Two days later, Randall rode in his Bentley to meet with the man who, after long negotiations, had agreed to help him.

Chris Samson, his contact with the criminal underworld, and Andrew Hughes, his chief trustee, rode with him. The two hirelings sat in the front, rear facing seats while their employer sat in the back facing them. Between them, three whiskey glasses and a half full bottle stood on the faux mahogany table, held securely in place by the table's sticktion field. Two more bottles waited in the narrow cabinet in the door beside Randall. The side and rear windows were tinted, while the front window displayed scenic images of a narrow Italian road winding its way into the Alps.

A fourth passenger, somehow brought forward in time from the era before head phones, might have thought that the three men were riding in silence, but Randall and Hughes were listening to the business news, fed directly into the primary auditory cortex of their brains so that it seemed to them as though the news reader was sitting just out of sight beside them. Samson, in contrast, was listening to some Plutonium music and was tapping his feet in time to the strident rhythm.

"What do you know of this man?" Randall said at last.

"A criminal, obviously," Samson replied, thinking the mental command to turn down the music, "but an honest one. He has a reputation for being good to his word. Never breaks a deal. Even the cops respect him. He once spent three years in jail rather than give up a client. I think we can trust him."

"What guarantees can we have in place if it turns out we can't trust him?"

"He has people he cares about. A wife, a daughter. Parents. He tries to keep them hidden but we know where they are. We only have to drop a hint. Have someone pay them a visit, tell them that George Randall pays his respects. That sort of thing."

"You know I deplore such crude methods. I'd prefer something more subtle, if possible."

"Such methods may be crude," put in Samson, "but they're effective. Tried and tested down through history."

"Obviously more subtle methods are available," Hughes added. "Financial. Attacks to his reputation. Whatever we do to him has to leave the hibernaculum operational, though. And hidden. And it's worth remembering that there are powerful and dangerous people already using his establishment. We really don't need more enemies."

"You have people already on his staff," Samson said to Hughes. "They'll be able to keep a discrete eye on him, and on Mister Randall. Make sure he's being well looked after."

"I was thinking it might be simpler to just buy the whole establishment," said Randall. "Staff it with my own people. People I can trust. There are ways to keep it from showing on the balance sheet."

"Someone sold you out just a little while ago," Hughes reminded him. "How many people knew where you were sleeping? Not many, and all people you trusted."

Samson nodded his agreement, "Probably best you leave the place the way it is," he said. "All those criminals and terrorists already using the place won't be happy with a change of ownership. You could make some powerful and dangerous people very nervous."

"I am also powerful and dangerous," Randall reminded him. "Maybe the world needs to be reminded of that. I go into hibernation and the whole world thinks I'm dead, that they no longer need to fear me. A gesture is needed, maybe. Something to show the whole world that I'm still here, still dangerous. A hostile takeover of Harper's hibernaculum would do that."

"The place is neutral ground for half a dozen of the world's most illegal outfits." Samson reminded him. "Terrorist organisations, criminal empires. They all like the idea of a place not owned by one of their rivals. You'd be pissing them all off. Don't you have enough enemies already?"

"And they all have a vested interest in keeping the place hidden." agreed Hughes.

"While the authorities have a massive incentive to find the place," said Randall. "Both Atlantic and Pacific authorities."

"That will still be the case if you buy the place," pointed out Hughes, "unless you're planning to wake up all the current residents and turn them over to the cops."

Randall allowed himself a rare smile at the thought, but then he nodded. "Maybe you're right," he said. "Leave the place the way it is. The balance of power is probably what'll best keep me safe."

"Speaking of balance of power..." said Hughes. It was noon and the business news had given way to the general news headlines. The newscaster was talking about escalating tensions in Indonesia. "Be funny if, after all this, it all goes nuclear and we all go up in one big mushroom cloud."

"The Pacific Alliance will back down," Randall said confidently. "All my analysts say so. They'll be forced to sell all their Australian holdings and I'll be able to buy them up at rock bottom prices."

"They're sounding quite bullish at the moment," said Hughes. "They think it's the Atlantic Commonwealth that'll back down."

"Never," said Randall confidently. "Not while I own so many Ministers and Congressmen. The shareholders won't let them, not with the promise of so much money to be made. The Pacific Alliance will blink before we do. When I go back to sleep, you have your instructions. You know what to do."

"The Chinese aren't good at losing face," Hughes replied. "The Australians are just stubborn on general principles, and California..."

