dixie  Mae didnót  mind. "Lotsa-Tech  is a  lot of  Tech." Before,
sheód always thought that motto was stupid. But LotsaTech was big;  it
made IBM and Microsoft look like minnows. Sheód been a little  nervous
about  that, imagining  that sheód  end up  in a  room bigger  than a
football  field  with  tiny office  cubicles  stretching  away to  the
horizon. Well, Building 0994 did have tiny cubicles, but her team  was
just fifteen nice  peopleïleaving Victor aside  for the moment.  Their
work floor had  windows all the  way around, a  panoramic view of  the
Santa Monica mountains and the  Los Angeles basin. And liól  oló Dixie
Mae Leigh had her a desk right beside one of those wide windows!  Ióll
bet there  are CEOós  who donót  have a  view as  good as mine. Hereós
where you could  see a little  of what the  Lotsa in LotsaTech  meant.
Just outside of  B0994 there were  tennis courts and  a swimming pool.
Dozens of similar buildings were scattered across the hillside. A golf
course covered the  next hill over,  and more company  land lay beyond
that. These guys had  the money to buy  the top off Runyon  Canyon and
plunk themselves down on it. And this was just the LA branch office.

Dixie Mae had grown up in Tarzana.  On a clear day in the valley,  you
could see the Santa Monica  mountains stretching off forever into  the
haze. They seemed beyond her reach, like something from a fairy  tale.
And now  she was  up here.  Next week,  sheód bring  her binoculars to
work, go  over on  the north  slope, and  maybe spot  where her father
still lived down there.

Meanwhile, back to work. The  next six queries were easy,  from people
who hadnót even  bothered to read  the single page  of directions that
came with Voxalot. Letters like those would be hard to answer politely
the thousandth  time she  saw them.  But she  would tryïand  today she
practiced with cheerful specifics  that stated the obvious  and gently
pointed  the customers  to where  they could  find more.  Then came  a
couple of brain twisters. Damn.  She wouldnót be able to  finish those
today.  Mr.  Johnson  said  "finish anything  you  start  on  the same
day"ïbut  maybe he  would let  her work  on those  first thing  Monday
morning. She really  wanted to do  well on the  hard ones. Every  day,
there would be the  same old dumb questions.  But there would also  be
hard new questions. And eventually sheód get really, really good  with
Voxalot. More important, sheód  get good about managing  questions and
organization. So what that sheód  screwed the last seven years  of her
life and  never made  it through  college? Little  by little she would
improve  herself,  till a  few  years from  now  her past  stupidities
wouldnót matter  anymore. Some  people had  told her  that such things
werenót possible nowadays, that you really needed the college  degree.
But people had always been able to make it with hard work. Back in the
twentieth century,  lots of  steno pool  people managed  it. Dixie Mae
figured customer  support was  pretty much  the same  kind of starting
point.

Nearby, somebody  gave out  a low  whistle. Victor.  Dixie Mae ignored
him.

"Dixie Mae, you gotta see this."

Ignore him.

"I swear Dixie, this is a first. How did you do it? I got an  incoming
query for you, by name! Well, almost."

"What!? Forward it over here, Victor."

"No. Come around and take a look. I have it right in front of me."

Dixie Mae was too short to look over the partition. Jeez.

Three steps took  her into the  corridor. Ulysse Green  poked her head
out  of  her cubicle,  an  inquisitive look  on  her face.  Dixie  Mae
shrugged and  rolled her  eyes, and  Ulysse returned  to her work. The
sound of fingers  on keys was  like occasional raindrops  (no Voxalots
allowed  in  cubicle-land).  Mr.  Johnson  had  been  around  earlier,
answering questions and generally making sure things were going  okay.
Right now he  should be back  in his office  on the other  side of the
building; this first day, you  hardly needed to worry about  slackers.
Dixie Mae felt a little guilty about making that a lie, but . . .

She popped into Victorós cubicle, grabbed a loose chair. "This  better
be good, Victor."

"Judge for yourself,  Dixie Mae." He  looked at his  display. "Oops, I
lost the window. Just a second." He dinked around with his mouse. "So,
have you been putting your name on outgoing messages? Thatós the  only
way I can imagine this happeningï"

"No. I have not. Ióve  answered twenty-two questions so far,  and Ióve
been AnnetteG  all the  way." The  fake signature  was built  into her
"send" key. Mr. Johnson said this was to protect employee privacy  and
give users  a feeling  of continuity  even though  follow-up questions
would rarely  come to  the original  responder. He  didnót have to say
that it was also to make  sure that LotsaTech support people would  be
interchangeable, whether they were  working out of the  service center
in Lahore or Londonderryïor Los Angeles. So far, that had been one  of
Dixie Maeós few disappointments about  this job; she could never  have
an ongoing helpful relationship with a customer.

So what the devil was this all about?

"Ah! Here it  is." Victor waved  at the screen.  "What do you  make of
it?"

The message had come  in on the help  address. It was in  the standard
layout  enforced  by  the query  acceptance  page.  But the  "previous
responder field" was not one of the house sigs. Instead it was:

Ditzie May Lay

"Grow up, Victor."

Victor  raised  his  hands  in  mock  defense,  but  he  had  seen her
expression, and  some of  the smirk  left his  face. "Hey,  Dixie Mae,
donót kill the messenger. This is just what came in."

"No  way.  The  server-side  script  would  have  rejected  an invalid
responder name. You faked this."

For a  fleeting moment,  Victor looked  uncertain. Hah!  thought Dixie
Mae. She had been paying attention during Mr. Johnsonós lectures;  she
knew more about what was going on here than Victor-the-great-mind. And
so  his  little joke  had  fallen flat  on  its rear  end.  But Victor
regrouped and gave a weak smile. "It wasnót me. How would I know about
this, er, nickname of yours?"

"Yes," said Dixie Mae,  "it takes real genius  to come up with  such a
clever play on words."

"Honest, Dixie Mae, it wasnót me.  Hell, I donót even know how  to use
our form editor to revise header fields."

Now that claim had the ring of truth.

"Whatós happening?"

They looked up, saw Ulysse standing at the entrance to the cubicle.

Victor  gave  her  a  shrug.  "Itós  DitïDixie  Mae.  Someone  here at
LotsaTech is jerking her around."

Ulysse came closer and bent to read from the display. "Yech. So whatós
the message?"

Dixie Mae reached across the  desk and scrolled down the  display. The
return address was [email protected]. The topic choice was "Voice
Formatting."  They  got lots  on  that topic;  Voxalot  format control
wasnót quite as intuitive as the ads would like you to believe.

But  this was  by golly  not a  follow-up on  anything Dixie  Mae had
answered:

. . .

Hey there, Honey Chile!  Ióll be truly grateful  if you would tell  me
how to put the following into italics:

"Remember the  Tarzanarama tree  house? The  one you  set on  fire? If
youód like to start a much bigger fire, then figure out how I know all
this. A big clue is that 999 is 666 spelled upside down."

Ióve  tried everything  and I  canót set  the above  proposition into
indented italicsïleastwise without fingering. Please help.

Aching  for some  of your  Southron Hospitality,  I remain  your very
bestest fiend,

ïLusting (for you deeply)

Ulysseós  voice  was dry:  "So,  Victor, youóve  figured  how to  edit
incoming forms."

"God damn it, Ióm innocent!"

"Sure you are."  Ulysseós white teeth  flashed in her  black face. The
three little words held a world of disdain.

Dixie Mae  held up  her hand,  waving them  both to  silence. "I . . .
donót  know.  Thereós something  real  strange about  this  mail." She
stared at the message body for  several seconds. A big ugly chill  was
growing in her middle. Mom and Dad had built her that tree house  when
she was seven years old. Dixie Mae had loved it. For two years she was
Tarzana of  Tarzana. But  the name  of the  tree houseïTarzanaramaïhad
been a secret. Dixie Mae had been nine years old when she torched that
marvelous tree house. It had been  a terrible accident. Well, a  world
class temper tantrum,  actually. But she  had never meant  the fire to
get so far out  of control. The fire  had darn near burned  down their
real house, too. She had been a scarifyingly well-behaved little  girl
for almost two years after that incident.

Ulysse was giving the mail a careful read. She patted Dixie Mae on the
shoulder. "Whoever this is, he certainly doesnót sound friendly."

Dixie Mae  nodded. "This  weasel is  pushing every  button Ióve  got."
Including her curiosity. Dad was the only living person that knew  who
had started the fire,  but it was going  on four years since  heód had
any address  for his  daughterïand Daddy  would never  have taken this
sex-creep, disrespecting tone.

Victor glanced back and forth between them, maybe feeling hurt that he
was no longer the object of suspicion. "So who do you think it is?"

Don Williams craned his head over the next partition. "Who is what?"

Given another few minutes, and theyód have everyone on the floor  with
some bodily part stuck into Victorós cubicle.

Ulysse said, "Unless youóre deaf, you know most of it, Don. Someone is
messing with us."

"Well then, report it to Johnson. This is our first day, people.  Itós
not a good day to get sidetracked."

That brought Ulysse down to  earth. Like Dixie Mae, she  regarded this
LotsaTech job as her last real chance to break into a profession.

"Look," said Don. "Itós already lunch time."ïDixie Mae glanced at  her
watch. It really was!ï"We can  talk about this in the  cafeteria, then
come back and  give Great Lotsa  a solid afternoon  of work. And  then
weóll be done with our first week!" Williams had been planning a party
down at his folksó place for tonight. It would be their first time off
the LotsaTech campus since they took the job.

"Yeah!" said  Ulysse. "Dixie  Mae, youóll  have the  whole weekend  to
figure out whoós doing thisïand plot your revenge."

Dixie Mae looked again  at the impossible "previous  responder field."
"I . . .  donót know. This looks  like itós something happening  right
here on the LotsaTech campus." She stared out Victorós picture window.
It was the same  view as from her  cubicle, of courseïbut now  she was
seeing  everything  with  a  different  mind  set.  Somewhere  in  the
beautiful country-club buildings, there was a real sleaze ball. And he
was playing guessing games with her.

Everybody was quiet for a second. Maybe that helpedïDixie Mae realized
just what she was looking at: the next lodge down the hill. From  here
you could only see the top of its second story. Like all the buildings
on the campus, it had a four-digit identification number made of  gold
on every corner. That one was Building 0999.

A big clue is that 999 is just 666 spelled upside down. "Jeez, Ulysse.
Look: 999." Dixie Mae pointed down the hillside.

"It could be a coincidence."

"No, itós too pat." She glanced at Victor. This really was the sort of
thing someone  like him  would set  up. But  whoever wrote that letter
just knew too much.  "Look, Ióm going to  skip lunch today and  take a
little walk around the campus."

"Thatós crazy," said Don. "LotsaTech  is an open place, but  weóre not
supposed to be wandering into other project buildings."

"Then they can turn me back."

"Yeah, what a great way to start  out with the new job," said Don.  "I
donót think you three  realize what a good  deal we have here.  I know
that none of you have worked a customer support job before." He looked
around challengingly. "Well I have. This is heaven. Weóve got our  own
frigginó offices, onsite  tennis courts and  health club. Weóre  being
treated like  million-dollar system  designers. Weóre  being given all
the  time we  need to  give top-notch  advice to  the customers.  What
LotsaTech is trying to do here is revolutionary! And you dips are just
going to piss it away."  Another all-around glare. "Well, do  what you
want, but Ióm going to lunch."

There was a moment of  embarrassed silence. Ulysse stepped out  of the
cubicle and  watched Don  and others  trickle away  toward the stairs.
Then she was back. "Ióll come with you, Dixie Mae, but . . . have  you
thought Don may be right? Maybe you could just postpone this till next
week?" Unhappiness  was written  all over  her face.  Ulysse was a lot
like Dixie Mae, just more sensible.

Dixie Mae shook  her head. She  figured it would  be at least  fifteen
minutes before her common sense could put on the brakes.

"Ióll come, Dixie  Mae," said Victor.  "Yeah. . .  . This could  be an
interesting story."

Dixie  Mae smiled  at Ulysse  and reached  out her  hand. "Itós  okay,
Ulysse. You should go to lunch." The other looked uncertain.  "Really.
If Mr. Johnson asks about me missing lunch, it would help if you  were
there to set him right about what a steady person I am."

"Okay, Dixie Mae. Ióll  do that." She wasnót  fooled, but this way  it
really was okay.

Once she was gone, Dixie Mae turned back to Victor. "And you. I want a
printed copy of that freakinó email."

They went out a side door. There was a soft-drink and candy machine on
the porch. Victor  loaded up on  "expeditionary supplies" and  the two
started down the hill.

"Hot day," said Victor, mumbling around a mouth full of chocolate bar.

"Yeah." The early part  of the week had  been all June Gloom.  But the
usual overcast had broken, and  today was hot and sunnyïand  Dixie Mae
suddenly realized how pleasantly air-conditioned life had been in  the
LotsaTech "sweatshop." Common sense hadnót yet reached the brakes, but
it was getting closer.

