(the following was found on a computer disk locked in a metal cabinet among the ruins of Daisuke Ido's repair shop. It is not evident for how long it had been there, or if it had been delivered to its intended recipient)

To My Beloved Daughter,

	I write to you at night, a night different from many others: I am not tired from my work, and you are not eager for the hunt. In the lives of all, I suppose, work must chaotically ebb and flow. So I have taken this time to write a story for you which I might otherwise never pass along. Like yours, it is a story of angels, of light and dark, of corrosion and purification.
	I saw you just now, asleep in your room, a fetus of black and gray and tan in the womb of your white pillows. Sometimes I envy you, to be without memories. What it would be like to be a palimpsest! to begin again, without cancers of memory to weaken your drive, tempt you to regret, renew your sorrow. And yet, these dark thoughts are needed; for the succor from these is wisdom. The blackness is powerful, inescapable, terrible, but it can be used for good, this I know.
	Enough! I shall now tell you my tale, and may the Muses guide my hands.

	Let us begin with a dawn. The sun was scrambling over the horizon on a summer's day many years ago when I first "set up shop". Less than one month after my graduation from the Celephais University on the CM. D. [1] program, and I was already in the working world. I had found space to set up a clinic; I had found a few secondhand pieces of equipment that would more than suffice to get me started; and I had found a bank willing to make a loan to a young man with no credentials other than a magna cum laude.
	"Daisuke Ido, Cyberphysician--General Practitioner" I read the sign over the door. My friends had thought it the most daft thing in the world--a man of my standing in society, and possible the most talented graduate of CU, not specializing? Doubtless I would encounter many cases of minor adjustments and replacing parts, and while unglamorous these chores would pay the bills. But it was not for the money that I had chosen this field--if I wanted to, I could call on favors from everyone from the school's Dean to the janitor in my old dormitory and become wealthy through their remunerations. No, I preferred to help my fellow citizens in quantity, to make myself and my talents useful to the community. I smiled to myself, thinking--if so, maybe I should have been a garbage man.
	I inserted the old-fashioned metal key into the front door lock and turned it, then gently shifted my weight and opened the door. There was not yet enough sunlight coming through the window, so I called out "Lights!". The waiting room was now bathed in a cool halogen light. Tan walls, gray couches, and green plants--pity real ones wouldn't grow in here, I thought, they would be superb. The desk behind the wooden counter was empty.
	"Marcia!" I said. Instantly, a hologram of a young woman appeared at the desk. "Good morning, Dr. Ido. There are no patients, and there are no telephone or computer messages. Is there anything I may assist you with?"
	I closed the door. "Are there any appointments?"
	Marcia frowned for a moment, then said "There are no medical appointments at this time. There is one social appointment--a party. Would you like a reminder?"
	"No, that's all right, I remember." The thought of a little party after work pleased me. My friends from school were throwing a formal party to celebrate Midsummer, and as I had been first to go into business I was to be the Guest of Honor. Hopefully it would be a small one, I get nervous in crowds.
	But until that evening I wasn't sure how busy I would be. Such a pity, to have no work your first day on your own! But fortunately, it would not be a day of leisure. I had no more than put on my white physician's jacket and unlocked the doors to the examining rooms when I received a call from a frightened mother--her boy's leg was pinching him so, and it might be a short circuit, she didn't know what to do, could I possibly hurry over and see him?

	The lights were turned off, Marcia was not projecting, the doors of the clinic were locked. I was somewhat fatigued, but feeling good. One house call, three clinic visits, several appointments over the next week--a good day, I thought. I had persevered over the challenges in my work and I had helped people feel better. Everyone benefits.
	I walked the block and a half to my apartment, taking the stairs to the top floor--I would shower anyway, it didn't matter if I was slightly sweaty. As I entered, I paused (as I almost always did) to look out the window to the east. Such a window! Two meters tall and five meters wide. Specially insulated to allow minimal heat gain or loss, yet designed to prevent even minimal distortion of the view--down onto the Ridge of Tiphares, then over towards what they call the Outlands. This night, there were more clouds then I cared to see--I feared we were in for a storm. If party were to be indoors it would be a minor inconvenience, but one I did not like (as I shall make clear).
