Caitlin's mom had gone up to her office, leaving Caitlin downstairs, walking around the living room. Just looking at things was fascinating to her, and it seemed every time she examined something she'd seen before, she was able to make out new details: seams where pieces of wood joined on the bookcases; a slight discoloration of the beige wall where the previous owners had hung a painting; a manufacturer's name embossed but not colored on the television remote. And she was learning what different textures looked like: the leather of the couch; the smooth metal legs of the gla.s.s coffee table; the roughness of her father's sweater, draped over the back of the easy chair.

She walked to the opposite side of the room and looked down the long corridor that led to the washroom, and her father's den, and the utility room, and the side door of the house. It was a nice straight corridor, with nothing on the floor, and it had a dark brown carpet running its length-the shade was about the same as Caitlin's hair.

She'd visited other kids' homes often enough when she was younger, and had frequently heard the same thing: parents telling their children to stop running in the house; her friend Stacy had gotten in trouble for that all the time.

But Caitlin's parents had never said that to her. Of course not: she had to walk slowly, deliberately; oh, she hadn't had to use her white cane in the old house back in Austin, or in this house after the first few days, but she certainly couldn't go running about. Her parents were meticulous about not leaving shoes or other things anywhere Caitlin might trip over them, but Schrodinger-or his predecessor, Mr. Mistoffelees-could have been anywhere, and the last thing Caitlin had wanted to do was injure herself or her cat.

But now she could see! And now that she could see-maybe she could run!

What the heck, she thought. "Webmind?" she thought. "Webmind?"

Yes? flashed in her vision. flashed in her vision.

"I'm going to try running down this hallway-so don't do what you just did. Don't pop any words into my vision, okay?"

There was no response-which, after a moment, she realized was simply Webmind doing as she'd asked. Suppressing a grin, she locked her gaze on the white door at the end of the corridor, with its square window looking out on the gap between their house and the Hegerats' next door. And she- She walked. walked.

d.a.m.n it, she knew what running was-when you were running, both feet left the ground. But she couldn't bring herself to do it, even though there were no obstacles, and she was sure Schrodinger was upstairs with her mother. She tried, she really tried, leaning her torso forward, but- But she just couldn't. couldn't. A lifetime of being afraid of tripping and falling had taken its toll. She pa.s.sed the bathroom walking; she pa.s.sed her dad's office, its door open, walking briskly; she pa.s.sed the utility room, actually striding-but she never ran, and when she reached the side door, she slapped the palm of her hand against the painted wood, and muttered, "Fail." A lifetime of being afraid of tripping and falling had taken its toll. She pa.s.sed the bathroom walking; she pa.s.sed her dad's office, its door open, walking briskly; she pa.s.sed the utility room, actually striding-but she never ran, and when she reached the side door, she slapped the palm of her hand against the painted wood, and muttered, "Fail."

Just then, the front doorbell rang-meaning Matt had arrived. She really, really, really wanted to run up the corridor, through the living room, and over to the entryway, but even with that carrot, all she managed was a fast walking.

Still, when she opened the door and saw him smiling, all thoughts that she was made out of fail vanished. She hugged him and gave him a kiss. After saying good-bye to her mom, who came downstairs to see Matt, they headed out into the brisk autumn morning. There'd already been a little snow in Waterloo, but it had all melted. The leaves on the trees were wonderful colors that Caitlin wasn't sure what to call: she was good now with basic color names but not yet proficient at intermediate shades.

She suddenly realized that she was having a feeling she'd never had before. Without looking back, as she and Matt walked down the street, she was sure her mother was watching them from the open front door, arms probably crossed in front of her chest.

Perhaps Matt had the same sense-or perhaps he'd looked back at some point and confirmed it-but it wasn't until after they'd turned the corner and were out of sight of the house that he reached over and touched Caitlin's hand.

Caitlin found herself smiling at the tentativeness of the gesture. Matt was presuming nothing: all the affection down in the bas.e.m.e.nt yesterday ent.i.tled him to no privileges today. She squeezed his hand firmly, stopped walking, and kissed him on the lips. When they pulled away, she saw he was smiling. They picked up their pace and hurried toward the donut shop.

As soon as they came in the door, Caitlin was surprised to catch sight of a flash of platinum-blonde hair. It took her a moment to recognize Sunshine Bowen out of context-but here she was, working behind the counter. Another woman was at the cash register; Sunshine was-ah, she was making a sandwich for a customer.

"Hi, Sunshine!" Caitlin called out.

Sunshine looked up, startled, but then she smiled. "Caitlin, hi!"