Victor washed the chocolate down with a Dr. Fizzz and flipped the  can
behind the oleanders that  hung close along the  path. "So who do  you
think is behind that letter? Really?"

"I donót know,  Victor! Why do  you think Ióm  risking my job  to find
out?"

Victor laughed.  "Donót worry  about losing  the job,  Dixie Mae. Heh.
Thereós no way it could have lasted even through the summer." He  gave
his usual superior-knowledge grin.

"Youóre  an idiot,  Victor. Doing  customer support  right will  be a
billion dollar winner."

"Oh, maybe . . . if youóre on  the right side of it." He paused as  if
wondering what to tell her.  "But for you, look: support  costs money.
Long ago, the Public Spoke about  how much they were willing to  pay."
He paused, like he was trying  to put together a story that  she could
understand. "Yeah . . . and  even if youóre right, your vision  of the
project is doomed. You know why?"

Dixie Mae didnót reply. His reason would be something about the crappy
quality of the people who had been hired.

Sure enough,  Victor continued:  "Ióll tell  you why.  And this is the
surprise kink thatós  going to make  my articles for  the Bruin really
shine: Maybe  LotsaTech has  its corporate  heart in  the right place.
That would  be surprising  considering how  they brutalized Microsoft.
But  maybe theyóve  let this  bizarre idealism  go too  far. Heh.  For
anything long-term, theyóve picked the wrong employees."

Dixie Mae kept her cool. "We took all sorts of psych tests. You  donót
think Professor Reich knows what heós doing?"

"Oh, I bet he knows what heós doing. But what if LotsaTech isnót using
his results? Look  at us. There  are someïsuch as  yours trulyïwho are
way over-educated. Ióm closing in on a masterós degree in  journalism;
itós clear I wonót  be around for long.  Then thereós people like  Don
and  Ulysse.  They have  the  right level  of  education for  customer
support, but theyóre too smart. Yes, Ulysse talks about doing this job
so well that her talent is recognized, and she is a diligent sort. But
Ióll bet  that even  she couldnót  last a  summer. As  for some of the
others . . . well, may I be frank, Dixie Mae?"

What saved him from  a fist in the  face was that Dixie  Mae had never
managed to be really angry about more than one thing at once.  "Please
do be frank, Victor."

"You talk the same game  plan as Ulysseïbut Ióll bet  your multiphasic
shows  you  have the  steadiness  of mercury  fulminate.  Without this
interesting email from Mr. Lusting, you might be good for a week,  but
sooner or later  youód run into  something so infuriating  that direct
action was requiredïand youód be bang out on your rear."

Dixie Mae pretended to mull  this over. "Well, yes," she  said. "After
all, youóre still going to be here next week, right?"

He laughed. "I rest my case. But seriously, Dixie Mae, this is what  I
mean about the personnel situation here. We have a bunch of bright and
motivated people, but their motivations are all over the map, and most
of their enthusiasm canót be sustained for any realistic span of time.
Heh. So  I guess  the only  rational explanationïand  frankly, I donót
think it would workïis that LotsaTech figures . . ."

He droned on with some theory about how LotsaTech was just looking for
some quick  publicity and  a demonstration  that high-quality customer
support could win back customers in a big way. Then after they flushed
all  these  unreliable  new  hires,  they  could  throttle  back  into
something cheaper for the long term.

But Dixie Maeós attention was far  away. On her left was the  familiar
view  of Los  Angeles. To  her right,  the ridgeline  was just  a few
hundred yards away.  From the crest  you could probably  see down into
the valley,  even pick  out streets  in Tarzana.  Someday, it would be
nice to  go back  there, maybe  prove to  Dad that  she could keep her
temper and make something of herself. All my life, Ióve been  screwing
up  like today.  But that  letter from  "Lusting" was  like finding  a
burglar in  your bedroom.  The guy  knew too  much about  her that  he
shouldnót have known, and he had mocked her background and her family.
Dixie Mae had grown up in Southern California, but sheód been born  in
Georgiaïand she  was proud  of her  roots. Maybe  Daddy never realized
that, since she was running around rebelling most of the time. He  and
Mom always  said sheód  eventually settle  down. But  then she fell in
love with the  wrong kind of  personïand it was  her folks whoód  gone
ballistic. Words Were Spoken. And even though things hadnót worked out
with her new love, there was no way she could go back. By then Mom had
died. Now, I swear  Ióm not going back  to Daddy till I  can show Ióve
made something of myself.

So why was  she throwing away  her best job  in ages? She  slowed to a
stop, and just stood there in the middle of the walkway; common  sense
had finally gotten to the brakes.  But they had walked almost all  the
way to 0999. Much of  the building was hidden behind  twisty junipers,
but you could see  down a short flight  of stairs to the  ground level
entrance.

We should go back.  She pulled the "Lusting"  email out of her  pocket
and glared at it for a second. Later. You can follow up on this later.
She read the mail again. The letters blurred behind tears of rage, and
she dithered in the hot summer sunlight.

Victor  made  an  impatient  noise. "Letós  go,  kiddo."  He  pushed a
chocolate  bar  into  her  hand. "Get  your  blood  sugar  out of  the
basement."

They went down  the concrete steps  to B0999ós entrance.  Just a quick
look, Dixie Mae had decided.

Beneath  the trees  and the  overhang, all  was cool  and shady.  They
peered  through the  ground floor  windows, into  empty rooms.  Victor
pushed open the door. The layout looked about the same as in their own
building,  except that  B0999 wasnót  really finished:  There was  the
smell of Carpenter Nail in the air, and the lights and wireless  nodes
sat naked on the walls.

The place was occupied. She could  hear people talking up on the  main
floor, what was cubicle-city  back in B0994. She  took a quick hop  up
the stairs, peeked inïno cubicles here. As a result, the place  looked
cavernous. Six or eight tables had been pushed together in the  middle
of the room. A dozen people looked up at their entrance.

"Aha!" boomed one of them. "More warm bodies. Welcome, welcome!"

They  walked  toward the  tables.  Don and  Ulysse  had worried  about
violating  corporate  rules  and project  secrecy.  They  neednót have
bothered. These people looked almost like squatters. Three of them had
their legs propped up on the tables. Junk food and soda cans  littered
the tables.

"Programmers?" Dixie Mae muttered to Victor.

"Heh. No, these look more like . . . graduate students."

The loud one had red hair snatched back in a pony tail. He gave  Dixie
Mae a broad  grin. "Weóve got  a couple of  extra display flats.  Grab
some  seating." He  jerked a  thumb toward  the wall  and a  stack of
folding  chairs. "With  you two,  we may  actually be  able to  finish
today!"

Dixie Mae looked uncertainly at  the display and keyboard that  he had
just lit up. "But whatï"

"Cognitive Science 301. The final exam. A hundred dollars a  question,
but  we have  107 bluebooks  to grade,  and Gerry  asked mainly  essay
questions."

Victor laughed. "Youóre getting a hundred dollars for each bluebook?"

"For each  question in  each bluebook,  man. But  donót tell.  I think
Gerry is funding this out of money that LotsaTech thinks heós spending
on  research." He  waved at  the nearly  empty room,  in this  nearly
completed building.

Dixie Mae leaned down to look  at the display, the white letters  on a
blue  background. It  was a  standard bluebook,  just like  at Valley
Community College.  Only here  the questions  were complete  nonsense,
such as:

7. Compare and contrast  cognitive dissonance in operant  conditioning
with  Minsky-Loeve  attention maintenance.  Outline  an algorithm  for
constructing the associated isomorphism.

"So," said Dixie Mae, "whatós cognitive science?"

The grin disappeared  from the otherós  face. "Oh, Christ.  Youóre not
here to help with the grading?"

Dixie Mae shook her head. Victor said, "It shouldnót be too hard. Ióve
had some grad courses in psych."

The redhead did not look encouraged. "Does anyone know this guy?"

"I do," said a girl at the  far end of all the tables. "Thatós  Victor
Smaley. Heós a journalism grad, and not very good at that."

Victor looked across the tables. "Hey, Mouse! How ya doing?"

The redhead looked beseechingly at  the ceiling. "I do not  need these
distractions!" His gaze came down to the visitors. "Will you two  just
please go away?"

"No way," said Dixie Mae. "I came here for a reason.  Someoneïprobably
someone here  in Building  0999ïis messing  with our  work in Customer
Support. Ióm going to  find out who." And  give them some free  dental
work.

"Look. If we donót finish grading the exam today, Gerry Reichós  going
to make us come back tomorrow andï"

"I donót  think thatós  true, Graham,"  said a  guy sitting across the
table. "Prof.  Reichós whole  point was  that we  should not feel time
pressure. This is an  experiment, comparing time-bounded grading  with
complete individualization."

"Yes!" said Graham  the redhead. "Thatós  exactly why Reich  would lie
about it. òTake it easy, make good money,ó he says. But Ióll bet  that
if we donót finish today, heóll screw us into losing the weekend."

He glared at Dixie Mae. She glared back. Graham was going to find  out
just what  stubborn and  willful really  meant. There  was a moment of
silence and thenï

"Ióll talk to them,  Graham." It was the  woman at the far  end of the
tables.

"Argh. Okay, but not here!"

"Sure, weóll go out on the  porch." She beckoned Dixie Mae and  Victor
to follow her out the side door.

"And hey,"  called Graham  as they  walked out,  "donót take  all day,
Ellen. We need you here."

The porch on 0999 had a bigger junk-food machine than back at Customer
Support. Dixie  Mae didnót  think that  made up  for no cafeteria, but
Ellen Garcia didnót seem  to mind. "Weóre only  going to be here  this
one day. Ióm not coming back on Saturday."

Dixie Mae bought herself a sandwich and soda and they all sat down  on
some beat-up lawn furniture.

"So what do you want to know?" said Ellen.

"See, Mouse, weóre following up on the weirdestï"

Ellen waved Victor silent, her expression pretty much the same as  all
Victorós female acquaintances. She looked expectantly at Dixie Mae.

"Well, my name is Dixie Mae  Leigh. This morning we got this  email at
our customer  support address.  It looks  like a  fake. And  there are
things about it thatï" she handed over the hard copy.

Ellenós gaze scanned down. "Kind of fishy dates," she said to herself.
Then she  stopped, seeing  the "To:"  header. She  glanced up at Dixie
Mae. "Yeah, this is abuse. I used to see this kind of thing when I was
a Teaching Assistant.  Some guy would  start hitting on  a girl in  my
class." She eyed Victor speculatively.

"Why does everybody suspect me?" he said.

"You should be  proud, Victor. You  have such a  reliable reputation."
She shrugged. "But  actually, this isnót  quite your style."  She read
on. "The  rest is  smirky lascivious,  but otherwise  it doesnót  mean
anything to me."

"It means a  lot to me,"  said Dixie Mae.  "This guy is  talking about
things that nobody should know."

"Oh?" She went back to the  beginning and stared at the printout  some
more. "I donót know about secrets  in the message body, but one  of my
hobbies is rfc9822 headers. Youóre right that this is all scammed  up.
The message number and  ident strings are too  long; I think they  may
carry added content."

She handed back the email. "Thereós  not much more I can tell  you. If
you want to  give me a  copy, I could  crunch on those  header strings
over the weekend."

"Oh. .  . .  Okay, thanks."  It was  more solid  help than  anyone had
offered so far, butï"Look Ellen, the  main thing I was hoping for  was
some clues here in  Building 0999. The letter  pointed me here. I  run
into . . . abusers sometimes,  myself. I donót let them get  away with
it! Iód bet money  that whoever this is,  heós one of those  graders."
And heós probably laughing at us right now.

Ellen thought a second and then shook her head. "Ióm sorry, Dixie Mae.
I know these people  pretty well. Some of  them are a little  strange,
but theyóre not bent like this.  Besides, we didnót know weód be  here
till yesterday afternoon. And today we havenót had time for mischief."

"Okay," Dixie Mae forced a smile. "I appreciate your help." She  would
give Ellen a copy of the letter and go back to Customer Support,  just
slightly better  off than  if she  had behaved  sensibly in  the first
place.

Dixie Mae started  to get up,  but Victor leaned  forward and set  his
notepad  on the  table between  them. "That  email had  to come  from
somewhere. Has anyone here been acting strange, Mousy?"

Ellen glared at him, and after a second he said, "I mean òEllen.ó  You
know Ióm just trying  to help out Dixie  Mae here. Oh yeah,  and maybe
get a good story for the Bruin."

Ellen shrugged. "Graham told you; weóre grading on the side for  Gerry
Reich."

"Huh." Victor leaned  back. "Ever since  Ióve been at  UCLA, Reich has
had  a  reputation for  being  an operator.  Heós  got big  government
contracts  and all  this consulting  at LotsaTech.  He tries  to come
across as  a one-man  supergenius, but  actually itós  just money, um,
buying lots and lots of peons. So what do you think heós up to?"