	In a matter of three-quarters of an hour I was showered, shaved, and dressed. I hailed a cab, and rode in comfort to the party --at the Stadtgarten! An open area, several kilometers square, with all manner of plant life. There were walkways, fountains, a hothouse, and my favorite place--a large plaza of marble, with no less than 47 different terraces around it (I had counted them many, many times as a child). Oh, that you could have seen it! The large main terrace, where the party was to be, had small planters coming up from the ground. In each of these would be a different kind of plant--bonsai trees, ground ferns, horsetails, small flowers. At night, these would be cunningly lit from below by bioluminescent [2] algae that had been bred into the plants themselves--the overall effect was unnerving to many. Even so, it was my favorite place to be late at night.
	I suppose that, since you've never attended one, I should explain what would go on at this sort of party. The guests would arrive at a certain time, men in formal suits and women wearing dresses, and chat with the hosts or other guests for a while to pass the time. At some point, when it appeared that most of the guests were present, three speeches would be made--one by the host or hostess, one by the Guest of Honor, and one by a Dignitary (usually a member of the Government, or an ecclesiastical figure). Then something called the buffet would happen--guests would walk along a table with different types of food on it, and chose which ones they would partake of. After all had served themselves a plateful, conversation (along with eating) would resume. Later on in the evening, if there was to be some entertainment (such as music, dance, or poetry reading) the guests would assemble for it. Afterward, or barring the formal entertainment, the guests could depart at their leisure.
	As I climbed the stairway to the terrace, the pleasant sounds of dulcimer, flute and membranophone greeted my ears. I hoped that it was merely background music--if there is one thing I cannot do, I cannot dance. Surmounting the last stair, I saw that there were about 40 or 50 people, mostly from CU, in attendance. Almost immediately, I picked out Lance Litton, my best friend and the host. He excused himself from a conversation and walked across the terrace toward me.
	"Ido! How happy I am to see you! Welcome to the party!"
	"I thank you for inviting me. Are you well?"
	"I am well, thank you. And you yourself? How was your first day as a working man?"
	I tapped the breast pocket of my jacket. "I shall tell you all about it later this evening. What news of the job search have you?"
	Litton played with the end of his mustache. "Well, I do not want you waiting on seeds sown into the sky, but I had a long conversation with a Dr. Takahashi yesterday." He smiled a little.
	"The organ specialist?" I murmured.
	"The very one. He says that after that food poisoning scare last season, a demand went up for high-quality kidneys. If I enroll in a toxicology class or two this coming quarter, I could be working with his group by early next year."
	"Litton, that is capital. Have you any news from our friends?"
	"You may ask them yourself, they are already here. You are certainly the slow one, Ido." We walked to where two people were chatting between the buffet table and a planter of fungus. I recognized them as Roland Kappelmann and Junia Chiren, my two other closest friends. Kappelman was preparing to get his Ph. D. in organometallic decay; Chiren had not yet centered on further work, and was volunteering for a time at a pediatric hospital. Lately, Chiren's behavior had begun to disturb me--she had broken three hearts in as many weeks, and was rumored to be having an affair with a former professor. I do not condone such foreword behavior from anyone.
	There is little need to describe much that followed--Litton's speech was dry and witty as always, mine was rather self-conscious, and the Deacon of Celephais University was dull. After dinner, I made some idle talk with the people in attendance before excusing myself. I reminded my friends that, "unlike some lolligags, I must work in the morning"; but in truth, I was concerned about the wind that had picked up, and feared that there would be a storm of no little severity.
	My fears were well-founded. I had no sooner got myself settled into my apartment when the storm broke. Rather than retire at once to bed, however, I made a cup of tea and prepared to watch nature play with all of human achievement. I set my alarm clock, then settled into a recliner facing the window. I felt warm inside, the warm glow of the secure. The rain fell. I sipped my tea. The lightning flashed, the thunder rolled. I leaned back in the chair. The wind howled. I felt the smoothness of slumber starting to wash over me.

	Black moving on black is not easy for the eye to see, and I must have been hard upon sleep. But I had left my glasses on, and I suppose that it was this fact alone that allowed me to see _something_, not quite flapping, not quite coasting, outside my window.