"They'll back down," repeated Randall. "California is still friendly with the rest of North America. They'll make the other alliance members back down."

"California stands to lose a ton of money if things go the way you want," said Hughes. "Friendship only goes so far."

"The mainframe says they'll back down and I trust it."

"The mainframe isn't CRES equipped. It's just a machine. I was talking with a friend in Thor Consolidated. Their machine was upgraded with CRES a while back and it's making different predictions."

"Our machine is ten times the size, ten times as powerful."

"But just a machine. Thor's computer is a person. They say it has insights that are beyond the abilities of any mere machine."

"The girl who cleans my toilet is a person, but I wouldn't ask her advice on how to run a global enterprise."

"You seem to be in the minority with that opinion. Our mainframe is the largest, most powerful computer in the world that hasn't been upgraded yet..."

"I will not have my analyses corrupted with emotional detritus. I trust cold logic." He sighed. "I should have eliminated CRES architecture when I bought out that stupid little company. Erased it from existence. Central Recursive Emergent Sapience. Even the name sounds stupid! I thought other people would make the same breakthrough, that I had a brief window of opportunity to make a bit of money before other computer engineers came up with their own versions of computer consciousness."

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"You couldn't have known," said Hughes. "That there's one, and only one way to create computer consciousness."

"Only one way they've found so far, anyway," put in Samson.

"I think it's safe to say now that there's only one," the trustee replied. "They've been looking for another way for twenty years, and they're saying now that CRES mimics the way our own brains are wired."

"One breakthrough," muttered Randall. "And I had it. I could have expunged it from the world."

"Someone else would have found it. Even if there is only one way, someone else would have found that one way sooner or later."

"But I'd own the copyright! I could have forbidden anyone else from using it."

"To own the copyright on consciousness itself!" mused Samson, staring off into infinity. "That would be like being God Himself!"

"It's probably only a matter of time before He sues us for copyright infringement," said Hughes with a smile.

Randall was getting increasingly irritated with the turn the conversation was taking, though, and he turned to look out the window, thinking the command to the car to make it more transparent. The grimy landscape of the west Essex countryside came into view, a dirty yellow haze hanging over the low hills of maize and soya. A fleet of huge, yellow harvesters was making its way across one of the thousand hectare fields, he saw, leaving ploughed ground behind them in which the same machine was already sowing the next crop.

Out with the old, thought Randall, nodding his head with admiration. In with the new. A fallow field was a field not making money. In the modern United Kingdom, every inch of land had to earn its keep. It was the only way the small island could keep up with the economic titans of the world.

As always, the eight lanes of the M11 motorway were packed with traffic, but with every vehicle under the control of a centralised traffic control network every vehicle sped along as though it was alone on the road. All electric powered, all virtually silent. A person standing just a few metres away with his back turned might not have known the motorway was there except for the rattle of freight being carried on some of the two lane cargo behemoths. The power to recharge the vehicles came from solar and nuclear generators scattered around the world. Virtually non polluting, but there were other industries that continued to release harmful substances into the environment, even today as more and more of it was being moved up to the moon and the VIX satellite.

The thought of the VIX satellite made him turn away from the window is disgust. His attempt to buy the satellite had failed, and now it was making an indecent amount of money for one of his biggest rivals. But they've put CRES on the computer that runs it, he thought in satisfaction, and CRES is mine. What no-one suspects, not even the people who created machine consciousness, is that I have administrator access to the CRES base code.. I can shut down any machne running the code, erase it from the memory crystals themselves. if Orbital Dynamics ever becomes too much of a threat, I can deprive them of their greatest asset.

That cheered him up again and he turned off the business news feed, replacing it with some classical music. Soon after, the first of the massive housing complexes of Greater London came into view and Randall settled back in his seat. He thought he might have time for a quick nap before they arrived at Harper's office.

☆☆☆

Thomas Harper was a small man with a weak handshake, but Randall knew better than to judge the man by that alone. Harper had made a career out of avoiding notice, of keeping below everyone's radar, and the weak handshake was just the first of many small personal habits that served as his camouflage. That and the cheap clothes he wore and the small moustache that made him look like a car park attendant. Anyone meeting him would think that he was of no account. They would probably forget that he even existed the moment they had parted company.

"Good morning, Mister Randall," he said, leading the way back into his office. "I admit I had wondered whether I would have the honour of hosting you while waiting for the advance of medical science."