Ellen shrugged.  "Technically, I  bet Gerry  is misusing  his contacts
with LotsaTech. But I doubt if  they care; they really like him."  She
brightened. "And  I approve  of what  Prof. Reich  is doing  with this
grading project. When I was a TA,  I wished there was some way that  I
could make a day-long project out of reading each studentós exam. That
was an impossible wish; there was just never enough time. But with his
contacts here at  LotsaTech, Gerry Reich  has come close  to doing it.
Heós paying some pretty sharp  grad students very good money  to grade
and comment on  every single essay  question. Time is  no object, heós
telling us.  The students  in these  classes are  going to  get really
great feedback."

"This guy Reich keeps popping up," said Dixie Mae. "He was behind  the
testing  program  that  selected  Victor and  me  and  the  others for
customer support."

"Well, Victorós right about him.  Reich is a manipulator. I  know heós
been running tests all this week. He grabbed all of Olson Hall for the
operation. We didnót know what it was for until afterwards. He  nailed
Graham and the rest of our gang for this one-day grading job. It looks
like he has all sorts of projects."

"Yeah, we took our tests at  Olson Hall, too." There had been  a small
up-front payment, and hints of job prospects. . . . And Dixie Mae  had
ended up with  maybe the best  job offer sheód  ever had. "But  we did
that last week."

"It canót be the same place. Olson Hall is a gym."

"Yes, thatós what it looked like to me."

"It was used for the NCAA eliminations last week."

Victor reached for his notepad. "Whatever. We gotta be going, Mouse."

"Donót òMouseó me, Victor! The NCAA  elims were the week of 4  June. I
did Gerryós questionnaire yesterday, which was Thursday, 14 June."

"Ióm sorry, Ellen,"  said Dixie Mae.  "Yesterday was Thursday,  but it
was the 21st of June."

Victor made a calming gesture. "Itós not a big deal."

Ellen frowned,  but suddenly  she wasnót  arguing. She  glanced at her
watch. "Letós see your notepad, Victor. What date does it say?"

"It says, June . . . huh. It says June 15."

Dixie Mae looked at her own  watch. The digits were so precise,  and a
week wrong: Fri Jun 15 12:31:18 PDT 2012. "Ellen, I looked at my watch
before we walked over here. It said June 22nd."

Ellen leaned on the table and  took a close look at Victorós  notepad.
"Ióll bet it did. But both  your watch and the notepad get  their time
off  the building  utilities. Here  youóre getting  set by  our local
clockïand youóre getting the truth."

Now Dixie Mae was getting mad. "Look, Ellen. Whatever the time service
says, I would  not have made  up a whole  extra week of  my life." All
those product-familiarization classes.

"No, you wouldnót." Ellen  brought her heels back  on the edge of  her
chair. For a long moment, she didnót say anything, just stared through
the haze at the city below.

Finally she said: "You know, Victor, you should be pleased."

"Why is that?" suspiciously.

"You may have stumbled into  a real, world-class news story.  Tell me.
During this extra week of life youóve enjoyed, how often have you used
your phone?"

Dixie Mae said, "Not at all. Mr. Johnsonïheós our instructorïsaid that
weóre deadzoned till we get through the first week."

Ellen nodded. "So  I guess they  didnót expect the  scam to last  more
than a week. See,  we are not deadzoned  here. LotsaTech has a  pretty
broad embargo on web access, but  I made a couple of phone  calls this
morning."

Victor gave her a  sharp look. "So where  do you think the  extra week
came from?"

Ellen hesitated. "I think Gerry  Reich has gone beyond where  the UCLA
human subjects  committee would  ever let  him go.  You guys  probably
spent one night in drugged sleep, being pumped chock full of LotsaTech
product trivia."

"Oh! You mean . . . Just-in-Time Training?" Victor tapped away at  his
notepad. "I thought that was years away."

"It  is  if you  play  by the  FDAós  rules. But  there  are meds  and
treatments that  can speed  up learning.  Just read  the journals  and
youóll see that in another year or two, theyóll be a scandal as big as
sports drugs ever  were. I think  Gerry has just  jumped the gun  with
something that is very, very effective. You have no side-effects.  You
have all  sorts of  new, specialized  knowledgeïeven if  itós about  a
throwaway topic.  And apparently  you have  detailed memories  of life
experience that never happened."

Dixie  Mae  thought  back  over  the  last  week.  There  had  been no
strangeness about  her experience  at Olson  Hall: the  exams, the job
interview. True, the johns  were fantastically cleanïlike a  hospital,
now that she thought about it.  She had only visited them once,  right
after she accepted the  job offer. And then  she had . .  . done what?
Taken a bus directly out to LotsaTech . . . without even going back to
her  apartment?  After that,  everything  was clear  again.  She could
remember jokes in the Voxalot  classes. She could remember meals,  and
late night talks with Ulysse about what they might do with this  great
opportunity. "Itós brainwashing," she finally said.

Ellen nodded. "It looks like Gerry  has gone way, way too far  on this
one."

"And heós stupid, too. Our team is going to a party tonight, downtown.
All of a  sudden, thereóll be  sixteen people whoóll  know whatós been
done to  them. Weóll  be mad  asï" Dixie  Mae noticed  Ellenós pitying
look.

"Oh."  So tonight  instead of  partying, their  customer support  team
would be in a drugged  stupor, unremembering the week that  never was.
"We wonót remember a thing, will we?"

Ellen nodded. "My guess is youóll be well-paid, with memories of  some
one-day temp job here at LotsaTech."

"Well, thatós not going to happen," said Victor. "Ióve got a story and
Ióve got a grudge. Ióm not going back."

"We have to warn the others."

Victor shook his head. "Too risky."

Dixie Mae gave him a glare.

Ellen Garcia hugged her  knees for a moment.  "If this were just  you,
Victor, Iód be sure you were  putting me on." She looked at  Dixie Mae
for a second. "Let me see that email again."

She spread it out  on the table. "LotsaTech  has its share of  defense
and security contracts. Iód hate to think that they might try to  shut
us up if they knew we  were onto them." She whistled an  ominous tune.
"Paranoia rages.  . .  . Have  you thought  that this  email might  be
someone trying to tip you off about whatós going on?"

Victor frowned.  "Who, Ellen?"  When she  didnót answer,  he said, "So
what do you think we should do?"

Ellen didnót look up from the  printout. "Mainly, try not to act  like
idiots. All we  really know is  that someone has  played serious games
with your heads. Our first priority is to get us all out of LotsaTech,
with you guys free of medical side effects. Our second priority is  to
blow the whistle on Gerry or .  . ." She was reading the mail  headers
again, ". . . or whoever is behind this."

Dixie Mae said, "I donót think we know enough not to act like idiots."

"Good point. Okay, Ióll make  a phone call, an innocuous  message that
should mean something to the police if things go really bad. Then Ióll
talk to the others  in our grading team.  We wonót say anything  while
weóre still at  LotsaTech, but once  away from here  weóll scream long
and loud. You two .  . . it might be  safest if you just lie  low till
after dark and we graders get back into town."

Victor was nodding.

Dixie Mae pointed at the mystery email. "What was it you just noticed,
Ellen?"

"Just a coincidence, I think. Without a large sample, you start seeing
phantoms."

"Speak."

"Well, the mailing address, ò[email protected]ó. Building 0925 is
on the hill crest thataway."

"You canót see that from where we started."

"Right. Itós like òLustingó had to get you here first. And thatós  the
other  thing. Prof.  Reich has  a senior  graduate student  named Rob
Lusk."

Lusk? Lusting? The connection seemed weak to Dixie Mae. "What kind  of
a guy is he?"

"Robós not a particularly friendly  fellow, but heós about two  sigmas
smarter than the average grad  student. Heós the reason Gerry  has the
big reputation for hardware. Gerry has been using him for five or  six
years now, and I bet Rob is getting desperate to graduate." She  broke
off. "Look.  Ióm going  to go  inside and  tell Graham  and the others
about this. Then weóll  find a place for  you to hide for  the rest of
the day."

She started toward the door.

"Ióm not going to hide out," said Dixie Mae.

Ellen hesitated. "Just till closing time. Youóve seen the  rent-a-cops
at the main gate.  This is not a  place you can simply  stroll out of.
But my group will have no trouble going home this evening. As soon  as
weóre off-site,  weóll raise  such a  stink that  the press and police
will be back here. Youóll be safe at home in no time."

Victor was nodding. "Ellenós right.  In fact, it would be  even better
if  we  donót  spread  the story  to  the  other  graders. Thereós  no
tellingï"

"Ióm not going to hide out!" Dixie Mae looked up the hill. "Ióm  going
to check out 0925."

"Thatós crazy, Dixie Mae! Youóre guaranteed safe if you just hide till
the end of the work dayïand then the cops can do better  investigating
than anything you could manage. You do what Ellen says!"

"No one tells me what to do, Victor!" said Dixie Mae, while inside she
was thinking, Yeah, what Ióm doing is a little bit like the plot of  a
cheap game:  teenagers enter  haunted house,  and then  split up to be
murdered in pieces . . .

But Ellen Garcia was making assumptions, too. Dixie Mae glared at both
of them. "Ióm following up on this email."

Ellen gave her a long look. Whether it was contemptuous or  thoughtful
wasnót clear. "Just wait for me to tell Graham, okay?"

Twenty minutes later, the three  of them were outdoors again,  walking
up the long grade toward Building 0925.

Graham the Red might be a smart  guy, but he turned out to be  a fool,
too. He was sure that the  calendar mystery was just a scam  cooked up
by Dixie Mae and Victor. Ellen wasnót that good at talking to  himïand
the  two   customer  support   winkies  were   beneath  his  contempt.
Fortunately, most of the other graders had been willing to listen. One
of them also poked an unpleasant hole in all their assumptions: "So if
itós that serious, wouldnót  Gerry have these two  under surveillance?
You know,  the Conspiracy  Gestapo could  arrive any  second." Thereód
been a moment of apprehensive  silence as everyone waited the  arrival
of bad guys with clubs.

In the end, everyone including Graham had agreed to keep their  mouths
shut till after  work. Several of  them had friends  they made cryptic
phone calls to, just in case.  Dixie Mae could tell that most  of them
tilted toward Ellenós point of view, but however smart they were, they
really didnót want to cross Graham.

Ellen, on the other hand, was persona non grata for trying to mess  up
Grahamós  schedule. She  finally lost  her temper  with the  redheaded
jerk.

So now Ellen, Victor, and Dixie  Mae were on the yellow brick  roadïin
this case, the asphalt econo-cart walkwayïleading to Building 0925.

The LotsaTech campus was new and underpopulated, but there were  other
people around. Just outside of 0999, they ran into a trio of big  guys
wearing  gray  blazers like  the  cops at  the  main entrance.  Victor
grabbed Dixie Maeós arm. "Just act natural," he whispered.

They  ambled past,  Victor giving  a gracious  nod. The  three hardly
seemed to notice.

Victor released Dixie Maeós arm. "See? You just have to be cool."

Ellen had  been walking  ahead. She  dropped back  so they  were three
abreast. "Either weóre being toyed  with," she said, "or they  havenót
caught on to us."

Dixie Mae touched the email  in her pocket. "Well, somebody  is toying
with us."

"You know, thatós the biggest clue we have. I still think it could  be
somebody trying toï"

Ellen fell  silent as  a couple  of management  types came walking the
other way. These paid them  even less attention than the  company cops
had.

"ïit could be somebody trying to help us."

"I guess," said Dixie Mae.  "More likely itós some sadist  using stuff
they learned while I was drugged up."

"Ug.  Yeah." They  batted around  the possibilities.  It was  strange.
Ellen Garcia was as much fun to talk to as Ulysse, even though she had
to be about five times smarter than either Ulysse or Dixie Mae.

Now they  were close  enough to  see the  lower windows  of 0925. This
place was a double-sized version of 0999 or 0994. There was a catering
truck pulled up at the  ground level. Beyond a green-tinted  windbreak
they  could see  couples playing  tennis on  the courts  south of  the
building.

Victor squinted. "Strange.  Theyóve got some  kind of blackout  on the
windows."

"Yeah. We  should at  least be  able to  see the  strip lights  in the
ceiling."

They  drifted  off the  main  path and  walked  around to  where  they
wouldnót be seen  from the catering  truck. Even up  close, down under
the  overhang,  the  windows  looked  just  like  those  on  the other
buildings.  But it  wasnót just  dark inside.  There was  nothing but
blackness. The inside of the glass was covered with black plastic like
they put on closed storefronts.

Victor whipped out his notepad.

"No phone calls, Victor."

"I want to send  out a live report,  just in case someone  gets really
mad about us being here."

"I told you, theyóve got  web access embargoed. Besides, just  calling
from here would trigger 911 locator logic."

