To Zen, who nowadays seemed to have, and indeed to be, nothing but feelings, this was in itself supremely enviable. Whether physical (throbs, tingles, twinges) or mental (despondency, dizziness, dread), feelings had so intensely taken over his consciousness as to banish even the memory of other perspectives. He had once been someone else. That much seemed probable, although it could not of course be verified. The fact that he no longer was that person, on the other hand, was irrefutable. All the personal qualities, opinions, skills, ideas, habits, likes and dislikes, together with similar data subsumed by the words ‘I’ and ‘me’-in short, everything about Zen, except for his feelings-had apparently been transferred as though by electronic download to the Doppelganger currently visible beyond the darkened carriage window. As for the discarded husk and its prospects for the future, the less said the better.

It had to be admitted that the specialist whom Zen had gone to Rome to consult had viewed matters rather differently.

‘A good recovery,’ had been his verdict after inspecting the X-rays, inserting a monocular catheter like some giant tropical worm down Zen’s oesophagus, and vigorously kneading the flesh around the surgical wound as if intending to barbecue it later.

‘But I feel terrible,’ Zen had murmured in response.

‘Are you in pain?’

‘It’s not so bad now. But I feel totally exhausted all the time. The slightest effort, and I have to lie down for half an hour to recover. Walking up a flight of stairs leaves me breathless and dizzy. Even talking drains me.’

His voice dispersed like smoke.

‘That’s to be expected,’ the consultant replied with heartless nonchalance. ‘Your system is still healing. That leaves it less disposable energy for other tasks.’

‘I know, but there’s more to it than that. I just don’t feel myself any more. I don’t feel like me. And perhaps I’m not.’