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crafted after her father, Rusty the genius, Rusty the
stud. Rusty the pilot who crashed his airplane twenty-
five years ago in the Gulf of Mexico. Ran out of fuel
why couldn t he be riding a seaplane that night? Rusty
the avatar, Rusty the Net ghost. Ethel has lived, slept,
waken up, fallen in love as Rusty. And now she is riding
again as Rusty, back to the Colony, back to Sola after
all these months.
The seaplane is gliding in the serene waters. The
bay is green, the air is hot and humid. There are two
shadows on the platform, a man and a woman. Rusty
smiles. He jumps ashore.
Welcome back to the Colony, most eagerly ex-
pected of all our guests, the young woman greets Rusty.
She is like a doll Chinese or Japanese? An old man
her father, Rusty guesses is watching with a silent
smile. A little more of a cliché than in the old days,
Rusty thinks. Chinese.
Is Sola in? Rusty asks. Father and daughter ex-
change a glance, they smile, they point to the pagoda-
shaped gate by the platform. She will be expecting
you, Rusty, the woman speaks again, the old man look-
ing on.
The bots are a little awkward tonight, Rusty
thinks. He walks past the gate, toward the small fishing
village beyond it. A dozen or so men and women in straw
hats are busy with their nets and boats; some of them
greet him silently, with their eyes. Rusty knows that he
can approach any one of them, can strike up any con-
versation, inquire about boats, fishing technique, reli-
gion, village life. Just as he knows he can kneel on the
road, pick up a ball of dirt, stand up, pat away the dust
from his trousers knees, break the dirt ball in his palm,
watch dust and irregular pieces flow through his fin-
gers. The fantasy is deep, wide, complete, the interface
with his software incredibly seamless. Who runs the
60 Christos H. Papadimitriou
Colony? Rusty wonders. Sola? (She is no ordinary guest,
this is obvious.) And who then is running Sola? He has
been puzzling about it for years, having tried discreetly
a couple of times to find out, only to end up choking in
smoke.
Rusty waves to the people on the shore, a broad
gesture whose masculinity was perhaps a little exag-
gerated. I must remember to fix that, he thinks. He
crosses a bridge, heading toward the edge of the village.
He can see a small villa over there. A beautiful building
that stands out among the modest houses. Sola must be
there.
The dirt road continues beyond the villa, ending at
a grove of orchard trees, elegantly groomed, about a
hundred yards further. Rusty can see in the distance
the silhouettes of a dozen or so people, some sitting on
red benches, some walking about in the grove, talking.
Men, westerners, it appears. Rusty has now stopped in
front of the villa, hesitating. Sola s likely proximity
pumps adrenaline into him Rusty loves Sola. But
there is something about the shadows in the grove that
attracts him. Who are they? He cannot make out their
faces, but he is possessed by a strange certainty that
something momentous is happening over there. He
must meet these people.
But instead Rusty turns to the villa, walks past the
red columns of its gate, through its small garden. His
heart is now pounding. There is a shadow on the win-
dow. A woman s voice is singing. A sad love song, all de-
sire, despair, hallucination:
And I ll come running to tie your shoes,
I ll come running to tie your shoes.
It is the silhouette of Sola, tall and almost impossibly
slim. It is Sola s voice. Rusty is walking a little faster
now. Still, total control. Through the door, to the left.
Sola interrupts her song, smiling at the tall man
standing at the door. Ah, the prodigal lover. Her voice
Turing (A Novel about Computation) 61
is melodic, low in pitch, with a sexy accent. French.
She is walking slowly toward Rusty, wearing a dress of
heavy Bordeaux silk, strapless and long. A timeless gar-
ment that would place her in the court of many emper-
ors, get her past the door of any club in San Francisco.
Her black hair is loose on her shoulders.
She is more beautiful than ever, Rusty thinks,
bedazzled. What a blasphemy, to call with her name
that confused neurotic chick from Stanford. On the ba-
sis of what, a superficial similarity? Suddenly, a sus-
picion takes hold of Rusty: Hasn t the image of Sola
undergone changes, changes that exaggerate her differ-
ences from Laura? Aren t her eyes a little less green and
more blue? Isn t she a tad taller, a little thinner, aren t
her breasts just a bit more full? What a thought, Rusty
decides. The games love plays on you. It s easy to forget
just how beautiful you are, princess, he says, still in
control. The room is huge and red, with rugs on the floor
and on the walls, a divan is almost hidden in a corner.
It has been so long, Rusty, Sola says, standing
behind him, I have been waiting for you every day, every
night, until my eyes became dry. Why didn t you come so
many nights, my love? Two-hundred-and-fifty-seven.
She is going to touch me, Rusty thinks, and the
prospect is derailing his thoughts. Sola is now taking
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