The thought came to him, weakly, through distance that was more than mere distance, through barriers of space and realms of time. It came to him weakly, and it began to fade.
"Everything that was, that is, or will be, we are conscious of here in this higher stage of reality. All must come through, and there is never again contact with the lower stage, the third dimension of perception. The matrix is universal, eternal, and it is set and unchanging."
Stevens' mind screamed. "But I'm returning—help me, I don't want to go back. I want to stay, to stay—"
"You are John Stevens—" the voice, the thought, drifted to him from what seemed infinite spaces.
"Yes, yes—"
"There is a distortion, you do not understand. Someday you will. You are premature. The pattern is rigid, and everything has its set moment of alteration. This distortion, I cannot explain. We are not perfect here. There is yet a higher reality, and a higher one still, and the stages are infinite. But you will be back, John Stevens. Soon. Very soon."
"When—when?"
A column of sound arose and shattered in glittering spray. "The matrix has the answer. John Stevens—no this is not your time. You call it a week. Seven days. Such terms are meaningless here. To us, it is happening now. We can see it happening. We can see you coming through the barrier—to stay—to learn—to live as we live—"
"When?" he screamed at the fading thought.
"Soon. A week. Seven days. It is here. The Matrix has the answer...."