the center of his vision, much less toward the periphery. Objects out of sight didn't 'vanish' entirely, if they influenced the ambient light, but Paul knew that the calculations would rarely be pursued beyond the crudest first- order approximations: Bosch's
He had been aware of the technique for decades. It was something else to experience it. He resisted the urge to wheel around suddenly, in a futile attempt to catch the process out -- but for a moment it was almost unbearable, just
He closed his eyes again for a few seconds. When he opened them, the feeling was already less oppressive. No doubt it would pass; it seemed too bizarre a state of mind to be sustained for long. Certainly, none of the other Copies had reported anything similar . . . but then, none of them had volunteered much useful data at all. They'd just ranted abuse, whined about their plight, and then terminated themselves -- all within fifteen (subjective) minutes of gaining consciousness.
But now that he was 'no longer' the flesh-and-blood Paul Durham -- 'no longer' the one who'd sit outside and watch the whole experiment from a safe distance -- all of that determination seemed to have evaporated.
Suddenly he wondered:
He muttered the password, 'Abulafia' -- and his last faint hope vanished, as a black-on-white square about a meter wide, covered in icons, appeared in midair in front of him.
He gave the interface window an angry thump; it resisted him as if it was solid, and firmly anchored.
He lowered himself to the floor with a grunt.
Paul leant against the cool surface of the interface, dizzy and confused.
Looking back, that hope seemed ludicrous. Yes, he'd made the decision freely -- for the fifth time -- but it was mercilessly clear, now, that he'd never really faced up to the consequences. All the time he'd spent, supposedly 'preparing himself' to be a Copy, his greatest source of resolve had been to focus on the outlook for the man who'd remain flesh and blood. He'd told himself that he was rehearsing 'making do with vicarious freedom' -- and no doubt he had been genuinely struggling to do just that . . . but he'd also been taking secret comfort in the knowledge that
And as long as he'd clung to that happy truth, he'd never really swallowed the fate of the Copy at all.
People reacted badly to waking up as Copies. Paul knew the statistics. Ninety-eight percent of Copies made were of the very old, and the terminally ill. People for whom it was the last resort -- most of whom had spent millions beforehand, exhausting all the traditional medical options; some of whom had even died between the taking of the scan and the time the Copy itself was run. Despite this, fifteen percent decided on awakening -- usually in a matter of hours -- that they couldn't face living this way.
And of those who were young and healthy, those who were merely curious, those who knew they had a perfectly viable, living, breathing body outside?
The bale-out rate so far had been one hundred percent.
Paul stood in the middle of the room, swearing softly for several minutes, acutely aware of the passage of time. He didn't feel ready -- but the longer the other Copies had waited, the more traumatic they seemed to have found the decision. He stared at the floating interface; its dreamlike, hallucinatory quality helped, slightly. He rarely remembered his dreams, and he wouldn't remember this one -- but there was no tragedy in that.
He suddenly realized that he was still stark naked. Habit -- if no conceivable propriety -- nagged at him to put on some clothes, but he resisted the urge. One or two perfectly innocent, perfectly ordinary actions like that, and he'd find he was taking himself seriously, thinking of himself as real, making it even harder . . .
He paced the bedroom, grasped the cool metal of the doorknob a couple of times, but managed to keep himself from turning it. There was no point even starting to explore this world.
He couldn't resist peeking out the window, though. The view of north Sydney was flawless; every building, every cyclist, every tree, was utterly convincing -- but that was no great feat; it was a recording, not a simulation. Essentially photographic -- give or take some computerized touching up and filling in -- and totally predetermined. To cut costs even further, only a tiny part of it was 'physically' accessible to him; he could see the harbor in the distance, but he knew that if he tried to go for a stroll down to the water's edge . . .
Paul turned back to the interface and touched a menu icon labelled utilities; it spawned another window in front of the first. The function he was seeking was buried several menus deep -- but he knew exactly where to look for it. He'd watched this, from the outside, too many times to have forgotten.
He finally reached the emergencies menu -- which included a cheerful icon of a cartoon figure suspended from a parachute.
Paul prodded the icon; it came to life, and recited a warning spiel. He scarcely paid attention. Then it said, 'Are you absolutely sure that you wish to shut down this Copy of Paul Durham?'
'Yes, I'm sure.'
A metal box, painted red, appeared at his feet. He opened it, took out the parachute, strapped it on.
Then he closed his eyes and said, 'Listen to me.