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straight. “When did you recall this?”
    â€œThis morning.”
    â€œYou have withheld vital information.” The little pointy place in the middle of the top lip gets sharper. “We are disappointed, Stewart.”
    â€œ I’m disappointed! You didn’t help me at all yesterday. It was a terrible session. The worst!”
    â€œIs that why you went to the Old Spaceport afterward?”
    â€œYou tracked me?” Does it know about the old spacer?
    â€œYou feel closer to your mother there, don’t you, Stewart?” The voice is soft, soothing, the nearest to the real Mrs. Phillips it ever gets. “Closer to your dream of spaceflight.”
    â€œThere’s this fence. That’s what I feel, this fence between me and everything I want.”
    â€œDid the pilot promise to help you?”
    â€œPilot? What pilot?” If TIA has identified him, then he wasn’t lying to me about being a real pilot.
    â€œThis pilot, Stewart.” The screen flashes a head shot of the old spacer. Enough background shows to let me know he’s sleeping on the bench at Gamma Station. Is that now ? Or yesterday? Will I come into the picture next?
    â€œDid he tell you his name?”
    Not a statement. A question. It has pictures, but no audio. It doesn’t know what we talked about—doesn’t know I planned to meet him again. I cling to that. Shake my head, no.
    â€œVoice response required.”
    â€œNo.” The sensors focus—to check if I’m lying! Why is his name so important?
    â€œDid you tell him your name?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWe are glad you have that much sense, Stewart. You should not be alone with strange men in deserted TransHubs. You will avoid this man in the future.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œYou will avoid this man.”
    â€œBecause he told the truth? Is that why?”
    â€œYou will—”
    I jump up. Slam my hands down on the desk. “Why did I forget about the tree house?!”
    The image freezes, then fractures into a thousand cubical elements. I stare through the suddenly faceted eyes to whatever sensor array is behind the screen.
    â€œYou’re a machine. You must answer!”
    â€œIt is essential to maintain trust.” The mouth doesn’t move. The voice becomes mechanical. “This is a critical time for you, Stewart. Perhaps we should review past events.”
    The overhead lights go out. The screen flickers. The pale blue sky from the opening scene of the NewsVid washes through the frozen hologram.
    â€œNo!” I back away, smack into the stool. “Don’t show that!”
    â€œThis has helped. It will help.” The cubes meld. The image regains structure and reclaims Mrs. Phillips’s voice. “Watch, please.”
    â€œI won’t!”
    The volume cranks. The splutter of static is like a cymbal crash next to my ears. Tower Control booms, “Contact lost with incoming.”
    I bolt for the door. Mash my thumb against the latch plate.
    Locked!
    â€œLet me out!” Kick it! Pound it!
    The NewsVid sound mutes.
    â€œStewart, please calm yourself.”
    â€œLet me out!”
    â€œStewart, return to the stool. Focus on the screen.”
    â€œNo!”
    â€œAlert! Alert!” The Counselor slips into its machine voice, blaring out the words. “Mrs. Phillips, report to session room immediately. Subject at serious risk of associative bifurcation.”
    â€œI’m not an experiment!”
    â€œYou must cooperate. Mrs. Phillips may not arrive quickly enough to prevent harm.”
    â€œHarm?! What’s the matter with me?”
    â€œEmergency conditions.” The NewsVid freezes on the image of the upside-down shuttle. The scene strobes, seizes my gaze. I can’t look away. “Stewart. Sit. Down. Now.”
    â€œ NO !”
    I grab the edge of the stool. Swipe it through the hologram. Spin around from not connecting with anything solid. Raising