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hypothalamus mutely agreed, contributing eloquently wordless feelings of visceral dislike for this caller. Our guest might easily have interpolated from these environs what sort of host I am—the kind who prefers a little polite ritual before plunging into business. It would have cost him little to indulge me.

    Ah, rudeness is a privilege too many members of my generation relish. A symptom of the post-deification age, I suppose.

    "Can you be more specific?" I asked, pouring tea into porcelain cups.

    A light beam flashed as the shoji window screen picted a reminder straight to my left eye. It being Wednesday, a thunder shower was regularly scheduled for 3:14 P.M. , slanting over the city from the northwest.

    query: shall i close?

    I wink-countermanded, ordering the paper screen to stay open. Rain drops make lovely random patterns on the Koi pond. I also wanted to see how my visitor reacted to the breeze. The 3:14 squall features chill, swirling gusts that are always so chaotic, so charmingly varied. They serve to remind me that godhood has limitations.

    Chaos has only been tamed, not banished. Not everything in this world is predictable.

    "I am referring to certain adversarial groups," the client said, answering my question, yet remaining obscure. "Factions that are inimical to the lawfully coalesced consensus."

    "Mm. Consensus." A lovely, misleading word. "Consensus concerning what?"

    "Concerning the nature of reality."

    I nodded. "Of course."

    Both seer and cortex had already foreseen that the visitor had this subject in mind. These days, in the vast peaceful realm of Heaven-on-Earth, only a few issues can drive citizens to passion and acrimony. "Reality" is foremost among them.

    I proffered a hand-wrought basin filled with brown granules.

    "Sugar?"

    "No thank you. I will add milk, however."

    I began reaching for the pitcher, but stopped when my guest drew a fabrico cube from a vest pocket and held it over his cup. The cube exchanged picts with his left eye, briefly limning the blue-circled pupil, learning his wishes. A soft white spray fell into his tea.

    " Milk" is a euphemism , pondered cortex .

    House sent a chemical appraisal of the spray, but I closed my left lid against the datablip, politely refusing interest in whatever petty habit or addiction made this creature behave boorishly in my home. I raised my own cup, savoring the bitter-sweetness of gencrafted leptospermum , before resuming our conversation.

    "I assume you are referring to the pro-reifers?"

    As relayed by the news-spectra, public demonstrations and acts of conscience-provocation had intensified lately, catching the interest of my extrapolation nodes. Both seer and oracle had concluded that event-perturbation ripples would soon affect Heaven's equilibrium. My client's concern was unsurprising.

    He frowned.

    "Pro-reif is an unfortunate slang term. The front organization calls itself Friends of the Unreal ."

    For the first time, he made personal eye-contact, offering direct picting. House and prudence gave permission, so I accepted input—a flurry of infodense images sent directly between our hybrid retinas. News reports, public statements and private innuendoes. Faces talking at sixty-times speed. Event-ripple extrapolation charts showing a social trend aimed toward confrontation and crisis.

    Of course most of the data went directly to seer , the external portion of my brain best suited to handle such a wealth of detail. Gray matter doesn't think or evaluate as well as crystal. Still, there are other tasks for antique cortex. Impressions poured through the old brain, as well as the new.

    "Your opponents are passionate," I commented, not without admiration for the people shown in the recordings—believers in a cause, vigorously engaged in a struggle for what they thought to be just. Their righteous ardor set them apart from billions of their fellow citizens, whose worst problem is the modern pandemic of omniscient ennui.

    My guest