You have to let me show you exactly what you are.
There was a terminal beside the chair. He hit a button, and one of his personal assistants, Hans Löhr, appeared on the screen.
Thomas said casually, "Find out what you can about my visitor, will you?"
Löhr replied at once, "Yes, sir."
Thomas had six assistants, on duty in shifts around the clock. All flesh-and-blood humans -- but so thoroughly wired that they were able to switch their mental processes back and forth between normal speed and slowdown at will. Thomas kept them at a distance, communicating with them only by terminal; the distinction between a visitor "in the flesh" and a "mere image" on a screen didn't bear much scrutiny, but in practice it could still be rigorously enforced. He sometimes thought of his staff as working in Munich or Berlin . . . "far enough away" to "explain" the fact that he never met them in person, and yet "near enough" to make a kind of metaphorical sense of their ability to act as go-betweens with the outside world. He'd never bothered to find out where they really were, in case the facts contradicted this convenient mental image.
He sighed, and took another swig of C & O. It was a balancing act, a tightrope walk. A Copy could go insane, either way. Caring too much about the truth could lead to a pathological obsession with the infrastructure -- the algorithms and optical processors, the machinery of "deception" which lay beneath every surface. Caring too little, you could find yourself gradually surrendering to a complacent fantasy in which life had gone on as normal, and everything which contradicted the illusion of ordinary physical existence was avoided, or explained away.
Was that Durham's real intention? To drive him mad?
Thomas had ordered the usual cursory screening before letting Durham in, revealing only that the man worked as a salesman for Gryphon Financial Products -- a moderately successful Anglo-Australian company -- and that he possessed no criminal record. Elaborate precautions were hardly warranted; visitors could do no harm. Thomas's VR consultants had assured him that nothing short of tampering with the hardware in situ could ever damage or corrupt the system; no mere signal coming down the fiber from the outside world could penetrate the protected layers of the software. Visitors who wreaked havoc, introducing viruses by the fiendishly clever binary-modulated snapping of their fingers, were the stuff of fiction. (Literally; Thomas had seen it happen once on The Unclear Family.)
Durham had said: "I'm not going to lie to you. I've spent time in a mental institution. Ten years. I suffered delusions. Bizarre, elaborate delusions. And I realize, now, that I was seriously ill. I can look back and understand that.
"But at the very same time, I can look back and remember what it was that I believed was happening when I was insane. And without for one moment ceasing to acknowledge my condition, I still find those memories so convincing . . . "
Thomas's skin crawled. He raised his glass . . . and then put it down. He knew that if he kept on drinking, nothing the man had said would unsettle him in the least -- but he hadn't drunk enough, yet, to be absolutely sure that that was what he wanted.
"If you're not prepared to perform the experiment yourself, at least think about the implications. Imagine that you've modified the way in which you're computed -- and imagine what the consequences would be. A gedanken experiment -- is that too much to ask for? In a sense, that's all I ever performed myself."
The terminal chimed. Thomas took the call. Löhr said, "I have a preliminary report on Paul Durham. Would you like me to read it?"
Thomas shook his head. "I'll view the file."
He skimmed it, at level one detail. Paul Kingsley Durham. Born in Sydney on June 6, 2000. Parents: Elizabeth Anne Maddox and John Arthur Durham . . . joint owners of a delicatessen in the Sydney suburb of Concord, from 1996 to 2032 . . . retired to Mackay, Queensland . . . now both deceased by natural causes.
Educated at a government high school. 2017: Higher School Certificate aggregate score in third percentile; best subjects physics and mathematics. 2018: completed one year of a science degree at Sydney University, passed all examinations but discontinued studies. 2019 to 2023: traveled in Thailand, Burma, India, Nepal. 2024: on return to Australia, diagnosed with an organic delusional syndrome, probably congenital . . . condition partly controlled by medication. Numerous casual laboring jobs until May, 2029. Condition deteriorating . . . disability pension granted January, 2031. Committed to Psychiatric Ward of Blacktown Hospital on September 4, 2035.
Corrective nanosurgery to the hippocampus and prefrontal cerebral cortex performed on November 11, 2045 . . . declared a complete success.
Thomas switched to level two, to fill in the ten-year gap, but found little more than a long list of the drugs, neural grafts, and gene-therapy vectors which had been injected into Durham's skull during that period, to no apparent benefit. There were frequent notes that the treatments had been tested first on a set of partial brain models, but hadn't worked in practice. Thomas wondered if Durham had been told about this -- and wondered what the man imagined happened when a drug was evaluated on fifteen separate models of different regions of the brain, which, taken together, encompassed the entire organ . . .
2046 to 2048: studying finance and administration at Macquarie University. 2049: graduated with first class honors, and immediately hired by Gryphon as a trainee salesman. As of January 17, 2050, working in the Artificial Intelligence Division.
Which meant selling protection, in various guises, to Copies who were afraid that their assets were going to be pulled out from under them. Durham's job description would certainly cover spending long hours as a visitor -- if not quite stretching to matters like disclosing details of his personal psychiatric history, or suggesting metaphysical gedanken experiments to his clients. Or indeed, wasting time on Copies obviously far too secure to need Gryphon's services.
Thomas leaned back from the terminal. It was almost too simple: Durham had fooled his doctors into believing that they'd cured him -- and then, with typical paranoid ingenuity and tenacity, he'd set about getting himself into a position where he could meet Copies, share the Great Truth that had been revealed to him . . . and try to extract a little money in the process.
If Thomas contacted Gryphon and told them what their mad salesman was up to, Durham would certainly lose his job, probably end up in an institution again -- and hopefully benefit from a second attempt at nanosurgery. Durham probably wasn't harming anybody . . . but ensuring that he received treatment was, surely, the kindest thing to do.
A confident, optimistic person would make the call at once. Thomas eyed his drink, but decided to hold off a little longer before drowning the alternatives.
Durham had said: "I understand that everything I believe I've experienced was "due to" my illness -- and I know there's no easy way to persuade you that I'm not still insane. But even if that were true . . . why should it make the question I've raised any less important to you?
"Most flesh-and-blood humans live and die without knowing or caring what they are -- scoffing at the very idea that it should matter. But you're not flesh and blood, and you can't afford the luxury of ignorance."
Thomas rose and walked over to the mirror above the fireplace. Superficially, his appearance was still based largely on his final scan; he had the same unruly thick white hair, the same loose, mottled, translucent eighty-five-year-old skin. He had the bearing of a young man, though; the model constructed from the scan file had been thoroughly rejuvenated, internally, sweeping away sixty years' worth of deterioration in every joint, every muscle, every vein and artery. He wondered if it was only a matter of time before vanity got the better of him and he did the same with his appearance. Many of his business associates were un-aging gradually -- but a few had leaped back twenty, thirty, fifty years, or changed their appearances completely. Which was most honest? Looking like an eighty-five-year-old flesh-and-blood human (which he was not), or looking the way he'd prefer to look . . . prefer to be . . . given the choice. And he did have the choice.