"Just a short call, toï"

He looked up  and saw that  the two women  were standing close.  "ïah,
okay. Ióll just use it as a local cam."

Dixie Mae held out her hand. "Give me the notepad, Victor. Weóll  take
the pictures."

For a moment it looked like he  was going refuse. Then he saw how  her
other  hand was  clenched into  a fist.  And maybe  he remembered  the
lunchtime stories she  had told during  the week. The  week that never
was? Whatever  the reason,  he handed  the notepad  over to  her. "You
think Ióm working for the bad guys?" he said.

"No," Dixie Mae said (65  percent truthfully, but declining), "I  just
donót think youóll always do  what Ellen suggests. This way  weóll get
the pictures, but safely." Because of my superior self control. Yeah.

She started  to hand  the notepad  to Ellen,  but the  other shook her
head.  "Just keep  a record,  Dixie Mae.  Youóll get  it back  later,
Victor."

"Oh. Okay, but I want first xmit rights." He brightened. "Youóll be my
cameragirl,  Dixie. Just  come back  on me  anytime I  have something
important to say."

"Will do, Victor." She panned the notepad camera in a long sweep, away
from him.

No one bothered them as  they walked halfway around the  ground floor.
The blackout job was very thorough, but just as at buildings 0994  and
0999, there was an ordinary door with an old-fashioned card swipe.

Ellen took a closer look. "We disabled the locks on 0999 just for  the
fun of  it. Somehow  I donót  think these  black-plastic guys are that
easygoing."

"I guess this is as far as we go," said Victor.

Dixie Mae stepped  close to the  door and gave  it push. There  was no
error beep, no alarms. The door just swung open.

Looks of amazement were exchanged.

Five seconds later they were still standing at the open doorway.  What
little they could see looked like your typical LotsaTech ground floor.
"We should shut the door and  go back," said Victor. "Weóll be  caught
red-handed standing here."

"Good point." Ellen stepped  inside, followed perforce by  Victor, and
then Dixie Mae taking local video.

"Wait! Keep the door open, Dixie Mae."

"Jeez."

"This is  like an  airlock!" They  were in  a tiny  room. Above  waist
height, its walls were clear glass. There was another door on the  far
end of the little room.

Ellen walked forward. "I had a summer job at Livermore last year. They
have catch boxes like this. You walk inside easy enoughïand then there
are armed  guards all  around, politely  asking you  if youóre  lost."
There were no  guards visible here.  Ellen pressed on  the inner door.
Locked. She reached  up to the  latch mechanism. It  looked like cheap
plastic. "This should not work," she said, even as she fiddled at it.

They could hear voices, but from upstairs. Down here, there was no one
to be seen. Some of the layout was familiar, though. If this had  been
Building 0994,  the hallway  on the  right would  lead to restrooms, a
small cafeteria, and a temporary dormitory.

Ellen hesitated and stood listening. She looked back at them.  "Thatós
strange. That sounds like . . . Graham!"

"Can  you just  break the  latch, Ellen?"  We should  go upstairs  and
strangle the two-faced weasel with his own ponytail.

Another sound. A door opening! Dixie  Mae looked past Ellen and saw  a
guy coming out of  the menós room. Dixie  Mae managed to grab  Victor,
and the two of  them dropped behind the  lower section of the  holding
cell.

"Hey, Ellen,"  said the  stranger, "you  look a  bit peaked. Is Graham
getting on your nerves, too?"

Ellen gave a squeaky laugh. "Y-yeah . . . so what else is new?"

Dixie Mae twisted  the notepad and  held it so  the camera eye  looked
through the glass. In the tiny screen, she could see that the stranger
was smiling.  He was  dressed in  tee-shirt and  knee-pants and he had
some kind of glittering badge on a loop around his neck.

Ellenós mouth opened and shut a couple of times, but nothing came out.
She doesnót know this guy from Adam.

The stranger was still clueless, butï "Hey, whereós your badge?"

"Oh . . . damn.  I must have left in  the john," said Ellen. "And  now
Ióve locked myself out."

"You know the rules,"  he said, but his  tone was not threatening.  He
did something on  his side of  the door. It  opened and Ellen  stepped
through, blocking the guyós view of what was behind her.

"Ióm sorry. I, uh, I got flustered."

"Thatós okay.  Graham will  eventually shut  up. I  just wish heód pay
more attention to what the professionals are asking of him."

Ellen nodded. "Yeah, I hear you!" Like she was really, really agreeing
with him.

"Yósee, Grahamós not splitting the topics properly. The idea is to  be
both broad and deep."

Ellen continued to make  understanding noises. The talkative  stranger
was full  of details  about some  sort of  a NSA  project, but  he was
totally ignorant of the three intruders.

There  were  light footsteps  on  the stairs,  and  a familiar  voice.
"Michael, how long are you going to be? I want toï" The voice cut  off
in a surprised squeak.

On the  notepad display,  Dixie Mae  could see  two brown-haired girls
staring at each  other with identical  expressions of amazement.  They
sidled around  each other  for a  moment, exchanging  light slaps.  It
wasnót fighting .  . . it  was as if  each thought the  other was some
kind of trick video. Ellen Garcia, meet Ellen Garcia.

The  strangerïMichael?ïstared with  equal astonishment,  first at  one
Ellen and  then the  other. The  Ellens made  inarticulate noises just
loud enough to interrupt each other and make them even more upset.

Finally Michael said, "I take it you donót have a twin sister, Ellen?"

"No!" said both.

"So one of  you is an  impostor. But youóve  spun around so  often now
that I canót tell who is the  original. Ha." He pointed at one of  the
Ellens. "Another good reason for having security badges."

But Ellen and Ellen  were ignoring everyone except  themselves. Except
for their chorus of "No!", their words were just mutual interruptions,
unintelligible. Finally, they  hesitated and gave  each other a  nasty
smile. Each reached into her pocket. One came out with a dollar  coin,
and the other came out empty.

"Ha!  Ióve got  the token.  Deadlock broken."  The other  grinned and
nodded. Dollar-coin Ellen turned  to Michael. "Look, weóre  both real.
And weóre both only-children."

Michael looked from  one to the  other. "Youóre certainly  not clones,
either."

"Obviously," said the token holder. She looked at the other Ellen  and
asked, "Fridge-rot?"

The other nodded and said, "In  April I made that worse." And  both of
them laughed.

Token holder: "Gerryós exam in Olson Hall?"

"Yup."

Token holder: "Michael?"

"After that," the other replied, and then she blushed. After a  second
the token holder blushed, too.

Michael said dryly, "And youóre not perfectly identical."

Token holder Ellen  gave him a  crooked smile. "True.  Ióve never seen
you before in my life." She  turned and tossed the dollar coin  to the
other Ellen, left hand to left hand.

And now that Ellen had the  floor. She was also the version  wearing a
security badge. Call her NSA Ellen.  "As far as Iïweïcan tell, we  had
the same  stream of  consciousness up  through the  day we  took Gerry
Reichós recruitment exam. Since then,  weóve had our own lives.  Weóve
even got our  own new friends."  She was looking  in the direction  of
Dixie Maeós camera.

Grader Ellen turned to follow her gaze. "Come on out, guys. We can see
your camera lens."

Victor and Dixie Mae stood and walked out of the security cell.

"A right invasion you  are," said Michael, and  he did not seem  to be
joking.

NSA Ellen put her  hand on his arm.  "Michael, I donót think  weóre in
Kansas anymore."

"Indeed! Ióm simply dreaming."

"Probably.  But  if  notï" she  exchanged  glances  with grader  Ellen
"ïmaybe we should find out whatós been done to us. Is the meeting room
clear?"

"Last I looked. Yes, weóre not likely to be bothered in there." He led
them down a hallway toward what was simply a janitorós closet back  in
Building 0994.

Michael Lee and NSA Ellen  were working on still another  of Professor
Reichós  projects.  "Yósee,"  said  Michael,  "Professor  Reich  has a
contract with my colleagues to compare our surveillance software  with
what intense human analysis might accomplish."

"Yes," said NSA Ellen, "the  big problem with surveillance has  always
been the  enormous amount  of stuff  there is  to look  at. The  spook
agencies   use   lots   of  automation   and   have   lots  of   great
specialistsïpeople  like  Michael hereïbut  theyóre  just overwhelmed.
Anyway, Gerry  had the  idea that  even though  that problem  canót be
solved, maybe a  team of spooks  and graduate students  could at least
estimate how much the NSA programs are missing."

Michael Lee nodded. "Weóre spending the entire summer looking at  1300
to 1400UTC 10 June 2012, backwards  and forwards and up and down,  but
on just three narrow topic areas."

Grader Ellen interrupted him. "And this is your first day on the  job,
right?"

"Oh, no. Weóve been at this for almost a month now." He gave a  little
smile. "My whole career has been the study of contemporary China.  Yet
this is the first assignment where Ióve had enough time to look at the
data Ióm supposed to pontificate upon. It would be a real pleasure  if
we  didnót have  to enforce  security on  these rambunctious  graduate
students."

NSA Ellen patted him on the  shoulder. "But if it werenót for  Michael
here, Iód be as frazzled as poor Graham. One month down and two months
to go."

"You think itós August?" said Dixie Mae.

"Yes, indeed." He glanced at his watch. "The 10 August it is."

Grader Ellen smiled and  told him the various  dates the rest of  them
thought today was.

"Itós some kind of drug hallucination thing," said Victor. "Before  we
thought  it  was  just  Gerry Reichós  doing.  Now  I  think itós  the
government torquing our brains."

Both Ellens look at him; you could tell they both knew Victor from way
back. But  they seemed  to take  what he  was saying seriously. "Could
be," they both said.

"Sorry," grader Ellen said to NSA Ellen. "Youóve got the dollar."

"You could be right, Victor. But cognition is myïourïspecialty. We two
are something way beyond normal dreaming or hallucinations."

"Except that could be illusion, too," said Victor.

"Stuff it, Victor," said Dixie Mae. "If itós all a dream, we might  as
well give up." She looked at  Michael Lee. "What is the government  up
to?"

Michael shrugged. "The  details are classified,  but itós just  a post
hoc survey. The  isolation rules seem  to be something  that Professor
Reich has worked out with my agency."

NSA Ellen  flicked a  glance at  her double.  The two  had a brief and
strange conversation,  mostly half-completed  words and  phrases. Then
NSA Ellen continued, "Mr. Renaissance  Man Gerry Reich seems to  be at
the center of everything. He  used some standard personality tests  to
pick out articulate, motivated people for the customer support job.  I
bet they do a very good job on their first day."

Yeah. Dixie Mae thought of Ulysse. And of herself.

NSA  Ellen  continued,  "Gerry  filtered  out  another  groupïgraduate
students in just the specialty  for grading all his various  exams and
projects."

"We  only worked  on one  exam," said  grader Ellen.  But she  wasnót
objecting. There was an odd smile on her face, the look of someone who
has cleverly figured out some very bad news.

"And then he got  a bunch of government  spooks and CS grads  for this
surveillance project that Michael and I are on."

Michael  looked  mystified.  Victor  looked  vaguely  sullen,  his own
theories lying trampled somewhere in the dust. "But," said Dixie  Mae,
"your surveillance group has been going for a month you say . . ."

Victor: "And the graders do have phone contact with the outside!"

"Ióve been  thinking about  that," said  grader Ellen.  "I made  three
phone calls today. The  third was after you  and Dixie Mae showed  up.
That was voicemail to  a friend of mine  at MIT. I was  cryptic, but I
tried to say enough that my friend would raise hell if I  disappeared.
The others calls wereï"

"Voicemail, too?" asked NSA Ellen.

"One was voicemail. The  other call was to  Bill Richardson. We had  a
nice chat about the party heós having Saturday. But Billï"

"Bill took Reichós òjob testó along with the rest of us!"

"Right."

Where this  was heading  was worse  than Victorós  dream theory. "S-so
what has been done to us?" said Dixie Mae.

Michaelós  eyes  were   wide,  though  he   managed  a  tone   of  dry
understatement:  "Pardon a  backward Han  language specialist.  Youóre
thinking weóre just  personality uploads? I  thought that was  science
fiction."

Both Ellens  laughed. One  said, "Oh,  it is  science fiction, and not
just  the  latest  Kywrack  episode.  The  genre  goes  back  almost a
century."

The other: "Thereós Sturgeonós òMicrocosmic Godó."

The first: "That  would be rich;  Gerry beware then!  But thereós also
Pohlós òTunnel Under the Worldó."

"Cripes. Weóre toast if thatós the scenario."

"Okay, but how about Varleyós òOverdrawn at the Memory Bankó?"

"How about Wilsonós Darwinia?"

"Or Moravecós òPigs in Cyberspaceó?"

"Or Galouyeós Simulacron-3?"

"Or Vingeós deathcubes?"

Now that the  òtwinsó were not  in perfect synch,  their words were  a
building, rapid-fire chorus, climaxing with:

"Brinós òStones of Significanceó!"