Matt didn't say anything, and so Caitlin whispered to him, "Say hi, Matt."

He looked astonished, and after a second, Caitlin got it. There were a million social rules at any school, and apparently one of the ones she'd been oblivious to was that guys who looked like Matt didn't speak to girls as beautiful as Sunshine, even if they were in half their cla.s.ses together.

But Matt certainly didn't want to ignore Caitlin's request, so he said a soft "Hi." Its volume seemed calculated so that Caitlin would hear it but Sunshine, perhaps, would not, letting him satisfy propriety on all fronts.

Caitlin shook her head and moved closer to where Sunshine was standing. "I didn't know you worked here," she said.

"Just on weekends," Sunshine said. She had been the only other American girl in Caitlin's cla.s.ses. "I do five hours on Sat.u.r.day mornings and four on Sundays."

Sunshine was tall, busty, and had long, dyed hair, although here it was pinned up and mostly constrained by a Tim Hortons cap that matched the brown uniform smock she was wearing.

Matt's BlackBerry rang; his ringtone was Nickelback's cover of Neil Young's "Cinnamon Girl." He pulled it out, looked at the display, and took the call. The donut shop wasn't busy, and Caitlin chatted a little more with Sunshine before she became aware of what Matt was saying into his phone: "Oh, no! No, yes, of course . . . Okay, okay. No, I'll be waiting outside. Right. Yes, bye."

He put the BlackBerry back in his pocket. His expression wasn't quite his deer-caught-in-the-headlights look; it was more . . . something. something. "What's wrong?" Caitlin said. "What's wrong?" Caitlin said.

"My dad just fell down the stairs. It's nothing serious-just a twisted ankle. Still, my mom's taking him to the hospital, and she wants me to go with them. She's going to swing by here and pick me up. Um, I don't think they'll want to take the time to drive you home. Could-I'm so sorry, but could you call your mom and have her come get you?"

Her mom would kill Matt, Caitlin knew, if he let her walk home alone; although Caitlin was getting better at seeing, she was still blind in one eye and could easily be snuck up on. "Of course!" Caitlin said. "Don't worry."

But Sunshine had been listening in. "I'm off in fifteen minutes, Cait. Stay and have a coffee, and I'll walk you home."

Caitlin certainly didn't want her first outing after her mother let her leave the house to end with her calling for a lift. "That'd be great. Thanks."

Caitlin gave Matt a kiss, and she saw Sunshine smile at that. Then she sent Matt out to the parking lot. She hadn't yet met Mr. and Mrs. Reese, and this hardly seemed the ideal time for it.

She went over to the cash counter. She didn't care much for coffee, so she ordered a bottle of c.o.ke, and twenty a.s.sorted Timbits, which came in a little yellow box that folded up to look like a house, with a handle protruding from the roof. She found an unoccupied table and sat, munching on a few of the donut holes and sipping her drink, while she waited for Sunshine to get off duty.

When they did get going (it was actually twenty-one minutes later, Caitlin knew, without having to consult her watch), Sunshine reminded her of when she'd walked Caitlin partway home before, after the disastrous school dance at the end of last month. Caitlin didn't like Sunshine bringing that up-the way the Hoser had treated Caitlin that night was a bad memory-but then Sunshine went on: "And I thought of a joke today about it," she said, sounding quite proud of herself. "That night, it was a case of the blonde leading the blind."

Caitlin laughed, amused that it had taken poor Sunshine over two weeks to come up with that.

But what a two weeks it had been! That very night, just after Sunshine had left her, Caitlin had had her first experience of vision, seeing lightning zigzag across the sky.

Sunshine had taken off her Tim Hortons smock and cap and was carrying them in a canvas bag. She was now wearing a black leather jacket that hugged her figure. They continued to walk along. The sky was cloudless and more silver than blue.

As it turned out, Sunshine's house was on the way to Caitlin's, and when they got to it, Sunshine asked her if she wanted to come in. Of course, Sunshine now knew she had no other plans, and although Caitlin might have otherwise begged off-they had exhausted what little they had to talk about while walking the four blocks here-she was was curious about what Sunshine's place looked like. She'd only seen inside two houses so far: her own and Bashira's. curious about what Sunshine's place looked like. She'd only seen inside two houses so far: her own and Bashira's.

No one else was home. Sunshine threw her leather jacket over the back of the couch, and Caitlin followed suit with her own jacket. She couldn't really judge such things yet, but this house looked less neat than her parents' place, and something something was missing, but . . . was missing, but . . .

Of course. There were no bookcases in the living room.

"What do your parents do?" Caitlin asked.

