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years later. A
clone
could wake up and learn that, but not her. Human consciousness is linear, and her mind was stuck in the body she lived in, for all time. What memory recording did was to make it possible for a second personality, exactly like her own, to be implanted into a second body, also exactly like her own. But Lilo could never participate in the life that clone would lead, though it had her memories to the time of the recording.
    She tried to relax as Mari plugged her in. She felt herself go limp and numb all over as Mari turned the dials on her black bag. From then on, it was impossible to see what the medico was doing, but she knew the process well enough. The top of her head was opened—she could see the blood on Mari’s hands as they came into her range of vision.
    There were tiny metal channels implanted in Lilo’s brain, put there when she was three years old. They enabled her to interface with a computer, and also served as conduits for the recording medium: single-molecule chains of ferro-photo-nucleic acid. Mari strapped a recording band around Lilo’s forehead. In operation, the recorder would render Lilo unconscious for three minutes.
    It was simple enough in operation, impossibly complex in theory. Lilo often wondered if the human race would ever have perfected it without the information from the Ophiuchi Hotline.
    Memory is a holographic process. A memory is storednot in one place, but all over the brain. It cannot be recorded or deciphered by any linear process, such as magnetic tape running past a playback head. It must be grasped all at once, whole, like a snapshot or a hologram. The FPNA made that possible. Each strand, containing billions of bits, was interfered with by every other strand when the process took place. Unlike a visual hologram, where each segment of the photographic plate contains all the information of the whole picture, one strand of FPNA was useless by itself. Only in combination with the sheaf of other strands—forty-six in all—could the picture have meaning. The recording band would cause magnetic fields to be set up all through the brain, producing a code of nearly infinite permutations.
    Lilo had never worried about whether the process was actually capable of holding everything. She was not too impressed with notions of a soul, a
karass
, a
karma
, or an
atman.
She knew people who had died and been brought back to life by memory recording and cloning, and there was no way to tell the difference.
    Mari flicked the switch, and the last thing Lilo recalled was her smiling face.
    The face was still there when she woke up, still smiling. Lilo smiled back, glad that it was over. She started to get up.
    “Hold on, not so fast,” Mari said, lightly. “I have to unhook you first, and close you up.”
    Something was different. She looked again, and realized it was the background. Something
behind
Mari’s face had changed.
    It was the leaves on the trees. They had been green, and now they were a riot of red and gold and purple.
    “O God, no. No, I…I don’t like this. I don’t want—”
    Mari touched her forehead lightly. “I don’t want to have to turn you off.”
    Lilo sagged. Gradually she became aware of a circle of faces at the edge of her vision, between Mari and thecanopy of trees, looking down at her. There was Tweed, and Vaffa, and…the other Vaffa. Male and female, looking down at her.
    Mari finished her work. “Let me give you a hand up,” she said. “You’re going to need it.” Lilo let herself be pulled into a sitting position, then helped to her feet. She stood, dizzy for a moment but rapidly regaining her balance. She let herself feel, not daring to think: the grass under her feet, hair brushing her face, the cool skin and underlying warmth of Mari’s naked back under her arm, the play of muscles in her legs and feet. Mari put her arm around Lilo’s waist and walked her in a circle, like a drunk.
    “You’ll get your legs back in no time,” she