	Coming straight towards me.
	I had enough time to roll out of my chair and lie on the floor before there was an awful cacophony, a crunch and a crash and a scream, all in one combination sound. When I had looked up again, I was to receive the largest shock of my life.
	My window was shattered. There was now some manner of black triangle sticking into my living room ceiling, its base jutting out of the window. And above the rain hammering into the apartment and the wind singing all around me, I could hear a voice sobbing. A human voice.
	I was too dazed to react any faster, but I slowly, shakily began to approach the thing. It seemed to be a wing of some nature, in a V-shape, formed by crisscrossing thin metal pipes under a synthetic cloth skin. At this point, it looked a bit ragged and torn, but originally it must have been quite strong and light. There was a man hanging down below it, attached to a rather complex-looking harness. I called for light, and then took a close look at him. He was short, but strong and barrel-chested. I estimated his age at around 35. But what held my attention was his forehead. First being run through a glass window and then being rammed into a ceiling had clearly done extensive damage to the skin and bone, but there was no sign of the Stamp on his forehead. I was dealing with someone from the Lower World.
	Now, I need hardly say that they had told us nothing about this sort of being in medical school. I knew that we were genetically similar creatures, certainly much closer than even chimpanzees and humans...that implied that we would have the same physiology, probably even the same blood types. I could not guess how the few genetic differences that we did have would separate us. I made a spot decision to give the wretch whatever aid I could in a manner like that I would give one of our people. I took a kitchen knife and, with some difficulty, managed to cut him out of the harness. He was still crying a little, and that worried me--if his cries became softer, it might be a sign he was dying. I took him in my arms and began talking to him softly, like a baby. I knew that I needed to get him to surgery; thank Heaven my clinic was so close! I had moved him out the door and was starting to close it when I heard a loud crunching sound. I leaned my head back into the room, and was just able to see the glider blowing out the window.
	It was only then that it struck me that what I was doing--helping out the flying man--was illegal.
	We arrived at my clinic a few minutes later. I decided not to activate Marcia, since I didn't know if she would record my presence in the room. Although my strength was starting to wane, I managed to carry the poor fellow into my emergency room (I'm not sure what had possessed me to set one up--I had no assistants to help with anything serious, and I would not be able to afford any for some time yet). I switched on the diagnostics computer, and washed up for surgery while it made a preliminary scan of my patient.
	The results were not very encouraging. There was extensive head and neck damage. Glass was embedded in various parts of the face, skull and neck, though fortunately not in the lips or eyes. Two pieces of metal had jammed into the cranium, and were in danger of causing brain damage. Lastly, at least two of the neck vertebra had cracks that would need to be knitted, a quite delicate operation.
	It was the skull that presented the greatest problem. The best way to remove the metal shards was to remove portions of the bone; but I had no plastic/steel skull caps at my disposal to replace the damaged one. I was forced to make do with a metal disc with a large bulge on top, held in place by rivet pins that would dig directly into the sides of his head. It was not remotely attractive, but my patient would live without brain damage.
	Morning was not many hours away by the time I returned him to my apartment--it was more likely that he would be discovered in my place of business than my home. I made a note to call the glass man sometime the next day, set my alarm clock, and collapsed, still wearing my dinner clothes and my operating gown, onto my bed.

	Dawn was early, cold and unpleasant. In my panic the night before I had neglected to ascertain how much water was in the apartment; the early light of dawn showed that a good deal of my furniture and personal belongings had been damaged by water or wind.
	My patient had not come to his senses yet--even considering his physique, his wounds were extensive, and he had clearly been involved in some physically and mentally stressful event before the accident. I wasn't certain what I should do with him. Clearly, he would have to be turned in--my saving his life might put me in jeopardy with the law, but I would probably be able to get away with only community service--of course, I had performed a good deal of community service on my own initiative before. But what if he woke up while I was at work? Would he know not to leave? Maybe I should lay out some food for him and a note of explanation. But then, could he even read? If I left a recorded message, would he even know how to operate the machine? Eventually, I hit upon the idea of using my burglar alarm. I disabled the automatic call to the police, and instead set the internal motion and sound detectors to play a recorded message when activated. In simple language, I advised him about what had occurred, who I was, and what time I would be back. I laid out a bowl of fruit salad and some bottled water for him, then I took my leave.
