Jake wasn’t kidding. He had hosted entire conferences about this sort of thing. Caused books to be published about it. Talked leading scientists into discussing it in public with theologians.

“Fascinating,” El said. He was pretty clearly not fascinated. “Maybe the rest of you can continue that discussion after I’ve signed off. Fly to a retreat center in the mountains, invite some archbishops and some hackers, serve wine, impress one another with your big ideas. I don’t give a shit. I’m just about out of time. I have supported this more generously than any of you can possibly appreciate. From the very beginning I was dumping money into it. I’ve wasted more than anyone else has spent. But I accepted the waste—the fact that I didn’t know which twenty percent of it was actually getting us somewhere—because I knew that I was mortal, and I didn’t just want to go out like a sucker. Like everyone else who has ever died, or will die. I’ve been hands-off to a degree that isn’t appreciated. I’ve let the beneficiaries of my generosity experiment with ideas that in many cases were frankly unsound. Fine. But these results are troubling to me. Now we have what for me is the last straw: one of these processes—Verna—is spawning new processes.”

“It’s a Sorcerer’s Apprentice problem,” Corvallis said, nodding.

“If Verna can do it, others can learn to do likewise, and then the demand for resources goes exponential, the whole thing blows up and runs out of money. When I kick the bucket, I can’t even boot up my own process because all of the computers in the world are busy running what Zula likened to fruit flies. So I think it is time for me to take a more active role. A more directive role.”

“How would you like to direct it?” Zula asked.