NatuLifeNatuLife 
by David Brin
I know, things taste better fresh, not packaged. Hamburger clots your arteries 
and hurts the rain forest. We should eat like our stone age ancestors, who dug 
roots, got lots of exercise, and always stayed a little hungry. So they say. 
Still, I balked when my wife served me termites. 
_"Come on, sweetheart. Try one. They're delicious." _ 
Gaia already had the hive uncrated and set up by the time I came home. Putting 
down my briefcase, I stared at hundreds of the pasty-colored critters scrabbling 
under a plastic cover, tending their fat queen, devouring kitchen trimmings, 
making themselves right at home in my home. 
Gaia offered me a probe made of fine-grained pseudowood. "See? You use this 
stick to fish after nice plump ones, like chimpanzees do in the wild!" 
I gaped at the insect habitat, filling the last free space between our 
veggie-hydrator and the meat-sublimate racks. "But . . . we agreed. Our 
apartment's too small . . ." 
"Oh, sweety, I know you'll just love them. Anyway, don't I need protein and 
vitamins for the baby?" 
Putting my hand over her swelling belly normally softened any objections I might 
have. Only this time my _own_ stomach was in rebellion. "I thought you already 
got all that stuff from the Yeast-Beast machine." I pointed to the vat occupying 
half of our guest bathroom, venting nutritious vapors from racks of tissue-grown 
cutlets. 
"_That_ stuff's not _natural_," Gaia complained with a moue. "Come on, try the 
real thing. It's just like they show on the NatuLife Channel!" 
"I . . . don't think . . ." 
"Watch, I'll show you!" 
Gaia passed the stick-probe through a sealed hatch to delve after six-legged 
prey, her tongue popping out as she concentrated, quivering with excitement from 
her red ponytail down to her rounded belly. "Got one!" She cried, drawing a 
twitching insect out the hatch and to her lips. 
"You're not seriously . . ." My throat stopped as the termite vanished, head 
first. Bliss crossed Gaia's face. "M-m-m, crunchy!" She smacked, revealing a 
still-twitching tail. 
I found enough manly dignity to raggedly chastise her. 
"Don't . . . talk with your mouth full." 
Turning away, I added -- "If you need me, I'll be in my workout room." 
Gaia had re-arranged our sleep quarters again. Now the cramped chamber merged 
seamlessly with a tropic paradise, including raucous bird calls and mist from a 
roaring waterfall. The impressive effects made it hard navigating past the bed, 
so I ordered the hologram blanked. Silence fell as the vid-wall turned gray, 
leaving just the real-life portion of her pocket jungle to contend with -- a 
tangle of potted plants warranteed to give off purer oxygen than a pregnant 
woman could sniff from bottles. 
Wading through creepers and mutant ficuses, I finally found the moss-lined 
laundry hamper and threw in my work clothes. The fragrant Clean-U-Lichen had 
already sani-scavenged and folded my exercise togs, which felt warm and 
skin-supple when I drew them on. The organo-electric garment rippled across my 
skin as if alive, seeming just as eager for a workout as I was. 
I'd been through hell at the office. Traffic on the commuter-tube was miserable 
and the smog index had been red-lining for a week. Termites had only been the 
last straw. 
"Let's go," I muttered. "I haven't killed anything all day." 
Long Stick spotted a big old buck gazelle. 
"It limps," my hunting partner said, rising from his haunches to point across a 
hundred yards of dry savannah. "Earlier, it met a lion." 
I rose from my stretching exercises to peer past a screen of sheltering 
boulders, following Long Stick's gnarly arm. One animal stood apart from the 
herd. Sniffing an unsteady breeze, the buck turned to show livid claw marks 
along one flank. Clearly, this prey was a pushover compared to last Sunday's 
pissed-off rhino. The virtual reality machine must have sensed I'd had a rough 
day. 
My hands stroked the spear, tracing its familiar nicks and knots. An illusion of 
raw, archetypal power. 
"The beaters are ready, Chief," my hunting partner said. I nodded. 
"Let's get on with it." 
Long Stick pursed his lips and mimicked the call of a bee-catcher bird. Moments 
later, the animals snorted as a shift in the heavy air brought insinuations of 
human scent. Another hundred yards beyond the herd, where the sparse pampas 
faded into a hazy stand of acacia trees, I glimpsed the rest of our hunting 
party, creeping forward. 
_My hunters. My tribe._ 
I was tempted to reach up and adjust the virtu-reality helmet, which fed this 
artificial world to my eyes and ears . . . to zoom in on those distant human 
images. Alas, except for Long Stick, I had never met any of the other hunters, 
up close. Good persona programs aren't cheap, and with a baby coming, there were 
other things for Gaia and me to spend money on. 