"Indeed?" said Randall, suddenly suspicious. Could this mousy little man somehow have learned the location of his private hibernaculum and leaked it to his enemies, as a way of drumming up business? Randall would be paying the man a considerable fortune, after all. A large enough sum that the interest it would earn, invested with his brokers, would pay for his hibernation for as many decades as would be needed. Randall was in the habit of thinking suspicious thoughts. It had saved him money on many occasions and saved his life a couple of times as well. In this case, though, his instincts told him no. This man was making far too much money honestly for him to risk his reputation in such a reckless way. And his people had already checked him out quite thoroughly. Randall relaxed, therefore, although he remained alert for any other suspicious words or behaviour.

There was a desk in Harper's office, but the man made no move towards it. Instead he went to a drinks cabinet that had two chairs and a coffee table besides it. He poured a shot of whiskey, offered it to Randall, who took it, then poured another for himself. He then gestured to the chairs.

"The sum your people have offered me is quite acceptable," he said when the two men were sitting. "I can tell you now that I am perfectly willing to accommodate you, for as long as necessary."

"Good," replied Randall. He took one sip of the amber liquid, then put the glass on the table. His ailing body could no longer tolerate too much liquor and he'd already had a glass on the way. He began to regret having had even that much as he felt sweat breaking out on his forehead. There was also a slight tremble in his limbs that he hid by crossing his arms.

"We use only the finest equipment, of course," Harper continued. "The same model as used by the Atlantic space agency. The six jupiter astronauts are even now slumbering in hypersleep cubicles identical to the one you will be using."

"Good to know."

"It gives them some advantages that we really hope you won't be needing. An independent power supply, for instance. Each cubicle has its own radio-isotope thermo-electric generator capable of generating twenty kilowatts for a thousand years. They have their own recycling systems. No need for any external air, water or nutrients. They are shielded against ionising radiation such as you get in space. You could take one of my cubicles and put in on the surface of the moon, right in the sun's glare, and the occupant would come to no harm, even if you left him there for a hundred years."

"Very impressive."

"Indeed! Each cubicle is overdesigned and over engineered to an extent that staggers the imagination. The space agency was really determined that the astronauts reached their destination alive. Understandable, I suppose, after the Galileo disaster."

"May I ask how you obtained a number of these stirling devices? I would imagine that Sandman Industries can account for every one of the machines they make."

"They think they do, but I have people working in their assembly plant who spent a whole week manufacturing cubicles when the owners thought they were shut down for maintenance. For which they were all well compensated, of course."

"And you can trust their silence? Trust them not to spend their new found wealth in an extravagant and noticeable way?"

"Their compensation is in the form of the occasional lucky win at one of the casinos I own, but their luck only lasts so long as their mouths remain shut."

Randall nodded. It was very similar to his own way of paying off agents in other people's companies. "And none of your computer systems is CRES equipped?" he asked.

"None of them, I assure you. Your man made sure I was quite aware of your requirements. I have my own reasons for not trusting conscious machines. I wouldn't want one of them growing a conscience and telling the authorities about me."

"That would indeed be unfortunate," agreed Randall. "Very well. If you're happy to proceed, then I am as well. How soon can you put me under?"

"As soon as you like. I have a machine here, in the basement of this very building. We can have you interred, if you'll forgive the word, this very day, if that's convenient for you. The cabinet will then be transported to our main facility the location of which, I'm afraid, must remain secret even to you. Then, when the medical breakthrough occurs that allows your condition to be cured, you will be brought back here to be woken up."

Randall nodded, while thinking that he would make sure his people knew exactly where he was being kept, so they could rescue him if necessary. He had no intention of leaving himself so completely at this man's mercy. He suspected that the man's other clients had done the same thing, and wondered whether this man was really so naive as to believe that his secret hibernaculum was still secret. Not that it mattered to Randall. It didn't matter if Randall's enemies knew exactly where Harper's hibernaculum was if they thought that Randall was safely interred in his own private hibernaculum.

"I need a couple of hours to make some final arrangements," said Randall, therefore. "I need to arrange for a proxy who will pretend to be me until my own hibernaculum is ready. The proxy will remain in seclusion for the next two years, of course, because of his, my, declining health."

"Of course,"

"But as soon as that is done, I think I will take you up on your offer. There's no point in letting this body deteriorate any more than it has to."

"Very wise," said Harper. He picked up his glass. "To the advance of medical science,"

Randall reluctantly picked up his own glass. "To our mutual good health," he said.

They both took sips from their glasses, and then Randall turned on his head phone to talk to his people.