"As you certainly know, I'm not taking notes because my handwriter is broken.  I haven't had it repaired because the only guy who still works on them is so swamped that he said he might get around to mine this coming August.  Unless he leaves the business to start a career in buggy-whip repair."

"There actually is a woman who does that," the CC said.  "In Pennsylvania."

"No kidding?  Nice to see such a vital skill won't vanish completely."

"We try to foster any skill, no matter how impractical or useless."

"I'm sure our grandchildren will thank us for it."

"What are you using to write your stories?"

"Two methods, actually.  You get this soft clay brick, see, and you use a pointed stick to impress little triangles in it in different combinations.  Then you put it on the oven to bake, and in four or five hours there you are.  The original hard copy.  I've been trying to think of a name for the process."

"How about cuneiform?"

"You mean it's been done?  Oh, well.  When I get tired of that, I get out the old hammer and chisel and engrave my deathless prose on rocks.  It saves me carrying those ridiculous paper sheets into Walter's office; I just lob them across the newsroom and through his window."

"I don't suppose you'd consider Direct Interface again."

Was that what this was all about?

"Tried it," I said.  "Didn't like it."

"That was over thirty years ago," the CC pointed out.  "There have been some advances since then."

"Look," I said, feeling irritable and impatient.  "You've got something on your mind.  I wish you'd just come out with it instead of weaseling around like this."

It said nothing for a moment.  That moment stretched into a while, and threatened to become a spell.

"You want me to direct interface for some reason," I suggested.

"I think it might be helpful."

"For you or me?"

"Both of us, possibly.  There can be a certain therapeutic value in what I intend to show you."

"You think I need that?"

"Judge for yourself.  How happy have you been lately?"

"Not very."

"You could try this, then.  It can't hurt, and it might help."

So what was I doing at the moment so important that I couldn't take a few minutes off to chin with the CC?

"All right," I said.  "I'll interface with you, though I think you really ought to buy me dinner and some flowers first."

"I'll be gentle," the CC promised.

"What do I have to do?  You need to plug me in somewhere?"

"Not for years now.  I can use my regular connections into your brain.  All you need to do is relax a little.  Stare into the oscilloscope screen; that could be helpful."