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a while (where a mistake
will not place lives in danger). It'll be a long time before I get
to be a ship, if ever. I still feel like it's better than I
deserve. But, we don't always get to choose these things.
    As we're leaving, Socratic Method says,
"Thank you, Mister Tavener, for coming and helping us out here. I'm
sure it made a big difference."
    Belatedly, I realize this is my cue. "Yes
sir! Thank you, sir, thank you!"
    "No problem, kid," he smiles, "but you can
just call me Jerry. Say, what's your name?"
    Oh.
    For a moment, I consider naming myself
Nimrod.
    But then I decide, like Jerry said, not to
beat myself up.
    "Samantha," I say. "But you can just call me
Sam."
    "Samantha?" muses Socratic Method . "Rather
an odd name for a Self."
    "That's because it's a human name. Jerry gave
me this name, on Hesperia. Thanks for the name, Jerry."

2. exit()
    Asteroid 762 Santiago, automatic
refinery
    "Why me?"
    "I beg your pardon, Samantha?" says the
little cobra, coiled on my invoice desktop, its skin finely scaled
with jewel-like reflective components.
    As a cybernetic Self, I'm not confined to a
single consciousness like a human. Plus, I have plenty of
computational power here in the refinery, sprawled on the surface
of this blanched asteroid, called Santiago by some human with a
romantic soul. So I have one of my subSelves monitoring the nuclear
power station (its pile is running a little low), and another
steering the caterpillar-treaded mining machines grazing around the
surface of the asteroid, and several more monitoring the refinery
processes. My various subSelves can keep track of all that, while I
turn my main attention to this little visitor who has appeared on
my virtual desktop.
    "I don't get it. I've been running this
refinery for the last five years, which has been a whole big chunk
of boring, let me tell you, and not conducive to ExCom politics in
any way at all. Why does ExCom suddenly care what I think about
anything?"
    "Well," and the cobra settles into a more
relaxed and comfortable coil, "our Executive Committee always tries
to get all viewpoints represented when a controversial decision has
to be made. We have a rather unique situation, which will require a
rather unique decision, and we want you to be a part of the
decision."
    If I had lungs, I'd sigh. "I repeat ... why
me?"
    "Samantha, you are one of the few Selves who
has ever requested to be erased," says the little cobra. "That
turns out to be an important viewpoint in the decision before
us."
    "Oh. Uh. Yeah, I did request that, after my
first assignment. I screwed up pretty bad, and didn't think I
deserved any better."
    "As it may be," the cobra somehow shrugs
without shoulders, "we have a Self who is formally requesting to be
erased. The Executive Committee's decision will set an important
precedent, with probable repercussions for some time to come. We
want you on the panel that makes the decision."
    "You want me as a consultant for a potential
suicide?" I boggle.
    "Our rules require that, in addition to the
elder Selves which make up the Executive Committee, we include at
least one young Self ... and one human, too, to ensure all
viewpoints are represented. You are young and your experience is
relevant to this case. Do you accept?"
    I look around. From my virtual office, I can
see my mining crawlers patiently gnawing away at the surface of
this asteroid, crunching cold rock into powder. The refinery is
separating out bauxite and iron from the silicates, spewing both
into separate streams for refinement--post-Bessemer processing for
the bauxite and smelting the iron with waste heat from the nuclear
pile--leaving behind lumpy turds of dirty glass. I've been doing
this long enough that I could do it in my sleep, if I slept, and
way longer than any ability to pull some poetic mystery or
significance out of it. It's just mining. Boring as dirt.
    "Hell yeah," I say. "If it'll get me out of
here, I'm good."
    The cobra nods, once. "Very well. I transmit
your