He finally reached the emergencies menu -- which included a cheerful icon of a cartoon figure suspended from a parachute. Baling out was what everyone called it -- but he didn't find that too cloyingly euphemistic; after all, he could hardly commit "suicide" when he wasn't legally human. The fact that a bale-out option was compulsory had nothing to do with anything so troublesome as the "rights" of the Copy; the requirement arose solely from the ratification of certain, purely technical, international software standards.

Paul prodded the icon; it came to life, and recited a warning spiel. He scarcely paid attention. Then it said, "Are you absolutely sure that you wish to shut down this Copy of Paul Durham?"

Nothing to it. Program A asks Program B to confirm its request for orderly termination. Packets of data are exchanged.

"Yes, I'm sure."

A metal box, painted red, appeared at his feet. He opened it, took out the parachute, strapped it on.

Then he closed his eyes and said, "Listen to me. Just listen! How many times do you need to be told? I'll skip the personal angst; you've heard it all before -- and ignored it all before. It doesn't matter how I feel. But . . . when are you going to stop wasting your time, your money, your energy -- when are you going to stop wasting your life -- on something which you just don't have the strength to carry through?"

Paul hesitated, trying to put himself in the place of his original, hearing those words -- and almost wept with frustration. He still didn't know what he could say that would make a difference. He'd shrugged off the testimony of all the earlier Copies himself; he'd never been able to accept their claims to know his own mind better than he did. Just because they'd lost their nerve and chosen to bale out, who were they to proclaim that he'd never give rise to a Copy who'd choose otherwise? All he had to do was strengthen his resolve, and try again . . .