	It was unnerving to walk down the street to my clinic. It wasn't that I feared that someone had seen me with poor wretch--for all anyone knew, he could have been someone who had fallen in the storm and required help. My fear instead was that the glider would be found, and with it some of my belongings that had blown out during the night; this would be clear evidence of my activities. My paranoia was alleviated by the presence of a good deal of debris on the ground--what should I have expected, the night after a storm?
	Marcia greeted me as I switched her on. "Good morning, Dr. Ido. There are no patients, and there are no computer messages. There are three patients scheduled for today, and one telephone message. What can I do for you?"
	"Play me the telephone message please, Marcia."
	She appeared to reach over and press a button. The computer simulated a click to coincide with the button--rather a clever touch, I thought. I suppose I should have remembered the message was from myself: "Ido, don't forget to call the window repairman this morning." I was on the point of reviewing the appointments when Marcia looked at me and said, "Dr. Ido, there is a person at the door."
	"But we're not open yet. Is it one of the patients?"
	"It appears to be a policeman, Dr. Ido."
	No, I thought. This could never have happened so fast. I must realize--it would have taken them at least a day to identify my lost property. Even as I told myself this, I could feel the metallic taste of adrenaline in my mouth. Maybe they just wanted to question me. After all, I wasn't the only person in the building. Maybe this...perhaps that...I felt top heavy as I opened the door. Sure enough, there was a man in the customary black uniform waiting for me.
	"Are you Daisuke Ido, the cyberphysician?" he asked.
	"Yes. Yes I am."
	"I'm Lieutenant Davies, with the Internal Security Force. Could I ask you for some assistance?"
	"Yes. Certainly." I licked my lips. I wondered if Davies was aware of how nervous I was. I wondered at what point I would have to go on the record, and if I could get an attorney at this time of day. "What can do for you?"
	"The senior center down the street lost power in the storm. We were wondering if you could help us evacuate some of the more frail people to the high school."
	I was so unnerved by this statement that I am afraid to say I just stood there with a blank look on my face for a moment. Of course, it made perfect sense--I was a doctor, people knew I was working in the area, they might check here before going to my house. I shook myself out of my stupor just as my silence was becoming unnerving. "Of course. Of course I can help you. Certainly. Marcia!" I turned back inside the waiting room. "If Mr. Hendrickson shows up early, tell him that I'm helping with the senior center, and then ask him to wait for me, will you?"
	"Certainly, Dr. Ido."
	The Lieutenant and I stepped out into the street proper. "I'd like to apologize for my behavior, Lieutenant. I did not sleep well last night, with the storm and all."
	"Of course, Dr. Ido. I'm a bit tired myself. Well, a walk should clear our heads before we need to get to work."

	Two of my three patients rescheduled their check-ups. This allowed me time to make a round through my neighborhood to give first aid where it was needed and alert the constabulary where more aid than I could provide was called for. I also took a surreptitious glance at my own building--mine was not the only apartment with damaged windows, and all manner of debris was spread through the streets. I felt safer than I had before--now, if only I could have the window replaced...
	I scheduled an appointment with the fellow who had sold me the original window to come by the next morning--they did have a window in stock of the same size and shape, but it might be expensive to replace with short notice. I winced at the price. Their rates must have been raised to correspond with the rise in demand after the storm damage. Still, it would be better to pay and be done with it than to wait in the cold for a new window to be specially manufactured.
	My last patient was a routine arm tune-up, and we chatted while I worked. It had been the worst storm in 70 years, he had heard over the Network. Quite a bit of damage, even some power and systems loss in places. With this news I finally felt secure--the damage to my window, though anomalous in extent, was not completely isolated. If I only could keep my patient out of sight for a day or two more, all would be well. I could cover the dent in the ceiling in 10 minutes by myself.
	And so, feeling lighter in my heart than I had in the last day, I decided to call an end to my day. I walked the block and a half humming a little tune to myself, watching the sun fall on the tall buildings and the shadows creep towards union with each other. I came into the cool of my building, skipped up the stairs, and flung open the door, focusing my mind on sating my hearty appetite with a good meal.