_Yeah, like a crummy termite hive!_ Resentment fed on surging adrenaline. _Never 
trust a gatherer._ That was the hunters' creed. _Love 'em, protect 'em, die for 
them, but always remember, their priorities are different._ 
The beaters stood as one, shouting. The gazelles reared, wheeling the other way 
-- toward us. Long Stick hissed. "Here they come!" 
The Accu-Terrain floor thrummed beneath my feet to the charge of a hundred 
hooves. Sensu-Surround earphones brought the stampede roar of panicky beasts 
thundering toward us, wild-eyed with ardor to survive. Clutching my spear in 
sweaty palms, I crouched as graceful animals vaulted overhead, ribcages heaving. 

Meanwhile, a faint, subsonic mantra recited. _I am part of nature . . . one with 
nature . . ._ 
The young, and breeding females, we let flash by without harm. But then, 
trailing and already foaming with fatigue, came the old buck, its leap leaden, 
unsteady, and I knew the program really was taking it easy on me today. 
Long Stick howled. I sprinted from cover, swiftly taking the lead. The 
auto-treadmill's bumps and gullies matched whatever terrain the goggles showed 
me, so my feet knew how to land and thrust off again. The body suit brushed my 
skin with synthetic wind. Flared nostrils inhaled sweat, exhilaration, and for a 
time I forgot I was in a tiny room on the eightieth floor of a suburban Chitown 
con-apt, surrounded by fifty million neighbors. 
I _was_ deep in the past of my forebears, back in a time when men were few, and 
therefore precious, magical. 
Back when nature thrived . . . and included us. 
Easy workout or no, I got up a good sweat before the beast was cornered against 
a stand of jagged saw grass. The panting gazelle's black eye met mine with more 
than resignation. In it I saw tales of past battles and matings. Of countless 
struggles won, and finally lost. I couldn't have felt more sympathy if he'd been 
real. 
My throwing arm cranked and I thought -- _Long ago, I'd have done this to feed 
my wife and child._ 
That was then. As for here and now? 
_Well . . . this sure beats the hell out of racquetball._ 
Mass-produced con-apt housing lets twelve billion Earthlings live in minim 
decency, at the cost of dwelling all our lives in boxes stacked halfway to the 
sky. Lotteries award scarce chances to visit mountains, the seashore. Meanwhile, 
Virtuality keeps us sane within our hi-rise caves. 
On my way to shower after working out, I saw that Gaia's private VR room was in 
use. Impulsively, I tiptoed into the closet next door, feeling for the crack 
between stacked room units, and pressed my eye close to the narrow chink of 
light. Gaia squatted on her treadmill floor, shaped to mimic a patch of uneven 
ground. Her body suit fit her pregnant form like a second skin, while helmet and 
goggles made her resemble some kind of bug, or star alien. But I knew her 
scenario, like mine, lay in the distant past. She made digging motions with a 
phantom tool, invisible to me, held in her cupped hands, then reached down to 
pluck another ghost item, her gloves simulating touch to match whatever root or 
tuber it was that she saw through the goggles. Gaia pantomimed brushing dirt 
away from her find, then dropping it into a bag at her side. 
Sometimes, eavesdropping like this, I'd feel a chill wondering how odd _I_ must 
look during workouts, leaping about, brandishing invisible spears and shouting 
at my "hunters." No wonder most people keep VR so private. 
Gaia tilted her head as if listening to somebody, then laughed aloud. "I know! 
Didn't the two of them look funny? Coming home all proud with that skinny little 
squirrel on a stick? Such great hunters! That didn't stop them from gobbling 
half our carrots!" 
Naturally, I couldn't see or hear Gaia's companions -- presumably other women 
gatherers in the same simulated tribe she had been visiting since years before 
we met. She stopped again, listening, then turned around. "It's your baby, 
Flower. That's okay, I'll take care of him." She laughed. "I need the practice." 

I watched her gently pick up an invisible child. Her body suit tugged and 
contracted, mimicking a wriggly weight in her arms. Awkwardly, Gaia cooed at an 
infant who dwelled only in a world of software, and her mind. I crept away to 
take a shower, at once ashamed of spying and glad that I had. 
Toweling my wet hair, I entered the bedroom to find the wall screen tuned to 
Mother Earth Channel Fifty-Three -- a green-robed priestess reciting a sermon. 
_" . . . returning to more _natural_ ways does not mean having to sacrifice all 
modern . . .."_ 
Gaia emerged from her closet wearing a bright cotton shift over her blossoming 
figure, sorting through a cloth bag slung over one shoulder. "Where are you 
going?" I tried asking, but the life-sized matron on the wall was doubly loud. 
