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a tree , for heaven's sake.
    The old world was up and running, with a few improvements. The foundation had bought their own computer—an old one, so it wasn't too expensive—that would run the environment full time. Some other children might be scanned, to give Jamie some playmates and peer socialization.
    This time it would work, Daddy thought. Because this time, Daddy was a program too, and he was going to be here every minute, making sure that the environment was correct and that everything went exactly according to plan. That he and Jamie and everyone else had a normal family life, perfect and shining and safe.
    And if the clone program ever worked out, they would come into the real world again. And if downloading into clones was never perfected, then they would stay here.
    There was nothing wrong with the virtual environment. It was a good place.
    Just like normal family life. Only forever.
    And when this worked out, the foundation's backers—fine people, even if they did have some strange religious ideas—would have their own environments up and running. With churches, angels, and perhaps even the presence of God . . .
    "Look!" Daddy said, pointing. "It's Mister Jeepers!"
    Mister Jeepers flew off the rooftop and spun happy spirals in the air as he swooped toward Jamie. Jamie dropped Daddy's hand and ran laughing to greet his friend.
    "Jamie's home!" Mister Jeepers cried. "Jamie's home at last!"
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Afterword: Daddy's World
The story was originally called "The World and the Tree," but the publisher thought the title was insufficiently direct.

The story was solicited by Constance Ash, a friend for many years, for her anthology Not of Woman Born, dedicated to exploring the future of reproductive technologies.

I've always been skeptical of the claims of those who promote "uploading," the notion that the human consciousness will be much better off once it's reduced to digits and placed in a virtual environment where reality is more plastic and subject to experiment than on our own terraqueous globe. Such locations strike me as fine places for a vacation, but dreadful as a permanent residence. Ultimately we all inhabit physical reality—even virtual people, insofar as they would consist of a string of zeroes and ones stuck somewhere in a box—and physical reality provides the ultimate check on our tendency to megalomania. Ids in a box—how much fun would that be?

Living in virtual would be even less fun for a minor or dependent child. (This is a theme I returned to later, in "Incarnation Day.") A child would not be able to choose his environment, would theoretically be under adult supervision throughout his entire existence, would have to live with whatever system of punishments and rewards are established by adult authority, and would have no physical escape whatever. The child in effect would be living the parent's fantasy of childhood, rather than his own.

Of these conditions are nightmares born.

The Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America were kind enough to vote this story a Nebula Award.
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Lethe
    Davout had himself disassembled for the return journey. He had already been torn in half, he felt: the remainder, the dumb beast still alive, did not matter. The Captain had ruled, and Katrin would not be brought back. Davout did not want to spend the years between the stars in pain, confronting the gaping absence in his quarters, surrounded by the quiet sympathy of the crew.
    Besides, he was no longer needed. The terraforming team had done its work, and then, but for Davout, had died.
    Davout lay down on a bed of nano and let the little machines take him apart piece by piece, turn his body, his mind, and his unquenchable longing into long strings of numbers. The nanomachines crawled into his brain first, mapping, recording, and then shut down his mind piece by piece, so that he would feel no discomfort during what followed, or suffer a memory of his own body being