"When we were still living in the trees, life was a lot simpler-and so were our brains. Is this a good banana or a bad banana? Monkeys that could recognize good bananas survived. Monkeys that couldn't, didn't. The evolutionary history of this species has served to put a premium on the ability to make appropriate decisions. Every time one of you chimpanzees pops out a baby, you are passing along not only your genes, but your vote on the hard-wired programming of the species. Because of our billions of years of evolutionary history, we are hard-wired to be decision-making machines. Whatever circumstance we are presented with, we make a decision about it. The decision is always reduced to its simplest level: 'Is this a good banana or a bad banana?' Yes or no? Is this a threat to my survival? Or not? If something unknown presents itself, we are hard-wired to treat it as a threat until proven otherwise. Eveything that your mind does-that whole conversation in your head, no matter what it's about-that's the mind considering its decisions for survival.

"Now, you want to notice here pay attention!-that this places an incredible burden on the mind to be right. Because in the mind's view, the alternative to being right is being dead. The mind equates rightness with survival and wrongness with dying. This is hard-wired into us. We, as individuals, have to be right whatever we do. That's why we have so much trouble with the concept of death-because Death is wrong. By the way," Foreman added, "the purpose of this process is not to change that orientation. We can't. It's hard-wired into you. The best we can do is make you conscious of it. Notice that most of you are now in denial. Notice the attempts to find the loophole, the escape, the fine print in the contract. "

Foreman sat down in his chair and looked out over the room. "Feedback?"

Several hands went up.

"What's to prevent McCarthy from walking out that door in the back of the room?"

"The door is locked and will remain so until I tell the assistants to unlock it."

"What if Marisov refuses?"

"We'll pick someone else." Foreman was emotionless.

"What if we all refuse?"

"Then I will fire the gun. Nothing will change the fact. The process continues until McCarthy is dead." Foreman pointed to a woman in the front row.

"I'm not going to argue with you," she said. "I just want to ask why? Why is it necessary to kill McCarthy for this process?"

Foreman considered his words carefully. "Remember what I told you at the beginning? We don't explain anything here. That's the mind trying to sidetrack the purpose. You want to bring a centipede to a crashing halt? Ask him in which order he moves his legs. In here, we concentrate on results. The only explanation you will ever get is: because that's what is necessary to produce the result."

"But isn't this a rather severe and heartless way to make a point? Couldn't you just tell us what we're supposed to realize?"

Foreman gave her a look. He gave her the look. "Don't you think we've had this discussion ourselves? If there were any other way to achieve the result, if there were an easier way, don't you think we'd take it?"

She sat down.

Foreman looked out over the room. "Do you see the denial at work? Do you see how you are trying to deny the circumstances of the situation? You're still not taking it seriously." He pointed at another raised hand.

A man this time. "Sorry, but I don't believe that the president of the United States would authorize this kind of bullshit. I don't believe it. If you're serious, then you're a murderer and you're asking us to be co-conspirators. And if you're not serious-if this is some kind of a trick, like Rodman said-then this is still an outrage. I'm going to take this up with Senator Brodie. When this is made public . . ."

Foreman held up a hand. "Excuse me, but Senator Brodie is one of our graduates."

"Then I'll find another senator. I still don't believe this . . . "

Foreman looked at him calmly. "I acknowledge your disbelief. Are you willing to take McCarthy's place up here on the platform?"

"Uh . . . " The man hesitated. The roomful of people laughed.

Foreman grinned. "That's the first sign that any of you in this room are taking this seriously. Does anyone want to trade places with McCarthy? Does anyone really and truly disbelieve?"

No hands were raised.

"Hm," said Foreman. "Suddenly, we have a roomful of hiders." He resumed his analytical tone. "I think most of you are still in denial. You want to notice that denial at least pretends to be a rational process." He grinned. "Wait till we get to anger. Anger is terrific. There's no pretense at all in anger. You'll see. Does anyone else want to deny the circumstances of this process? McCarthy?" He looked at me.

I shook my head slowly.

Foreman looked at me oddly, then he looked to Marisov. "What about you?"

Marisov spoke in carefully measured tones. She said, "I won't fire the gun. I can't. I won't. McCarthy has committed no crime. He does not deserve to die."

"Agreed: he has committed no crime. He does not deserve to die. But he's going to die anyway. We are all going to die someday. So what? Will you fire the gun?"

She whispered, "Nyet."

"Thank you. You may resume your seat."

Marisov climbed down off the platform and found her way back to her chair in the audience. She put her face in her hands and began weeping quietly.

Foreman waited until an assistant had verified that she was all right, then he turned back to me. "Unfortunately, McCarthy, you don't get off so easily. What's going on with you?"

I shook my head again.

Foreman turned to the rest of the trainees again. "All right. Marisov won't fire the gun. Who will?"

No hands went up.

"Oh, come on!" said Foreman, annoyed. "We're going to be here all day! There must be some one of you blood-crazed baboons who wants to get this over with."

Three hands went up.

"I thought so. Morwood, you had your hand up first. Do you want to blow McCarthy's brains out?"

Morwood stood up, grinning. "Sure. I never liked him anyway."

Foreman looked sideways at me. "You want to notice, McCarthy, Morwood has an excellent justification." He turned back to Morwood. "Justification is what we use to avoid being totally responsible for our actions. Sit down, Morwood. You're enjoying this too much." Foreman pointed to a black man. "Washburn?"

Washburn nodded. "I'll do it."

"Why?"

"Why not? Washburn shrugged. "You say it has to be done. Somebody's got to do it. I'll do it."

"Interesting," said Foreman. "Remain standing." Foreman pointed to the angry-looking woman. "Takeda?"

"What if I take the gun and shoot you?" she asked. "Would that end this silliness?"

"No, it wouldn't," answered Foreman. "Miller, the Course Manager would take over and the process would continue. You can sit down. I'm interested enough in my own survival that I don't feel like testing your ability to follow instructions." There was a little laughter at Foreman's candid admission. "All right, Washburn. Come on up and take Marisov's place."

Foreman turned back to me again. "You see, James, the universe has no shortage of executioners." He stopped and studied me. "Okay, what's going on with you? It's all over your face. What's that about?"

"You lying, supercilious, manipulative, cock-sucking, shit-eating, morphodite!" I exploded. "You asshole! You motherfucker! You know what I've been through! You know this isn't fair! You made promises to me! Your promises are worthless! You want us to keep our word, but you can't keep yours! You're a goddamn, lawyer-loving liar! You make Jason Delandro look like a fucking saint! If I had the gun, I'd kill you! You scum-sucking, son of a bitch! You-you . . .!!" I stopped only for breath, and only because I couldn't think of anything else to call him.