_" . . . we should eat like our ancestors, who caught meat but twice a week or 
so. All other food was gathered by skilled women . . .."_ 
I tugged Gaia's elbow, repeating my question. She startled, then smiled at me. 
"NatuBirth class, Sweetheart. Lots to learn before I'm ready. Just two months 
left, you know." 
"But I thought . . ." 
_" . . .Fats and sweets were rare back then, hence our cravings. Now 
self-discipline must take the place of scarcity --"_ 
I shouted. "Computer! Shut off that noise!" 
The priestess's mouth moved silently. Gaia looked reproving. 
"I don't like being left out," I complained. 
Gaia stroked my face. "Oh Toms, don't be off-baud. We're just covering nest and 
birthing methods, tonight. A man would be bored." 
Hm. Maybe. _Femismo_ says there are some things men can't understand. Quite a 
shift from the way old-fashioned feminism preached sharing all life's duties. My 
dad used to proudly tell of cutting the cord, the day I was born. I kind of 
liked that idea, but now they call it unnatural. Birth has always been a female 
ritual. That's what they say. 
"You just stay home, be good, and . . ." Gaia pressed against me, 
affectionately, her eyes lighting. "You had a good hunt, didn't you? I can tell. 
It always leaves you frisky." 
I pulled away. "Mph. Go to class, then. I'll be okay." 
She tiptoed to peck my chin. "Look by the console for a present . . . something 
to show I haven't forgotten you." Gaia blew another kiss from the front door, 
and was gone. 
A present? Curiosity piqued, I wandered over to the master house controller and 
picked up a brightly-colored program plaq, still tacky where Gaia must have 
peeled off a discount sticker from the NatuLife Store. _Something for the 
Hunter,_ the title read, and I snorted. 
Right. Something to keep the man of the house distracted beating drums with a 
bunch of make-believe comrades, while a wife's attention turns to serious 
matters -- nesting and the continuity of life. The blyware gift might have been 
meant as a loving gesture, but right then it made me feel superfluous, more left 
out than ever. 
Sliding the plaq into the console, I accidentally brushed the volume knob and 
the contralto musings of the priestess returned. 
_" . . . that we must face the fact that Earth's billions won't accept 
"returning to nature" if it means scratching mud and sleeping on dirt floors, 
with parasites and death and ignorance. We must learn new ways, both more 
natural and _smarter_ . . .."_ 
I snickered at that. Funny how each generation thinks it knows what "smarter" 
means. 
Long Stick greeted me with a sweeping bow, at once both sardonic and respectful. 
"Welcome back, oh Great Chief." 
"Yeah, yeah," I muttered at my simulated sidekick. "Okay, I'll bite. What's 
different, this time?" 
Everything seemed less real here in the living room, with my virtuality helmet 
and body suit left hanging in the closet. The familiar, primeval forest of my 
private world now cut off sharply where the vid-wall met the couch. Yet, I could 
have sworn my ersatz companion seemed subtler, _warmer_, somehow. 
"The flint-smiths are ready to show their wares, chief." 
"The who . . .?" I began. But Long Stick simply turned to begin striding down a 
nearby path. The living room had no treadmill-floor, so I stood still, watching 
Long Stick's buckskin-draped form plow past trees and boulders and down a series 
of switchbacks. A rhythmic sound grew steadily louder -- a tinny clatter of 
brittle objects colliding and breaking. Finally, we reached a sandy streambed 
where several figures could be seen sitting on logs, hammering stones together. 
_Ah, yes. Flint-smiths._ NatuLife stocked countless "You-Are-There" programs in 
all the ancient arts, from bronze casting to automobile design. With our shared 
interest in the Neolithic, Gaia had cleverly bought a stone age simulation the 
computer could fit right into my private world, to help me pass an evening while 
she trained for motherhood. 
_Okay,_ I sighed. _Let's get on with it._ 
A youngster with a wispy beard noticed us, stopped hammering, and nudged the 
others -- a weathered old man and a sturdy-looking fellow with one leg much 
shorter than the other. The smiths rose and bowed respectfully. Naturally, these 
wouldn't be full scale sim-personas, like Long Stick, but animated actors in a 
limited scenario. 
"We have worked those chert cores you traded from Seacliff Tribe, oh Chief," the 
oldest one said, lisping through gaps in his teeth. "Would you like to see?" 
I shrugged. "Why not?" 
He spread a fur and began laying out an assortment of neolithic cutlery, 
glinting under ersatz sunshine. There were spearheads, axes, burins and scrapers 
-- plus other tools I couldn't identify offhand -- each item the product of at 
least a hundred strokes, skillfully cleaving native rock into shapes useful for 
daily life. A prehistoric kitchen, armory and machine shop, all in one. The 
smiths offered to let me feel an edge. It was disturbing to watch the computer 
manifest an image of my own hand, holding an object I couldn't feel. I resolved 
to try again later, replaying the scenario with body gloves on. 
