Abruptly the marble slab felt cold against my back and the spell was broken. I sat up too suddenly, for a monitor voice said, reassuringly:
"Have no fear, young lady. You have awakened in the Matrix Center on Ganymede. There, you will recall, you at some time in the past commissioned us to make a vibration pattern of your total physical, mental and spiritual self.
"You did this," the recording continued, "against the possibility that, at some future time, accident or the unavoidable hazards of honor would result in your organically premature death. And this has come to pass. But, by means of your matrix, you have escaped dissolution. You are an exact duplicate of your former self in all but the most minor respects.
"Congratulations on your good fortune, and welcome to a new life where we trust you will find the greatest measure of personal fulfillment."
As the recording ended, an attendant entered the room.
"Hello, Vera." She was smiling and pleasant voiced. "Want to put on that white gown and come with me?"
I followed her in bare feet over carpeting soft as lamb wool, into an office that was really not much like an office—more like a cozily furnished living room. On the couch sat a balding man in a tweed suit.
Vague earlier memories gradually took shape. "Is this my placement interview?"
The man smiled. "Yes. You have a wonderful memory net in that brain of yours."
"Wasn't I supposed to remember?"