"Insurance stuff," Sunshine said.

Well, that made sense: Kitchener-Waterloo's biggest nontech area of business was, in fact, insurance. "Ah."

Sunshine's bedroom turned out to be downstairs. She led the way but went much too fast for Caitlin, who still needed to go very carefully on unfamiliar staircases. Still, soon enough she was down in Sunshine's room.

"So-you and Matt!" Sunshine said, grinning, as she sat on the edge of her unmade bed.

"Yeah," Caitlin said, smiling.

Sunshine shook her head slightly, and Caitlin was afraid she was going to say what Bashira kept saying: that Caitlin was out of Matt's league, that she should be dating someone better-looking than him. But, to her relief, what Sunshine said was, "He's too smart for me. But he seems nice."

"He is," is," Caitlin said firmly. She was still standing. There was an empty chair, but she rather liked that it was unremarked upon. When she'd been blind, the first thing people had done whenever she'd entered an unfamiliar room was make a fuss over getting her seated, as if she were infirm. Caitlin said firmly. She was still standing. There was an empty chair, but she rather liked that it was unremarked upon. When she'd been blind, the first thing people had done whenever she'd entered an unfamiliar room was make a fuss over getting her seated, as if she were infirm.

"Too bad he had to go. He'll probably be tied up all day now, I guess." Sunshine smiled then said, "Know what you should do?"

Caitlin shook her head.

Sunshine stood and, to Caitlin's astonishment, she pulled her red T-shirt up over her head, exposing a pair of quite large b.r.e.a.s.t.s held up by a frilly beige bra; two seconds later, the bra was undone and had slipped down her flat belly.

Caitlin was surprised by what Sunshine had just done-and also half-surprised that Webmind hadn't popped a comment into her eye, but, then again, if you'd looked at every picture on the World Wide Web, you'd probably be bored to death of b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Sunshine then took something-her cell phone, that was it-out of her jeans pocket. She held the phone in one hand and-ah, that fake camera-shutter sound: she took a picture, presumably of her own chest. Then she tapped quickly away at the phone's keyboard, and said, triumphantly, "There!"

"What?" said Caitlin.

"I just sent him a picture of my b.o.o.bs."

"Matt?" said Caitlin, incredulously. said Caitlin, incredulously.

Sunshine laughed. "No, my my boyfriend, Tyler." She lifted her b.r.e.a.s.t.s in her palms, then let them fall. "No offense, Caitlin, but I don't think Matt's ready for these babies." boyfriend, Tyler." She lifted her b.r.e.a.s.t.s in her palms, then let them fall. "No offense, Caitlin, but I don't think Matt's ready for these babies."

Caitlin grinned. She knew Sunshine was sixteen, and that Tyler was nineteen and worked as a security guard somewhere.

Sunshine went on. "Helps to let him know I'm thinking of him while he's at work."

Caitlin knew about the practice, of course: s.e.xting, s.e.xting, the sending of suggestive photos via cell phones. But she'd never seen it before, and it was hardly a topic that had come up often at the Texas School for the Blind. the sending of suggestive photos via cell phones. But she'd never seen it before, and it was hardly a topic that had come up often at the Texas School for the Blind.

Sunshine hooked her bra back up and pulled down her T-shirt. Then she gestured at Caitlin-or, more precisely, Caitlin realized belatedly, at her chest. "You should flash Matt. He'll love it."

The BlackBerry attached to the back of her eyePod was mounted in such a way that the camera was covered, and it was slaved to sending data to Dr. Kuroda's servers in Tokyo, and, of course, to Webmind.

And so her parents had gotten her another BlackBerry-a different and somewhat larger model with a red casing. She carried the eyePod in her left hip pocket, and the other BlackBerry in her right one. She fished it out, turned it over so she could see-yes, that was it: the camera lens.

"I haven't taken any pictures with it yet," Caitlin said.

Sunshine held out her hand and sounded pleased that she could teach something to Caitlin. "Here, I'll show you how."

Caitlin considered. Webmind had seen her in various states of undress now, when she'd looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, so that certainly wasn't an obstacle-and, besides, he'd a.s.sured her that her BlackBerry was now secure; no way those voyeurs at WATCH could be sneaking a peek.

And, well, she had been thinking just yesterday about the fact that American girls lose their virginity on average at 16.40 years of age-meaning she had just 142 days left if she wasn't going to end up on the trailing edge. And Matt was was someone she really cared about, and she could tell he really cared about her, too. someone she really cared about, and she could tell he really cared about her, too.

"Why the heck not?" she said, and she started unb.u.t.toning her shirt.

ten.