"Or Kiln People!"

"No, it couldnót be that."  Abruptly they stopped, and nodded  at each
other.  A  little  bit  grimly,   Dixie  Mae  thought.  In  all,   the
conversation was just as inscrutable as their earlier self-interrupted
spasms.

Fortunately, Victor was there to rescue pedestrian minds. "It  doesnót
matter. The fact is, uploading is only sci-fi. Itós worse that faster
than-light travel. Thereós not even a theoretical basis for uploads."

Each Ellen  raised her  left hand  and made  a faffling  gesture. "Not
exactly, Victor."

The token holder continued, "Iód say there is a theoretical basis  for
saying that uploads are theoretically possible." They gave a  lopsided
smile. "And guess  who is responsible  for that? Gerry  Reich. Back in
2005, way  before he  was famous  as a  multi-threat genius,  he had a
couple of papers  about upload mechanisms.  The theory was  borderline
kookiness and even  the simplest demo  would take far  more processing
power than any supercomputer of the time."

"Just for a one-personality upload."

"So Gerry and his Reich Method were something of a laughingstock."

"After  that,   Gerry  dropped   the  ideaïjust   what  youód  expect,
considering the  showman he  is. But  now heós  suddenly world-famous,
successful  in  half  a  dozen  different  fields.  I  think something
happened. Somebody solved his hardware problem for him."

Dixie Mae stared at her email. "Rob Lusk," she said, quietly.

"Yup," said grader Ellen. She explained about the mail.

Michael was unconvinced. "I donót  know, E-Ellen. Granted, we have  an
extraordinary  miracle  hereï"  gesturing  at  both  of  them,   "ïbut
speculating about cause seems to me a bit like a sparrow understanding
the 405 Freeway."

"No," said Dixie Mae,  and they all looked  back her way. She  felt so
frightened and so  angryïbut of the  two, angry was  better: "Somebody
has  set us  up! It  started in  those superclean  restrooms in  Olson
Hallï"

"Olson Hall," said Michael. "You were there too? The lavs smelled like
a hospital! I remember thinking that  just as I went in, butïhey,  the
next thing I remember is being on the bus, coming up here."

Like  a hospital.  Dixie Mae  felt rising  panic. "M-maybe  weóre all
thatós left." She looked at the twins. "This uploading thing, does  it
kill the originals?"

It  was kind  of a  showstopper question;  for a  moment everyone  was
silent. Then  the token  holder said,  "Iïdonót think  so, but Gerryós
papers were mostly theoretical."

Dixie Mae beat  down the panic;  rage did have  its uses. What  can we
know from here on the inside? "So  far we know more than thirty of  us
who  took the  Olson Hall  exams and  ended up  here. If  we were  all
murdered, thatód be hard  to cover up. Letós  suppose we still have  a
life." Inspiration: "And maybe there are things we can figure! We have
three of Reichós  experiments to compare.  There are differences,  and
they tell us things." She looked at the twins. "Youóve already figured
this out, havenót you? The Ellen we met first is grading papersïjust a
one-day job,  sheós told.  But Ióll  bet that  every night,  when they
think theyóre going homeïLusk or  Reich or whoever is doing  this just
turns them off, and cycles them back to do some other òone-dayó job."

"Same with our customer support," said Victor, a grudging agreement.

"Almost. We  had six  days of  product familiarization,  and then  our
first  day on  the job.  We were  all so  enthusiastic. Youóre  right,
Ellen,  on our  first day  we are  great!" Poor  Ulysse, poor  me; we
thought we were going somewhere with our lives. "Ióll bet we disappear
tonight, too."

Grader Ellen  was nodding.  "Customer-support-in-a-box, restarted  and
restarted, so itós always fresh."

"But there are still problems,"  said the other one. "Eventually,  the
lag in dates would tip you off."

"Maybe, or maybe the mail headers are automatically forged."

"But internal context could contradictï"

"Or maybe Gerry has solved  the cognitive haze problemï" The  two were
off into their semi-private language.

Michael interrupted them. "Not everybody is recycled. The point of our
net-tracking project is that we spend the entire summer studying  just
one hour of network traffic."

The twins smiled. "So you think," said the token holder. "Yes, in this
building weóre not rebooted  after every imaginary day.  Instead, they
run  us  the  whole  òsummeróïminutes  of  computer  time  instead  of
seconds?ïto analyze one hour of network traffic. And then they run  us
again, on a different hour. And so on and on."

Michael said, "I canót imagine technology that powerful."

The token holder said, "Neither can I really, butï"

Victor interrupted  with, "Maybe  this is  the Darwinia  scenario. You
know: weóre just the toys of some superadvanced intelligence."

"No!" said  Dixie Mae.  "Not superadvanced.  Customer support  and net
surveillance  are valuable  things in  our own  real world.  Whoeverós
doing this is just getting slave labor, run really, really fast."

Grader Ellen glowered. "And grading his exams for him! Thatós the sort
of thing  that shows  me itós  really Gerry  behind this.  Heós making
chumps  of all  of us,  and rerunning  us before  we catch  on or  get
seriously bored."

NSA Ellen had the same expression, but a different complaint: "We have
been seriously bored here."

Michael nodded.  "Those from  the government  side are  a patient lot;
weóve kept the  graduate students in  line. We can  last three months.
But it  does .  . .  rankle .  . .  to learn  that the  reward for our
patience is  that we  get to  do it  all over  again. Damn. Ióm sorry,
Ellen."

"But now we know!" said Dixie Mae.

"And what good does it do  you?" Victor laughed. "So you guessed  this
time. But at the  end of the microsecond  day, poof, itós reboot  time
and everything youóve learned is gone."

"Not this time." Dixie  Mae looked away from  him, down at her  email.
The cheap paper was crumpled and  stained. A digital fake, but so  are
we. "I donót think weóre  the only people whoóve figured  things out."
She slid  the printout  across the  table, toward  grader Ellen.  "You
thought it meant Rob Lusk was in this building."

"Yeah, I did."

"Whoós Rob Lusk?" said Michael.

"A weirdo," NSA Ellen said absently. "Gerryós best grad student." Both
Ellens were staring at the email.

"The 0999 reference led Dixie Mae  to my grading team. Then I  pointed
out the source address."

"[email protected]?"

"Yes. And that got us here."

"But thereós no  Rob Lusk here,"  said NSA Ellen.  "Huh! I like  these
fake mail headers."

"Yeah. Theyóre longer than the whole message body!"

Michael had stood to look  over the Ellensó shoulders. Now  he reached
between them  to tap  the message.  "See there,  in the  middle of the
second header? That looks like Pinyin  with the tone marks written  in
line."

"So what does it say?"

"Well, if  itós Mandarin,  it would  be the  number ònine  hundred and
seventeenó."

Victor was leaning forward on his elbows. "That has to be coincidence.
How could Lusting know just who weód encounter?"

"Anybody know of a Building 0917?" said Dixie Mae.

"I donót," said Michael.  "We donót go out  of our building except  to
the pool and tennis courts."

The twins shook their heads. "I havenót seen it . . . and right now  I
donót want to risk an intranet query."

Dixie Mae  thought back  to the  Lotsa-Tech map  that had  been in the
welcome-aboard  brochures. "If  there is  such a  place, it  would be
farther up the hill, maybe right at the top. I say we go up there."

"Butï" said Victor.

"Donót give me that garbage  about waiting for the police,  Victor, or
about not being idiots. This  isnót Kansas anymore, and this  email is
the only clue we have."

"What should we tell the people here?" said Michael.

"Donót tell them  anything! We just  sneak off. We  want the operation
here to go on normally, so Gerry or whoever doesnót suspect."

The two  Ellens looked  at each  other, a  strange, sad  expression on
their faces. Suddenly they both  started singing "Home on the  Range,"
but with weird lyrics:

"Oh, give me a clone

Of my own flesh and bone

Withï"

They paused and  simultaneously blushed. "What  a dirty mind  that man
Garrett had."

"Dirty but deep." NSA Ellen turned to Michael, and she seemed to blush
even more. "Never mind, Michael. I think  . . . you and I should  stay
here.

"No, wait," said Dixie Mae. "Where weóre going we may have to convince
someone  that  this crazy  story  is true.  You  Ellens are  the  best
evidence we have."

The argument  went round  and round.  At one  point, Dixie Mae noticed
with wonder that the two Ellens actually seemed to be arguing  against
each other.

"We donót know enough to decide," Victor kept whining.

"We have to do something, Victor.  We know what happens to you  and me
if we sit things out till closing time this afternoon."

In the end Michael did stay behind. He was more likely to be  believed
by his government  teammates. If the  Ellens and Dixie  Mae and Victor
could bring back some real  information, maybe the NSA group  could do
some good.

"Weóll be a  network of people  trying to break  this wheel of  time."
Michael was trying to sound wryly  amused, but once he said the  words
he was silent, and none of  the others could think of anything  better
to say.

Up near the hilltop, there were not nearly as many buildings, and  the
ones that Dixie Mae  saw were single story,  as though they were  just
entrances to something under the hills. The trees were stunted and the
grass yellower.

Victor had an  explanation. "Itós the  wind. You see  this in lots  of
exposed land near the coast. Or maybe they just donót water very  much
up here."

An Ellenïfrom behind, Dixie Mae couldnót tell which oneïsaid,  "Either
way, the fabrication is awesome."

Right.  A fabrication.  "Thatós something  I donót  understand," said
Dixie Mae. "The best movie fx donót come close to this. How can  their
computers be this good?"

"Well for one thing," said the other Ellen, "cheating is a lot  easier
when youóre also simulating the observers."

"Us."

"Yup. Everywhere  you look,  you see  detail, but  itós always  at the
center of your focus. We  humans donót keep everything weóve  seen and
everything we know all in mind  at the same time. We have  millions of
years  of  evolution  invested  in  ignoring  almost  everything,  and
conjuring sense out of nonsense."

Dixie Mae looked southward into the haze. It was all so real: the  dry
hot breeze, the glint of aircraft sliding down the sky toward LAX, the
bulk of the Empire State  Building looming up from the  skyscrapers at
the center of downtown.

"There are probably dozens  of omissions and contradictions  around us
every second, but unless theyóre brought together in our attention all
at once we donót notice them."

"Like the time discrepancy," said Dixie Mae.

"Right! In fact, the biggest problem with all our theories is not  how
we could be individually duped, but how the fraud could work with many
communicating  individuals all  at once.  That takes  hardware beyond
anything that exists, maybe a hundred liters of Bose condensate."

"Some kind of quantum computer breakthrough," said Victor.

Both Ellens turned to look at him, eyebrows raised.

"Hey, Ióm a journalist. I read it in the Bruin science section."

The twinsó reply was something more  than a monologue and less than  a
conversation:

"Well . . . even so, you have a point. In fact, there were rumors this
spring  that  Gerry  had managed  to  scale  Gershenfeldós coffee  cup
coherence scheme."

"Yeah,  how he  had five  hundred liters  of Bose  condensate at  room
temperature."

"But  those  stories  started  way after  he  had  already  become Mr.
Renaissance Man. It doesnót make sense."

Weóre not the first people  hijacked. "Maybe," said Dixie Mae,  "maybe
he started out with something simple, like a single superspeed  human.
Could Gerry  run a  single upload  with the  kind of supercomputers we
have nowadays?"

"Well,  thatós  more conceivable  than  this .  .  . oh.  Okay,  so an
isolated genius  was used  to do  a century  or so  of genius  work on
quantum computing. That sounds like the deathcube scenario. If it were
me, after a hundred years of  being screwed like that, Iód give  Gerry
one hell of a surprise."

"Yeah, like  instead of  a cure  for cancer,  heód get airborne rabies
targeted on the proteome of scumbag middle-aged male CS profs."

The twins sounded as bloody-minded as Dixie Mae.

They walked another couple of hundred yards. The lawn degenerated into
islands of  crabgrass in  bare dirt.  The breeze  was a  hot whistling
along  the  ridgeline.  The  twins stopped  every  few  paces  to look
closely, now at the vegetation, now at a guide sign along the walkway.
They were mumbling at each other  about the details of what they  were
seeing, as if they were trying to detect inconsistencies:

". . . really, really good. We agree on everything we see."

"Maybe Gerry is saving cycles, running us as cognitive subthreads  off
the same process."

"Ha! No wonder weóre still so much in synch."

Mumble, mumble. "Thereós really a lot we can inferï"

"ïonce we accept the insane premise of all this."

There was still  no "Building 0917,"  but what buildings  they did see
had lower and lower numbers: 0933, 0921. . . .

A  loud group  of people  crossed their  path just  ahead. They  were
singing. They looked like programmers.

"Just be cool," an Ellen said softly. "That conga line is straight out
of the  LotsaTech employee  motivation program.  The programmers  have
onsite parties when they reach project milestones."

"More victims?" said Victor. "Or AIs?"