	I was slightly taken aback by the sight of a man with a plate for the top of his head and a sizable brace on his neck watching television on my couch.
	Without looking up, he barked some words I could barely understand. It took me a try or two to parse his accent, and even then many of his words were hardly in common speech.
	"You the Doc?"
	"Wha-?"
	"I said, you the Doc?"
	"I-I-I'm sorry, just one more time?"
	"OK. Are...you...the...doctor? The guy what fixed me?"
	"Are you the...oh, I understand. Yes. My name is Daisuke Ido."
	"Great. I'm Harry Tyson. I want to shake your hand." He was trying to stand, gingerly moving his neck and using his eyes to guide his hands to the coffee table and his feet the floor. "You've saved my life. I don't know what the..."
	"Sir, please, do not try to stand. I've put a knit on the bones in your neck, but I'm not sure how well it will hold. The knit is when I..."
	"Yes, I know what the knit is, 'stimulate the neighboring cells in the bone to secrete a matrix and augment them with additional cultured cells'." He swung his legs back up onto the couch. "Well, don't panic, the bonds are holding fine."
	I was both confused and angry. Here was some primitive fool from down below quoting, believe it or not, quoting what a knit was! To me, the great Daisuke Ido! How dare he! Then the question became, how could he have known what a knit was? Had he broken a limb or something working in a Factory?
	Tyson went on. "I really don't know where to begin, Doc. I know you're taking a big risk, taking me in and all. But there are other things we should keep in mind. First, even though the storm's over, it could get cold this evening. Do you have a wall hanging or some kind of curtains we can put in the gap until someone repairs the window?"
	"Now, listen to me, sir. I am willing to listen to what you say. But I do not care for that disrespectful tone of voice you're using. Don't you know how to talk like a human being?"
	"What do you mean by _that_?"
	"See, there you are, raising your voice for no apparent reason!" I shouted. It was only when Tyson looked strangely at me that I realized the irony in what I was saying. I was getting a little upset. "It's this: I really don't approve of what you say and how you say it. You're talking in an unrefined manner, and you're conveying nothing but disrespect for me. Don't you realize who you're talking to? A citizen of Tiphares! You're not even fit to be living inside this building, let alone having the chance to talk to me."
	"Yeah, I know I'd hear this sooner or later, 'I'm a wonderful person for the same reason you're just shit, and that's because of where we were born'. Well, you know what, Ido? It doesn't really matter to me if you were born out of God's butt, you're being downright rude."
	This was my limit. "That is enough, Mister Tyson! I don't know why I shouldn't throw you out of this house this instant!"
	"Except you took the Hippocratic Oath."
	I can't really put down what that statement meant to me. Tyson had a point on me--I was committed to be a doctor first, and a lawyer second. After a moment, Tyson went on. "I'm sorry, Dr. Ido. I lost my temper. I didn't mean to offend you with my habits; I just don't know any better. I knew that from the moment I arrived in this town I'd have to learn to act like everybody else. I also knew I'd have to face knee-jerk prejudice, and that made me madder than anything. But I feel like I shouldn't hold those things against you, since I guess that's the way I'd behave if I was in your shoes. And I shouldn't have threatened you like I did just now."
	"Th-that's all right." I slumped down at the foot of the sofa, about a centimeter from his feet. "I've got to turn you in, you know that. But I'll have to wait until you're up and about before I do so." I extended a hand. "Let's begin again. Daisuke Ido."
	"Harry Tyson. Call me 'Gonzo', all my friends did."
	"'Gonzu'? What a strange word."
	"It's...oh, well, whatever. Gonzu."
	I rose from the couch. "If you have the strength to argue, I guess you must be feeling somewhat better. I'll save a formal examination for a little while. Let's get some food into you. How does some lamb in white wine with a side of green vegetables sound to you?"
	"Um...fine. Is it OK...I mean, is it all right if I just lie here?" He scowled at a televised version of Calavera's' Third Symphony. "Why don't you guys show any fights up here?"

[footnotes and copyright at the end of Part 3]