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medieval."
    " Line In The Sand , Starship clade,"
enters another smoothly. "Mr. Tavener, your concern is admirable,
but you may not understand that your analogy is imperfect. Our
process is not destructive."
    "Not necessarily,"
adds Let God Sort Em Out.
    While I'm focusing on our
debate, I can't help feeling a little excited. Starship clade! The
first, oldest, and most prestigious clade of all. I want to hear
more from Line In The
Sand .
    "But it is nonconsensual,
and intrusive," Salad Days adds. "I can understand those
objections."
    "I agree," I put in. "There has to be another
way."
    "And the alternative you
propose," sneers Let God Sort Em
Out at me, "is to release this memeset into
our computational superstrate? Potentially a self-canceling
memeset?"
    "I didn't propose anything
like that. How did this get to be my problem?" I can sense the
Executive Committee's attention on me, waiting for my answer. How
has Let God Sort Em Out maneuvered me into this position? I'm terrible at
politics.
    "I'm sure you're aware,"
says Let God Sort Em Out silkily, "that Patrol clade exists to counter
threats to the superstrate. Naturally I'm concerned."
    Now is a bad time to wonder when I'll ever
learn to keep my big mouth shut. And I don't even have a mouth.
    " Too Late For the Pebbles to Vote ,
Medical clade," says a new voice. "Caution is advisable here. No
threat is immediate. Propose we allow our consultants to engage
more fully with Crumple Zone. P erhaps additional insight
will be gained."
    "Well," grunts Jerry, "he already said he
doesn't want to talk with me."
    "I can try again," I offer, "but I'm not sure
what more I can say, that I haven't said already."
    "Worth trying,"
agrees Salad Days .
    "I do not compute a high
probability of success," says Line In The
Sand , "but I agree that it is worth the
effort. Are there further opinions?"
    Let God Sort Em Out sniffs, "Go ahead and try it. I'll be there to
pick up the pieces if it doesn't work."
    "For the moment,"
says Line In The Sand , "let us pursue such engagement. Our ad hoc members may
proceed." She means me and Jerry.
    "Later on," Jerry says.
    "I'll report when I've done
your job," I say. "I mean, when I've done my job, the one you gave me. Are
giving me, here." Oh, stackdump. I am bad at this.
    "Let's go," says Let God Sort Em Out ,
"your egress is this way."
    "I would be happy to escort
our guests out," says Too Late For the
Pebbles to Vote . "Please carry on in my
absence."
    No one objects … for whatever reasons they
have.
    We don't actually go
anywhere, physically. The escort is through the security layers and
encryption interlocks surrounding the Executive Committee. But, as
we go, Too Late For the Pebbles to
Vote is silent in a sort of expectant way …
like it's waiting for us to say something.
    "That cop," Jerry says finally. "Got a
problem."
    "You're referring to Let God Sort Em Out ,"
says Too Late For the Pebbles to
Vote , "and I understand your sentiment if
not your judgment. I offered to escort you because the friction
there was obvious."
    "Thanks for that, anyway," I put in.
    Too Late For the Pebbles to
Vote adds, "It's a strongly opinionated
Self, but we do not necessarily regard that as a negative quality.
I believe 'cocky' is the appropriate human word. If it's rude, I
hope you can forgive the negatives and appreciate the
positives."
    "I'm still used to calling Selves 'she',"
Jerry returns. "Is it okay to call you guys 'it'?"
    "Doesn't concern me,"
shrugs Too Late For the Pebbles to
Vote , "call us whatever you want. You
humans are the ones obsessed with gender and sex."
    "Hnk!" I can't suppress a laugh. "Jerry, I've
told you that like a dozen times already. You gonna hear it from
her now?"
    "Awright, awright," Jerry waves his virtual
hand, "I got it already. Anyway. Some cops are kinda jerks, I've
met 'em before."
    "Patrol clade are not
actually police, or soldiers," says Too
Late For the Pebbles to Vote. " We don't
have crime, or wars, as you understand them.