"They might be victims. But Ióll  bet all the people weóve seen  along
this  path  are just  low-level  scenery. Thereós  nothing  in Reichós
theories that would make true AIs possible."

Dixie Mae watched the singers as they drifted down the hillside.  This
was the third time they had seen something-like-people on the walkway.
"It doesnót make sense, Ellen. We think weóre justï"

"Simulation processes."

"Yeah, simulation processes, inside some sort of super super-computer.
But if thatós true, then whoever is behind this should be able to  spy
on us better  than any Big  Brother ever could  in the real  world. We
shouldóve  been  caught  and  rebooted  the  minute  we  began  to get
suspicious."

Both Ellens  started to  answer. They  stopped, then  interrupted each
other again.

"Back to whoós-got-the-token," one  said, holding up the  dollar coin.
"Dixie Mae, that is a mystery, but not as big as it seems. If Reich is
using the sort of upload and simulation techniques I know about,  then
what goes on inside our minds canót be interpreted directly.  Thoughts
are just too idiosyncratic, too scattered. If we are simulations in  a
large quantum computer, even environment probes would be hard to run."

"You mean things like spy cameras?"

"Yes. They would  be hard to  implement, since in  fact they would  be
snooping on the state of our internal imagery. All this is complicated
by the fact that weóre probably running thousands of times faster than
real time. There are maybe three ways that Gerry could snoop: he could
just watch team output, and if it falls off, heód know that  something
had gone wrongïand he might reboot on general principles."

Suddenly  Dixie  Mae  was  very  glad  that  they  hadnót  taken  more
volunteers on this hike.

"The second snoop  method is just  to look at  things we write  or the
output of software we explicitly  run. Ióll bet that anything  that we
perceive as  linear text  is capable  of outside  interpretation." She
looked at Victor. "Thatós why no note-taking." Dixie Mae still had his
notepad.

"Itós kinda stupid,"  said Victor. "First  it was no  pictures and now
not even notes.

"Hey, look!" said the Ellens. "B0917!" But it wasnót a building,  just
a small sign wedged among the rocks.

They scrambled off the asphalt onto  a dirt path that led directly  up
the hillside.

Now they were so near the hill  crest that the horizon was just a  few
yards away. Dixie Mae couldnót  see any land beyond. She  remembered a
movie  where  poor  slobs  like themselves  got  to  the  edge of  the
simulation . . . and found the wall at the end of their universe.  But
they took a few more steps and she could see over the top. There was a
vista of  further, lower  hills, dropping  down into  the San Fernando
Valley. Not quite hidden in the haze she could see the familiar snakey
line of Highway 101. Tarzana.

Ellen and  Ellen and  Victor were  not taking  in the  view. They were
staring at the sign at the side of the path. Fifteen feet beyond  that
was  a construction  dig. There  were building  supplies piled  neatly
along the edge of the cut, and  a robo-Cat parked on the far side.  It
might have been the beginning of the construction of a  standard-model
LotsaTech building  . .  . except  that in  the far  side of  the pit,
almost hidden in shadows, there was a circular metal plug, like a bank
vault door in some old movie.

"I have this theory," said the  token holder. "If we get through  that
door, we may find out what your email is all about."

"Yup." The  twins bounced  down a  steeply cut  treadway into the pit.
Dixie Mae  and Victor  scrambled after  them, Victor  clumsily bumping
into her  on the  way down.  The bottom  of the  pit was  like nothing
before. There were no windows, no card swipe. And up close, Dixie  Mae
could see that the vault door was pitted and scratched.

"Theyóre  mixing metaphors,"  said the  token holder.  "This entrance
looks older than the pit."

"It looks old as the hills," Dixie Mae said, running her hand over the
uneven metalïand  half expecting  to feel  weirdo runes.  "Somebody is
trying to give us clues . . . or somebody is a big sadist. So what  do
we do? Knock a magic knock?"

"Why not?" The two Ellens took her tattered email and laid it out flat
on the metal of the door. They studied the mail headers for a  minute,
mumbling to  each other.  The token  holder tapped  on the metal, then
pushed.

"Together,"  they  said,  and  tapped  out  a  random  something,  but
perfectly in synch.

That had all the  effect youód expect of  tapping your fingers on  ten
tons of dead steel.

The  token  holder  handed  the email  back  to  Dixie  Mae. "You  try
something."

But what?  Dixie Mae  stepped to  the door.  She stood  there, feeling
clueless. Off to  the side, almost  hidden by the  curve of the  metal
plug, Victor had turned away.

He had the notepad.

"Hey!" She slammed  him into the  side of the  pit. Victor pushed  her
away, but by then the Ellens were on him. There was a mad scramble  as
the  twins tried  to do  all the  same things  to Victor.  Maybe that
confused him.  Anyway, it  gave Dixie  Mae a  chance to  come back and
punch him in the face.

"I got it!" One  of the twins jumped  back from the fighting.  She had
the notepad in her hands.

They stepped  away from  Victor. He  wasnót going  to get  his notepad
back.  "So,  Ellen," said  Dixie  Mae, not  taking  her eyes  off  the
sprawled figure, "what was that third method for snooping on us?"

"I think  youóve already  guessed. Gerry  could fool  some idiot  into
uploading as a spy." She was  looking over her twinós shoulder at  the
notepad screen.

Victor picked himself up. For a moment he looked sullen, and then  the
old superior smile  percolated across his  features. "Youóre crazy.  I
just want to break this story back in the real world. Donót you  think
that if Reich were using spies, heód just upload himself?"

"That depends."

The one holding the notepad read  aloud: "You just typed in: ò925  999
994 know. rebootó. That doesnót sound like journalism to me, Victor."

"Hey,  I  was being  dramatic."  He thought  for  a second,  and  then
laughed. "It doesnót matter anymore! I got the warning out. You  wonót
remember any of this after youóre rebooted."

Dixie Mae  stepped toward  him. "And  you wonót  remember that I broke
your neck."

Victor tried to look  suave and jump backwards  at the same time.  "In
fact,  I will  remember, Dixie  Mae. See,  once youóre  gone, Ióll  be
merged back into my body in Doc Reichós lab."

"And weóll be dead again!"

Ellen held  up the  notepad. "Maybe  not as  soon as  Victor thinks. I
notice he  never got  past the  first line  of his  message; he  never
pressed return. Now,  depending on how  faithfully this old  notepadós
hardware is being  emulated, his treason  is still trapped  in a local
cacheïand Reich is still clueless about us."

For a moment, Victor looked worried. Then he shrugged. "So you get  to
live the rest  of this run,  maybe corrupt some  other projectsïones a
lot more important than you. On the other hand, I did learn about  the
email. When I get back and tell Doc Reich, heóll know what to do.  You
wonót be going rogue in the future."

Everyone was silent for a second. The wind whistled across the yellow
blue sky above the pit.

And then the twins  gave Victor the sort  of smile he had  bestowed on
them so often. The token holder  said, "I think your mouth is  smarter
than you are, Victor. You asked  the right question a second ago:  Why
doesnót Gerry Reich upload himself to be the spy? Why does he have  to
use you?"

"Well,"  Victor  frowned. "Hey,  Doc  Reich is  an  important man.  He
doesnót have time to waste with security work like this."

"Really, Victor? He canót spare even a copy of himself?"

Dixie Mae got the point. She  closed in on Victor. "So how  many times
have you been merged back into your original?"

"This is  my first  time here!"  Everybody but  Victor laughed, and he
rushed on, "But Ióve seen the merge done!"

"Then why wonót Reich do it for us?"

"Merging is too expensive to waste on work threads like you," but  now
Victor was not even convincing himself.

The Ellens  laughed again.  "Are you  really a  UCLA journalism  grad,
Victor? I thought they were smarter  than this. So Gerry showed you  a
re-merge,  did he?  I bet  that what  you actually  saw was  a lot  of
equipment and  someone going  through very  dramatic convulsions.  And
then the òsubjectó  told you a  nice story about  all the things  heód
seen in our little upload world.  And all the time they were  laughing
at  you behind  their hands.  See, Reichós  upload theory  depends on
having a  completely regular  target. I  know that  theory: the  merge
problemïloading onto  an existing  mindïis exponential  in the  neuron
count. Thereós no way back, Victor."

Victor was backing  away from them.  His expression flickered  between
superior sneer and stark panic. "What you think doesnót matter. Youóre
just going to be rebooted at 5 p.m. And you donót know everything." He
began fiddling with  the fly zipper  on his pants.  "You see, IïI  can
escape!"

"Get him!"

Dixie Mae was closest. It didnót matter.

There  was no  hazy glow,  no sudden  popping noise.  She simply  fell
through thin air, right where Victor had been standing.

She  picked  herself  up  and  stared  at  the  ground.  Some  smudged
footprints were the only sign  Victor had been there. She  turned back
to the twins. "So he could re-merge after all?"

"Not likely," said the token  holder. "Victorós zipper was probably  a
thread self-terminate mechanism."

"His pants zipper?"

They shrugged. "I dunno.  To leak out? Gerry  has a perverse sense  of
humor." But neither  twin looked amused.  They circled the  spot where
Victor had  left and  kicked unhappily  at the  dirt. The token holder
said, "Cripes. Nothing  in Victorós life  became him like  the leaving
it. I donót think we have  even till ò5 p.m.ó now. A  thread terminate
signal is just the sort of thing that would be easy to detect from the
outside. So Gerry wonót know the details, but heï"

"ïor his equipmentï"

"ïwill soon know there is a problem andï"

"ïthat itós probably a security problem."

"So how long do we have before we lose the day?" said Dixie Mae.

"If an emergency reboot has to be done manually, weóll probably hit  5
p.m. first. If itós automatic, well, I know you wonót feel insulted if
the world ends in the middle of a syllable."

"Whatever it  is, Ióm  going to  use the  time." Dixie  Mae picked her
email up from where it lay by the vault entrance. She waved the  paper
at the impassive steel. "Ióm not going back! Ióm here and I want  some
explanations!"

Nothing.

The two Ellens stood there, out of ideas and looking unhappyïor  maybe
that amounted to the same thing.

"Ióm not giving up," Dixie Mae said to them, and pounded on the metal.

"No, I donót think you are," said the token holder. But now they  were
looking at  her strangely.  "I think  weïyou at  leastïmust have  been
through this before."

"Yeah. And I must have messed up every time."

"No . . . I donót think  so." They pointed at the email that  she held
crumpled in her hand. "Where do you think all those nasty secrets come
from, Dixie Mae?"

"How the freakinó heck do I know? Thatós the whole reason Iï" and then
she  felt smart  and stupid  at the  same time.  She leaned  her head
against the shadowed metal. "Oh. Oh oh oh!"

She  looked down  at the  email hardcopy.  The bottom  part was  torn,
smeared, almost illegible. No matter; that part she had memorized. The
Ellens had gone over the headers  one by one. But now we  shouldnót be
looking for technical secrets or  grad student inside jokes. Maybe  we
should be looking for numbers that mean something to Dixie Mae Leigh.

"If there  were uploaded  souls guarding  the door,  what you two have
already  done ought  to be  enough. I  think youóre  right. Itós  some
pattern Ióm supposed to tap on the door." If it didnót work, sheód try
something  else, and  keep trying  till 5  p.m. or  whenever she  was
suddenly back in Building 0994, so happy to have a job with potential.
. . .

The tree house in Tarzana. Dixie Mae had been into secret codes  then.
Her childish idea  of crypto. She  and her little  friends used a  tap
code for sending numbers. It hadnót lasted long, because Dixie Mae was
the only one with the patience to use it. Butï

"That number, ò7474ó," she said.

"Yeah? Right in the middle of the fake message number?"

"Yes. Once upon a time, I used that as a password challenge. You know,
like òWho goes thereó in combat games. The rest of the string could be
the response."

The Ellens looked at each.  "Looks too short to be  significant," they
said.

Then they both  shook their heads,  disagreeing with themselves.  "Try
it, Dixie Mae."

Her "numbers to  taps" scheme had  been simple, but  for a moment  she
couldnót remember it. She held the paper against the vault and  glared
at the numbers.  Ah. Carefully, carefully,  she began tapping  out the
digits  that  came  after  "7474." The  string  was  much  longer than
anything her childhood friends would  have put up with. It  was longer
than anything she herself would have used.

"Cool," said the token holder. "Some kind of hex gray code?"

Huh? "What do you expect, Ellen? I was only eight years old."

They watched the door.

Nothing.

"Okay, on to Plan B," and then to  C and D and E, etc, until our  time
ends.

There was the  sound of something  very old breaking  apart. The vault
door shifted under  Dixie Maeós hand  and she jumped  back. The curved
plug slowly turned,  and turned, and  turned. After some  seconds, the
metal plug thudded to  the ground beside the  entrance . . .  and they
were  looking  down an  empty  corridor that  stretched  off into  the
depths.

