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feel her up. He was pissed off that Caitlin preferred bookish Matt to Trevor the jock.
    “It’ll be fine,” Caitlin said, touching his arm. “One of my parents will give you a lift home.”
    “No, that’s okay.”
    “Don’t worry about it. They’ll be happy to do it.”
    He smiled. “Thanks.”
    She squeezed his arm again. “Come on,” she said, leading him back into the living room.
    Just as they rejoined her parents, Webmind spoke up. “I have an answer from the president,” he said. “He will accept a voice call from me at ten o’clock this evening.”

TWITTER
     
    _Webmind_  Re Wikipedia “citation needed” flags: I’ve added links if the purported facts could indeed be verified online. 2,134,993 edits made.
     
     
    Originally, when I conversed only with Caitlin, I was underoccupied ; it took Caitlin whole seconds—or even, on occasion, minutes—to compose her replies. But I had quickly gone from conversing with just her to having nearly simultaneous conversations with millions of people, switching rapidly between them all, never keeping my interlocutors waiting for spans that were noticeable to them.
    Except for WateryFowl. Properly responding to his message about his wife’s illness was taking time even though I did know everything there was to know about cancer—including, of course, that it wasn’t just one disease. I had already read all documents stored online, the contents of every medical journal, every electronic patient record, every email doctors had sent to each other, and so on.
    But knowing, I realized, was not the same as understanding. I knew that a Dr. Margaret Ann Adair in Cork, Ireland, had recently done some interesting work with interleukin-2 and rats; I knew that a Dr. Anne Ptasznik of Battle Creek, Michigan, had recently critiqued an older paper about environmental factors and breast cancer; I knew that a Dr. Felix Lim of Singapore had recently made an interesting correlation between stuttering repeats in mitochondrial DNA and the formation of pre-cancerous ovarian cysts.
    But I had not considered these discoveries, or tens of thousands of others; I had not synthesized them, I had not seen how one adds to another, a third contradicts a fourth, a fifth confirms a sixth, and—
    And so I did think about it. I thought about what humans actually knew about cancer (as opposed to thinking they knew but had never confirmed). I drew correlations, I made connections, I saw corollaries.
    And there it was.
    I paused in all my conversations, all over the world: I simply stopped replying, so that I could concentrate on this, and only this, uninterrupted, for six full minutes. Yes, people would be inconvenienced by my having suddenly fallen silent; yes, some would take that as proof that I wasn’t in fact what I claimed to be but rather was indeed a prank being perpetrated by a human being. No matter; amends for the former could be made later, and this would serve nicely as further proof that I was who I said I was.
    I thought about how best to proceed. I could contact leading oncologists individually or collectively, but no matter who I chose, there would be complaints of favoritism. And I certainly didn’t want anyone who was beholden to a pharmaceutical firm to try to file patents based on what I was about to disclose.
    Or I could send another mass email—but I’d endeared myself to much of humanity by eliminating spam; it wouldn’t do for me to become an ongoing source of bulk mail.
    I had already established a domain name for myself, so that I could have an appropriate email address from which to send my coming-out announcement: cogito_ergo_sum.net . I now established a website. I was not artistically creative in this, or any other matter, but it was easy to look at the source code for any Web page, and so I found one that seemed to have a suitable design and simply copied its layout while filling in my own content.
    I then prepared a 743,000-word document outlining what