When we undressed and fell onto the bed together, and my vision lurched, I thought it was just a side-effect of passion. When my arms went numb, though, I realized what was happening.

I’d pushed myself too far with the melatonin blockers, depleting neurotransmitter reserves in the region of the hypothalamus where alertness was controlled. I’d borrowed too much time, and the plateau was crumbling.

Stricken, I said, “I don’t believe this. I’m sorry.”

“About what?” I still had an erection.

I forced myself to concentrate; I reached over and hit a button on the pharm. “Give me half an hour.”

“No. Safety limits—”

“Fifteen minutes,” I pleaded. “This is an emergency.”

The pharm hesitated, consulting the security system. “There is no emergency. You’re safe in bed, and the house is under no threat.”

“You’re gone. You’re recycled.”

Gina seemed more amused than disappointed. “See what happens when you transgress natural limits? I hope you’re recording this for Junk DNA .” Mockery only made her a thousand times more desirable – but I was already lapsing into microsleeps. I said dolefully, “Forgive me? Maybe … tomorrow, we could—”

“I don’t think so. Tomorrow you’ll be working till 1 a.m. And I’m not waiting up.” She took me by the shoulders and rolled me on to my back, then knelt astride my stomach.

I made sounds of protest. She bent over and kissed me on the mouth, tenderly. “Come on. You don’t really want to waste this rare opportunity, do you?” She reached down and stroked my cock; I could feel it respond to her touch, but it barely seemed to be a part of me anymore.

I murmured, “Ravisher. Necrophiliac.” I wanted to make a long earnest speech about sex and communication, but Gina seemed intent on disproving my whole thesis before I could even begin. “Talk about Bad Timing .”

She said, “Is that a yes or a no?”

I gave up trying to open my eyes. “Go ahead.”

Something vaguely pleasant began to happen, but my senses were retreating, my body was spinning off into the void.

I heard a voice, light-years away, whisper something about “sweet dreams.”

But I plunged into blackness, feeling nothing. And I dreamed of silent oceanic depths.

Of falling through dark water, alone.

Chapter 6

I’d heard that London had suffered badly from the coming of the networks, but was less of a ghost town than Sydney. The Ruins were more extensive, but they were being exploited far more diligently; even the last glass-and-aluminum towers built for bankers and stockbrokers at the turn of the millennium, and the last of the “high tech” printing presses which had “revolutionized” newspaper publishing (before becoming completely obsolete), had been labeled “historic” and taken under the wing of the tourism industry.