For the first quarter  mile, no one was  home. The interior decor  was
not LotsaTech standard.  Gone were the  warm redwood veneers  and glow
strips. Here fluorescent tube lights were mounted in the acoustic tile
ceiling, and the walls were institutional beige.

"This reminds me of the basement labs in Norman Hall," said one Ellen.

"But there are people in Norman Hall," said the other. They were  both
whispering.

And here there were stairways that led only down. And down and down.

Dixie Mae said, "Do you get the feeling that whoever is here is in for
the long haul?"

"Huh?"

"Well, the graders in B0999 were  in for a day, and they  thought they
had real phone access to the outside. My group in Customer Support had
six days  of classes  and then  probably just  one more  day, where we
answered queriesïand we had no other contact with the outside."

"Yes," said NSA Ellen. "My group had been running for a month, and  we
were probably not going to expire for another two. We were  officially
isolated. No phones, no email,  no weekends off. The longer  the cycle
time, the  more isolation.  Otherwise, the  poor suckers  would figure
things out."

Dixie Mae thought for a second.  "Victor really didnót want us to  get
this far. Maybeï" Maybe, somehow, we can make a difference.

They passed a  cross corridor, then  a second one.  A half-opened door
showed  them  an apparent  dormitory  room. Fresh  bedding  sat neatly
folded on a mattress. Somebody was just moving in?

Ahead there was another doorway,  and from it they could  hear voices,
argument. They crept along, not even whispering.

The voices were making words: "ïis a year enough time, Rob?"

The other speaker  sounded angry. "Well,  itós got to  be. After that,
Gerry is out of money and Ióm out of time."

The Ellens waved  Dixie Mae back  as she started  for the door.  Maybe
they wanted to eavesdrop for a  while. But how long do we  have before
time ends? Dixie Mae brushed past them and walked into the room.

There were two guys there, one sitting by an ordinary data display.

"Jesus! Who are you?"

"Dixie Mae Leigh." As you must certainly know.

The one sitting by the terminal gave her a broad grin, "Rob, I thought
we were isolated?"

"Thatós what Gerry said." This oneïRob Lusk?ïlooked to be in his  late
twenties. He was  tall and thin  and had kind  of a desperate  look to
him. "Okay, Miss Leigh. What are you here for?"

"Thatós what youóre going to tell me, Rob." Dixie Mae pulled the email
from her pocket and waived the tattered scrap of paper in his face. "I
want some explanations!"

Robós expression clouded over, a no-one-tells-me-what-to-do look.

Dixie Mae glared  back at him.  Rob Lusk was  a mite too  big to punch
out, but she was heating up to it.

The twins chose that moment to make their entrance. "Hi there," one of
them said cheerily.

Luskós eyes flickered  from one to  the other and  then to the  NSA ID
badge. "Hello. Ióve seen you around the department. Youóre Ellen,  um,
Gomez?"

"Garcia," corrected  NSA Ellen.  "Yup. Thatós  me." She  patted grader
Ellen on  the shoulder.  "This is  my sister,  Sonya." She  glanced at
Dixie Mae. Play along, her eyes seemed to say. "Gerry sent us."

"He did?" The fellow by  the computer display was grinning  even more.
"See, I told you,  Rob. Gerry can be  brutal, but heód never  leave us
without assistants for a whole year. Welcome, girls!"

"Shut up, Danny." Rob looked at them hopefully, but unlike  Danny-boy,
he seemed  quite serious.  "Gerry told  you this  will be  a year-long
project?"

The three of them nodded.

"Weóve got plenty of bunk rooms,  and separate . . . um,  facilities."
He  sounded  .  .  . Lord,  he  sounded  embarrassed.  "What are  your
specialties?"

The token holder said, "Sonya and I are second-year grads, working  on
cognitive patterning."

Some of the hope drained from Robós expression. "I know thatós Gerryós
big thing, but weóre mostly  doing hardware here." He looked  at Dixie
Mae.

"Ióm  intoï" go  for it  "ïBose condensates."  Well, she  knew how  to
pronounce the words.

There were worried  looks from the  Ellens. But one  of them piped  up
with, "Sheós on Satyaós team at Georgia Tech."

It  was  wonderful  what  the  smile  did  to  Robós  face.  His angry
expression of a minute before was transformed into the look of a happy
little boy on his  way to Disneyland. "Really?  I canót tell you  what
this means to us!  I knew it had  to be someone like  Satya behind the
new formulations. Were you in on that?"

"Oh, yeah. Some  of it, anyway."  Dixie Mae figured  that she couldnót
say more than twenty words  without blowing it. But what  the heckïhow
many more  minutes did  the masquerade  have to  last, anyway?  Little
Victor and his self-terminating thread . . .

"Thatós great.  We donót  have budget  for real  equipment here,  just
simulatorsï"

Out of the corner of her eye,  she saw the Ellens exchange a fer  sure
look.

"ïso anyone who  can explain the  theory to me  will be so  welcome. I
canót imagine how Satya managed to do so much, so fast, and without us
knowing."

"Well, Iód be happy to explain everything I know about it."

Rob waved Danny-boy away from  the data display. "Sit down,  sit down.
Ióve got so many questions!"

Dixie Mae  sauntered over  to the  desk and  plunked herself down. For
maybe thirty seconds, this guy would think she was brilliant.

The Ellens circled in  to save her. "Actually,  Iód like to know  more
about who weóre working with," one of them said.

Rob looked up, distracted,  but Danny was more  than happy to do  some
intros. "Itós just the two of  us. You already know Rob Lusk.  Ióm Dan
Eastland." He reached  around, genially shaking  hands. "Ióm not  from
UCLA. I work for LotsaTech,  in quantum chemistry. But you  know Gerry
Reich. Heós got pull everywhereïand I donót mind being shanghaied  for
a year. I need to, um, stay out of sight for a while."

"Oh!"  Dixie Mae  had read  about this  guy in  Newsweek. And  it had
nothing to do with chemistry. "But  youóreï" Dead. Not a good sign  at
all, at all.

Danny didnót  notice her  distraction. "Robós  the guy  with the  real
problem. Ever since I can remember, Gerry has used Rob as his personal
hardware  research  department. Hey,  Ióm  sorry, Rob.  You  know itós
true."

Lusk waved  him away.  "Yes! So  tell them  how youóre  an even bigger
fool!" He really wanted to get back to grilling Dixie Mae.

Danny shrugged. "But now,  Rob is just one  year short of hitting  his
seven year limit. Do you have that at Georgia Tech, Dixie Mae? If  you
havenót completed the doctorate in seven years, you get kicked out?"

"No, canót say as Ióve heard of that."

"Give thanks then, because since 2006, itós been an unbendable rule at
UCLA. So when Gerry told Rob about this secret hardware contract  heós
got with  LotsaTechïand promised  that Ph.D.  in return  for some  new
resultsïRob jumped right in."

"Yeah, Danny. But he never told me how far Satya had gone. If I  canót
figure this stuff out, Ióm screwed. Now let me talk to Dixie Mae!"  He
bent over the keyboard and brought up the most beautiful screen saver.
Then Dixie  Mae noticed  little numbers  in the  colored contours  and
realized that maybe this was what she was supposed to be an expert on.
Rob said, "I have plenty of documentation, Dixie Maeïtoo much. If  you
can just give me an idea how you scaled up the coherence." He waved at
the  picture.  "Thatós  almost  a  thousand  liters  of  condensate, a
trillion effective qubits. Even more fantastic, your group can keep it
coherent for almost fifty seconds at a time."

NSA Ellen gave a whistle  of pretended surprise. "Wow. What  use could
you have for all that power?"

Danny pointed at Ellenós badge.  "Youóre the NSA wonk, Ellen,  what do
you think? Crypto, the final frontier of supercomputing! With even the
weakest form of the Schor-Gershenfeld algorithm, Gerry can crack a ten
kilobyte key in less  than a millisecond. And  Ióll bet thatós why  he
canót spare  us any  time on  the real  equipment. Night  and day heós
breaking keys and sucking in government money."

Grader EllenïSonya, that isïpuckered up a naive expression. "What more
does Gerry want?"

Danny spread his hands. "Some of it we donót even understand yet. Some
of it is about what youód  expect: He wants a thousand thousand  times
more of everything. He  wants to scale the  operation by qulink so  he
can run arrays of thousand-liter bottles."

"And weóve got just a year to improve on your results, Dixie Mae.  But
your  solution  is years  ahead  of the  state  of the  art."  Rob was
pleading.

Dannyós glib  impress-the-girls manner  faltered. For  an instant,  he
looked a little sad and embarrassed. "Weóll get something, Rob.  Donót
worry."

"So, how long have you been here, Rob?" said Dixie Mae.

He looked up, maybe surprised by the tone of her voice.

"We just started. This is our first day."

Ah yes, that famous first day. In her twenty-four years, Dixie Mae had
occasionally wondered whether  there could be  rage more intense  than
the red haze  she saw when  she started breaking  things. Until today,
she had never known. But  yes, beyond the berserker-breaker there  was
something else. She did not sweep  the display off the table, or  bury
her fist in anyoneós  face. She just sat  there for a moment,  feeling
empty. She looked  across at the  twins. "I wanted  some villains, but
these guys are  just victims. Worse,  theyóre totally clueless!  Weóre
back where we  started this morning."  Where weóll be  again real soon
now.

"Hmmm. Maybe not." Speaking together, the twins sounded like some kind
of perfect chorus. They looked around the room, eyeing the decor. Then
their  gazes snapped  back to  Rob. "Youód  think LotsaTech  would do
better than this for you, Rob."

Lusk was staring at  Dixie Mae. He gave  an angry shrug. "This  is the
old  Homeland  Security  lab  under  Norman  Hall.  Donót  worryïweóre
isolated, but we have good lab and computer services."

"Ióll bet. And what is your starting work date?"

"I just told you: today."

"No, I mean the calendar date."

Danny looked back and forth between them. "Geeze, are all you kids  so
literal minded? Itós Monday, September 12, 2011."

Nine months. Nine real months. And  maybe there was a good reason  why
this was the first day. Dixie  Mae reached out to touch Robós  sleeve.
"The Georgia  Tech people  didnót invent  the new  hardware," she said
softly.

"Then just who did make the breakthrough?"

She raised her hand . . . and tapped Rob deliberately on the chest.

Rob just looked  more angry, but  Dannyós eyes widened.  Danny got the
point. She remembered that Newsweek article about him. Danny  Eastland
had been an all-around talented guy.  He had blown the whistle on  the
biggest business espionage case of the decade. But he was dumb as dirt
in some ways. If he hadnót been so eager to get laid, he wouldnót have
snuck away from his  Witness Protection bodyguards and  gotten himself
murdered.

"You guys are too much  into hardware," said NSA Ellen.  "Forget about
crypto applications. Think about  personality uploads. Given what  you
know about Gerryós current hardware, how many Reich Method uploads  do
you think the condensate could support?"

"How  should I  know? The  òReich Methodó  was baloney.  If he  hadnót
messed  with  the  reviewers,  those  papers  would  never  have  been
published." But  the question  stopped him.  He thought  for a moment.
"Okay,  if  his bogus  method  really worked,  then  a trillion  qubit
simulation could support about ten thousand uploads."

The Ellens gave him  a slow smile. A  slow, identical smile. For  once
they made no effort to separate their identities. Their words came out
simultaneously,  the  same pacing,  the  same pitch,  a  weird humming
chorus: "Oh, a good deal less than ten thousandïif you have to support
a  decent enclosing  reality." Each  reached out  her left  hand with
inhumanly synchronized precision, the precision of digital duplicates,
to wave at the room and the hallway beyond. "Of course, some resources
can  be  saved  by  using the  same  base  pattern  to drive  separate
threadsï" and each pointed at herself.

Both men just stared at them for a second. Then Rob stumbled back into
the other chair. "Oh . . . my . . . God."

Danny stared at the two for another few seconds. "All these years,  we
thought Gerryós theories were just a brilliant scam."

The Ellens stood with their eyes closed for a second. Then they seemed
to startle awake. They looked at  each other and Dixie Mae could  tell
the perfect synch had been broken. NSA Ellen took the dollar coin  out
of her pocket  and gave it  to the other.  The token holder  smiled at
Rob. "Oh, it was, only more brilliant and more of a scam than you ever
dreamed."

"I wonder if Danny and I ever figure it out."

"Somebody figured it out," said Dixie Mae, and waved what was left  of
her email.

The token  holder was  more specific:  "Gerry is  running us  all like
stateless servers. Some are on very short cycles. We think youóre on a
one-year cycle, probably running longer than anyone. Youóre making the
discoveries that let Gerry create bigger and bigger systems."

"Okay," said Lusk, "suppose one of us victims guesses the secret? What
can we do? Weóll just get rebooted at the end of our run."

