oira began, "That's a silly—" and stopped. "Define consciousness," she said doubtfully.
"All right, what I really mean—why am I wearing this necktie?" He ripped it off and threw it over a lampshade. "What I mean—"
"Are you sure you're really conscious?"
"Okay. You make joke, I laugh, ha-ha. What I'm trying to ask is, have you seen any evidence of creative thought, organized thought, or is he just—integrating, along the lines of—of instinctive responses? Do you—"
"I know what you mean. Shut up a minute.... I don't know."
"I mean is he awake, or asleep and dreaming about us, like the Red King?"
"I don't know!"
"And if that's it, what'll happen when he wakes up?"