Masayuki Kuroda looked at the webcam. "So," Anna Bloom said, "the biggest threat to Webmind is probably BGP hijacking. Of course, there are safeguards, and anyone wanting to do it would have to figure out how to identify your special packets-and then figure out how to get routers to distinguish those mutants from the regular kind."

"Colonel Hume managed that in his test run," Kuroda said. "So it's doable."

"It's doable by modifying router hardware," Anna said. "We can hope it's not something that could easily be done with BGP routing tables-but if it is . . ." is . . ." She shook her head, then: "Look, it's getting awfully late here. I've got to call it a night. Webmind, I wish you luck." She shook her head, then: "Look, it's getting awfully late here. I've got to call it a night. Webmind, I wish you luck."

"Thank you," Webmind said.

She leaned forward, and then her camera went off.

"Well," said Dr. Kuroda, "let's hope your foes aren't as clever as Anna."

Of course, despite the gravity of the conversation, I had been cycling through communication with many others during it. And so I had learned that Malcolm Decter's colleague in China had succeeded where I had failed, locating Sinanthropus in a hospital in Beijing. I'd accessed his medical records-and was distressed to learn of his condition. But a course of action immediately occurred to me, and, now that Professor Bloom was offline, I broached the topic with Dr. Kuroda.

"I have become aware of a young man," I said, "who has recently suffered a spinal-cord injury, leaving him a paraplegic."

"That's awful," Kuroda said, but I could tell by his vocal inflection that it was merely a reflex reply-an autoresponder, if you will.

I pressed on. "It is, yes. And I was hoping you might help him."

"Um, Webmind, I'm not a medical medical doctor; I'm an information theorist." doctor; I'm an information theorist."

"Of course," I said patiently. "But I have examined his medical records, including his digitized X-rays and MRI scans. I know precisely what's wrong with him-and it is is an information-processing issue. I can suggest straightforward modifications to the eyePod and the post-retinal implant you created for Caitlin that will almost certainly cure his condition." an information-processing issue. I can suggest straightforward modifications to the eyePod and the post-retinal implant you created for Caitlin that will almost certainly cure his condition."

"Really? That's . . . wow."

"Indeed. And yes: really."

"Wow," he said again. But then, after a moment, he added, "But why him? There are-I don't know-there must be millions of people with spinal-cord injuries worldwide. Why help this person first?"

It was not instinctive for me to do so, but I was nonetheless learning to employ the technique of answering a question with a question-especially when I was not yet ready to be forthcoming, something else that was new to me. I'd been amused to learn that this approach had fooled many into thinking the first chatbots were actually conscious, for they replied to questions such as, "What should I do about my mother?" with questions of their own, such as, "Why do you worry about what other people think?"

I threw a version of Dr. Kuroda's question back at him: "Why did you decide to give Caitlin sight first, before all the other blind people in the world?"

He lifted his rounded shoulders. "The etiology of her blindness. She had Tomasevic's syndrome, and that's a simple signal-encoding difficulty-clearly up my street."

"Indeed. Your equipment intercepts signals being pa.s.sed along nerves, modifies the signals, and then pa.s.ses them back to the nerve tissue. That's applicable to any number of situations-as you yourself alluded to at the press conference at which you announced your success with Caitlin. So why her?"

"Well, there was was one other factor. You see . . ." one other factor. You see . . ."

By the time humans had finished speaking-or typing-a sentence, I had often already leapt far ahead of them. Kuroda was, I'm sure, pointing out that the reason he'd chosen a blind person for his first human test, rather than a spinal-cord injury, or treating a Parkinson's patient, is that the optic nerve could be reached by sliding instruments around the eyeball; no incision had to be made, and, under j.a.panese law, that meant it wasn't surgery-and thus the procedure that had given Caitlin a post-retinal implant wasn't subject to the kind of drawn-out approval process that often delayed human trials for years.

I'd experimented with interrupting people as they spoke, to indicate that I knew what they were going to say, in hopes that we could move the conversation along more quickly. But I found that disrupting their train of thought, besides being bad manners (which I might be forgiven, not being human, after all), actually made them take longer to get to their ultimate point. And so I simply shunted my attention elsewhere for the interval I calculated it would take Kuroda to say his piece.

When I returned to him, I said, "True. And that's why this is an ideal opportunity for you to move to surgery. The person in question is in China, where rules about informed consent are lax, especially under his current circ.u.mstances."

"Which are?" said Kuroda.

"The gentleman happens to be under arrest."

"For what crime?"

"Indirectly, for creating me."