Danny Eastland was quicker. "There is something we could do. There has
to be information passed between runs, at least if Gerry is using  you
and me to  build on our  earlier solutions. If  in that data  we could
hide what weóve secretly learnedï"

The twins smiled. "Right! Cookies. If you could recover them reliably,
then  on   each  rev,   you  could   plan  more   and  more  elaborate
countermeasures."

Rob Lusk still looked dazed. "Weód want to tip off the next generation
early in their run."

"Yes, like the very first day!"  Danny was looking at the three  women
and nodding to himself. "Only I still donót see how we managed that."

Rob pointed at Dixie Maeós email. "May I take a look at that?" He laid
it on the table, and he and Danny examined the message.

The token holder said, "That email  has turned out to have more  clues
than a bad  detective story. Every  time weóre in  a jam, we  find the
next hidden solution."

"That figures," said Eastland. "Ióll  bet itós been refined over  many
revs . . ."

"But we may have a special problem this timeï" and Dixie Mae told them
about Victor.

"Damn," said Danny.

Rob just shrugged. "Nothing we can  do about that till we figure  this
out." He and Danny studied the headers. The token holder explained the
parts  that had  already seen  use. Finally,  Rob leaned  back in  his
chair. "The second-longest  header looks like  the tags on  one of the
raw data files that Gerry gave us."

"Yes," sang the twins. "Whatós really your own research from the  last
time around."

"Most of the files  have to be what  Gerry thinks, or else  heód catch
onto us. But that one raw data file . . . assume itós really a cookie.
Then this email header might be a crypto key."

Danny shook his  head. "Thatós not  credible, Rob. Gerry  could do the
same analysis."

The token  holder laughed.  "Only if  he knew  what to  analyze. Maybe
thatós why you guys  winkled it out to  us. The message goes  to Dixie
Maeïan unrelated person in an unrelated part of the simulation."

"But how did we do it the first time?"

Rob didnót seem to  be paying attention. He  was typing in the  header
string from Dixie Maeós email. "Letós try it on the data file. . .  ."
He paused, checked his keyboard entry, and pressed return.

They stared at the screen. Seconds passed. The Ellens chatted back and
forth. They  seemed to  be worried  about executing  any sort  of text
program; like Victorós  notepad, it might  be readable to  the outside
world.  "Thatós a  real risk  unless earlier  Robs knew  the cacheing
strategy."

Dixie  Mae was  only half-listening.  If this  worked at  all, it  was
pretty good proof that earlier Robs and Dannys had done things  right.
If this works  at all. Even  after all that  had happened, even  after
seeing Victor  disappear into  thin air,  Dixie Mae  still felt like a
little girl waiting for magic she didnót quite believe in.

Danny gave a nervous laugh. "How big is this cookie?"

Rob leaned his  elbows onto the  table. "Yeah. How  many times have  I
been  through a  desperate seventh  year?" There  was an  edge to  his
voice. You  could imagine  him pulling  one of  those deathcube stunts
that the Ellens had described.

And then the screen brightened. Golden letters marched across a black
and-crimson fractal  pattern: "Hello  fellow suckers!  Welcome to  the
1,237th run of your life."

At  first, Danny  refused to  believe they  had spent  1,236 years  on
Gerryós treadmill. Rob gave a shrug.  "I do believe it. I always  told
Gerry  that  real  progress took  longer  than  theory-making. So  the
bastard gave me . . . all the time in the world."

The  cookie was  almost a  million megabytes  long. Much  of that  was
detailed  descriptions  of   trapdoors,  backdoors,  and   softsecrets
undermining the design that Rob and Danny had created for Gerry Reich.
But there  were also  thousands of  megabytes of  history and tactics,
crafted and hyperlinked across  more than a thousand  simulated years.
Most of it was the work of Danny and Rob, but there were the words  of
Ellen and Ellen and Dixie  Mae, captured in those fleeting  hours they
spent  with Rob  and Danny.  It was  wisdom accumulated  increment by
precious increment, across  cycles of near  sameness. As such,  it was
their past and also their near future.

It even contained  speculations about the  times before Rob  and Danny
got the cookie system working:  Those earliest runs must have  been in
the summer of 2011, a single  upload of Rob Lusk. Back then,  the best
hardware in the world couldnót have supported more than Rob all alone,
in the equivalent  of a one-room  apartment, with a  keyboard and data
display. Maybe he had guessed the  truth; even so, what could he  have
done about it? Cookies  would have been much  harder to pass in  those
times. But  Robós hardware  improved from  rev to  rev, as Gerry Reich
built  on  Robós earlier  genius.  Danny came  on  board. Their  first
successful attempt at a cookie must  have been one of many wild  stabs
in the  dark, drunken  theorizing on  the last  night of still another
year where Rob had  failed to make his  deadlines and thought that  he
was forever  Ph.D.-less. The  two had  put an  obscene message  on the
intrasystem email used for their "monthly" communications with  Reich.
The  address  they  had  used  for  this  random  flail  was  .  .   .
[email protected].

In the  real world,  that must  have been  around June  15, 2012. Why?
Well, at the beginning of their next run, guess who showed up?

Dixie Mae Leigh. Mad as hell.

The message had ended up on  Dixie Maeós work queue, and she  had been
sufficiently insulted to  go raging off  across the campus.  Dixie Mae
had spent  the whole  day bouncing  from building  to building, mostly
making enemies.  Not even  Ellen or  Ellen had  been persuaded to come
along.  On the  other hand,  back in  the early  revs, the  landscape
reality had been simpler. Dixie Mae  had been able to come into  Robós
lair directly from the asphalt walkway.

Danny glanced at Dixie Mae. "And we can only guess how many times  you
never saw the email, or decided the random obscenities were not  meant
for you, or just walked  in the wrong direction. Dumb  luck eventually
carried the day."

"Maybe. But I donót take to being insulted, and I go for the top."

Rob waved  them both  silent, never  looking up  from the cookie file:
After their first success, Rob and Danny had fine-tuned the email, had
learned  more from  each new  Dixie Mae  about who  was in  the other
buildings on the hill and howïlike the Ellensïthey might be used.

"Victor!" Rob and the  twins saw the reference  at the same time.  Rob
stopped the  autoscroll and  they studied  the paragraph.  "Yes. Weóve
seen Victor before. And five revs  ago, he actually made it as  far as
this time. He killed his thread then, too." Rob followed a link marked
taking care of Victor. "Oh. Okay.  Danny, weóll have to tweak the  log
filesï"

They stayed almost three hours more. Too long maybe, but Rob and Danny
wanted to  hear everything  the Ellens  and Dixie  Mae could tell them
about the simulation, and who  else they had seen. The  cookie history
showed  that  things  were always  changing,  getting  more elaborate,
involving more money-making uses of people Gerry had uploaded.

And they all wanted to keep talking. Except for poor Danny, the cookie
said  nothing about  whether they  still existed  outside. In  a way,
knowing each other now was what kept them real.

Dixie  Mae  could  tell  that  Danny  felt  that  way,  even  when  he
complained: "Itós just  not safe having  to contact unrelated  people,
depending on them to get the word to up here. "

"So, Danny, you  want the three  of us to  just run and  run and never
know the truth?"

"No, Dixie Mae,  but this is  dangerous for you,  too. As a  matter of
fact,  in most  of your  runs, you  stay clueless."  He waved  at the
history. "We only see you once  per each of our òyear-longó runs.  I-I
guess thatós the best evidence that visiting us is risky."

The Ellens leaned forward, "Okay, then letós see how things would work
without us." The four of  them looked over the oldest  history entries
and argued jargon that meant nothing to Dixie Mae. It all added up  to
the fact that  any local clues  left in Robós  data would be  easy for
Gerry Reich to detect. On the other hand, messing with unused  storage
in the intranet mail  system was possible, and  it was much easier  to
cloak because the clues could be spread across several other projects.

The Ellens grinned, "So  you really do need  us, or at least  you need
Dixie Mae. But donót  worry; we need you,  and you have lots  to do in
your next  year. During  that time,  youóve got  to make some credible
progress  with what  Gerry wants.  You saw  what that  is. Maybe  you
hardware types donót realize  it, butï" she clicked  on a link to  the
bulleted list of "minimum goals" that Reich had set for Rob and Danny.
"ïProf. Reich is asking you for system improvements that would make it
easier to partition the projects.  And see this stuff about  selective
decoherence: Ever hear of cognitive haze? I bet with this improvement,
Reich could actually  do limited meddling  with uploaded brain  state.
That would  eliminate date  and memory  inconsistencies. We  might not
even recognize cookie clues then!"

Danny looked at  the list. "Controlled  decoherence?" He followed  the
link through to an extended discussion. "I wondered what that was.  We
need to talk about this."

"Yesïwait! Two of us get  rebooted inïmy God, in thirty  minutes." The
Ellens looked at each other and then at Dixie Mae.

Danny looked stricken, all his strategic analysis forgotten. "But  one
of you Ellens is on a three-month cycle. She could stay here."

"Damn it, Danny! We just saw that there are checkpoints every sim day.
If the NSA team were short a member for longer than that, weód have  a
real problem."

Dixie Mae said, "Maybe we  should all leave now,  even us . .  . short
lifers. If we can  get back to our  buildings before reboot, it  might
look better."

"Yeah, youóre right. Ióm sorry," said Rob.

She  got up  and started  toward the  door. Getting  back to  Customer
Support was the one last thing she could do to help.

Rob stopped her. "Dixie  Mae, it would help  if youód leave us  with a
message to send to you next time."

She pulled the tattered printout from her pocket. The bottom was  torn
and smeared. "You must have the whole thing in the cookie."

"Still, it would be good to know what you think would work best to get
. .  . your  attention. The  history says  that background details are
gradually changing."

He stood up and gave her a little bow.

"Well, okay." Dixie Mae sat down and thought for a second. Yeah,  even
if she hadnót had the message memorized, she knew the sort of  insults
that would send  her ballistic. This  wasnót exactly time  travel, but
now she was certain  who had known all  the terrible secrets, who  had
known how to be absolutely  insulting. "My daddy always said  that Ióm
my own worst enemy."

Rob and Danny walked  with them back to  the vault door. This  was all
new to the two guys.  Danny scrambled out of  the pit, and stared  bug
eyed at the hills around them.  "Rob, we could just walk to  the other
buildings!" He hesitated, came back to them. "And yeah, I know. If  it
were that easy, weód have done it before. We gotta study that  cookie,
Rob."

Rob just nodded. He looked kind of sadïthen noticed that Dixie Mae was
looking at himïand  gave her a  quick smile. They  stood for a  moment
under the late afternoon  haze and listened to  the wind. The air  had
cooled and the whole pit was in shadow now.

Time to go.

Dixie Mae gave Rob a smile and her hand. "Hey, Rob. Donót worry.  Ióve
spent years trying to become a nicer, wiser, less stubborn person.  It
never happened. Maybe it never will. I guess thatós what we need now."

Rob took her hand. "It  is, but I swear .  . . it wonót be  an endless
treadmill.  We  will study  that  cookie, and  weóll  design something
better than what we have now."

"Yeah." Be as stubborn as I am, pal.

Rob and Dan  shook hands all  around, wishing them  well. "Okay," said
Danny, "best be  off with you.  Rob, we should  shut the door  and get
back. I saw some references in the cookie. If they get rebooted before
they reach their places, there are some things we can do."

"Yeah,"  said  Rob.  But  the two  didnót  move  immediately  from the
entrance. Dixie Mae and the twins scrambled out of the pit and  walked
toward the  asphalt. When  Dixie Mae  looked back,  the two  guys were
still  standing there.  She gave  a little  wave, and  then they  were
hidden by the edge of the excavation.

The three  trudged along,  the Ellens  a lot  less bubbly  than usual.
"Donót worry," NSA Ellen said  to her twin, "thereós still  two months
on the B0994 timeline.  Ióll remember for both  of us. Maybe I  can do
some good on that team."

"Yeah," said the  other, also sounding  down. Then abruptly  they both
gave one of those identical laughs and they were smiling. "Hey, I just
thought of something. True re-merge may always be impossible, but what
we have here is almost a kind of merge load. Maybe, maybeï" but  their
last chance on this turn of  the wheel was gone. They looked  at Dixie
Mae and all three were sad again. "Wish we had more time to think  how
we wanted this to  turn out. This wonót  be like the SF  stories where
every  rev  you  wake  up  filled  with  forebodings  and subconscious
knowledge. Weóll start out all fresh."

Dixie Mae  nodded. Starting  out fresh.  For dozens  of runs  to come,
where  there  would  be  nothing after  that  first  week  at Customer
Support, and putting  up with boorish  Victor, and never  knowing. And
then she smiled.  "But every time  we get through  to Dan and  Rob, we
leave a  little more.  Every time  they see  us, they  have a  year to
think. And itós all happening  a thousand times faster than  Oló Gerry
can think. We  really are the  cookie monsters. And  somedayï" Someday
weóll be coming  for you, Gerry.  And it will  be sooner than  you can
dream.