“I’m sorry, but your application is premature,” heaven’s doorkeeper, a Synod priest whose nose-hairs had long gone untended, pompously intoned. A recurring jostling annoyed Ishikawa; it was interfering with this interview, which was going south already.

He opened his eyes. He was in the control cabin of a large machine that, of its own volition, was making its way across broken ground toward the spaceport. A round hole had been bored in the glass of his helmet. He took it off and put it on the console next to the unbloodied arrow. “Hello,” said a female voice. “I am glad to see you are awake. I was afraid I didn’t do the right things.”

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Booker put ‘Mother’ on my library card. When I saw you attacked, I put you in my control cabin. It’s for directors who want to monitor my work. Please don’t touch anything; these controls override my internal controls.”

A screen showed a head that seemed to be speaking. It was a 3D model of a mature woman, once pretty, with a troubled look.