“For the sake of argument, sure. Being destroyed and recreated is different from not being destroyed at all, right?”
“Brush up on your quantum mechanics, pal. You’re being destroyed and recreated a trillion times a second.”
“On a very, very small level—”
“What difference does that make?”
“Fine, I’ll concede that. But you’re not really an atom-for-atom copy. You’re a clone, with a copied brain—that’s not the same as quantum destruction.”
“Very nice thing to say to someone who’s just been murdered, pal. You got a problem with clones?”
And we were off and running.
The Mansion’s cast were sickeningly cheerful and solicitous. Each of them made a point of coming around and touching the stiff, starched shoulder of my butler’s costume, letting me know that if there was anything they could do for me. … gave them all a fixed smile and tried to concentrate on the guests, how they waited, when they arrived, how they dispersed through the exit gate. Dan hovered nearby, occasionally taking the eight minute, twenty-two second ride-through, running interference for me with the other castmembers.
He was nearby when my break came up. I changed into civvies and we walked over the cobbled streets, past the Hall of the Presidents, noting as I rounded the corner that there was something different about the queue-area. Dan groaned. “They did it already,” he said.