"Well, it's been interesting," I said after a while, feeling fatigued. "But I 
think that's enough for n --" 
A high shout broke in. Everyone looked past my shoulder, but the scene remained 
obstinately riveted until a new figure entered view from the left. Shorter, 
slimmer than the others, this one strode with a springy, elfin gait, clothed in 
the tunic and leggings of a hunter. The newcomer carried a bundle of slender 
wooden saplings the right size for fashioning spears. Only when these were 
dumped with a clatter did I note with surprise that this hunter was female. 
"Ho, Chief," she greeted me, acknowledging Long Stick with a nod. My companion 
leaned over to whisper. "As you know, she is Ankle-of-a-Giraffe, daughter of 
Antler and Pear Blossom. She is one of the beaters in the hunt." 
"Thanks," I muttered. I hate it when the program does that. 
"That's what I want to talk to you about," the young stone-ager said, planting 
fists on her hips. She was lithe and a trifle lean for my tastes -- as well as 
being smudged from head to toe -- but she made eye contact in a bold, 
provocative way. "I'm sick of just beating, Great Chief. I want to be in on the 
kill. I want to learn from you two." 
The stone-smiths hissed surprise. Long Stick rumbled. "Ankle! You forget 
yourself!" 
The girl bowed submissively, yet her eyes held fierce determination. She seemed 
ready to speak again when I shouted. 
"Freeze frame!" 
All action halted, leaving the "tribesmen" locked in time. A blue jay hovered in 
suspended flight across the gully while I wrestled with confusion. It wasn't the 
_idea_ of a female hunter . . . plenty of tribes allowed it, according to 
tradition. But why complicate matters with such a player right now, just as the 
simulation seemed about to end? What did it have to do with prehistoric 
tool-making? 
"Computer. This isn't just a packaged you-are-there, is it?" 
_"No it is not. These are fully autonomous persona programs, operating 
stochastically in your private sim world."_ 
So, Gaia had been generous after all! Long Stick was no longer my only, 
full-scale companion. But how could she afford . . . 
_"In addition, core memory has been enhanced to allow up to five flexible 
personae at any one time."_ 
"Oh, I get it." 
Gaia must have needed more memory for her own programs, the midwives and doulahs 
and other helpers she'd need when the baby came. The expense was already 
budgeted. No wonder she could throw in a few extra playmates for me, purchased 
at discount. After wondering for a minute whether to feel hurt, pleased, or 
amused . . . I finally decided it didn't really matter. I hesitated, then 
decided. 
"Computer, hold simulation for transfer to my rec room." 
Minutes later, fully suited for virtuality, I held one of the tool-knappers' new 
flint knives in my hands, each curve and serrated edge conveyed by subtle, 
electrochem gloves. The stone-smiths seemed pleased by my admiration. It was a 
good knife, of the finest obsidian, bound to an ivory handle carved with figures 
of running horses. Despite not being real, it was the most splendid thing I had 
ever owned. 
The treadmill worked beneath my feet, mimicking movement as Long Stick and I 
finally departed the neolithic factory, heading toward Lookout Point to observe 
migratory herds of wildebeest and eland crossing the plain. Along the way, we 
passed the young beater, Ankle, squatting by the river bank where she'd been 
banished by Long Stick for impertinence. Tying stone points to spear-shafts, 
tightening the leather thongs with her teeth, she looked up as we passed by, 
unrepentant, a light of challenge in her eyes. 
I paused, then turned to Long Stick. "We could use a scout to carry messages. 
Next hunt, bring this one along." 
My simulated friend returned one of his sharp looks, but nodded silently. Ankle 
turned away, wisely hiding a jubilant grin. 
I emerged from my primeval world to find Gaia already home from her class, 
nestled in our small, darkened bedroom. I slipped between the sheets quietly, 
but soon felt her hand upon my thigh. "I've been thinking about you," my wife 
whispered, her breath warm on my ear. 
Pregnancy doesn't exactly mean _no_ sex. Doctors say it's all right if you're 
careful. 
In fact, it can be much better than all right. Gaia was very skilled. 
The buffalo groaned, mired in muddy shallows with five spears in its flank. I 
commanded no more thrown. 
Ankle protested, waving her javelin. "Why not finish it off?" 
"Because the Chief said no!" Long Stick snapped. But I gestured for patience. 
With Ankle for an apprentice, I now appreciated the adage -- _You never really 
know something til you teach it._ 
"Think. What happens if he falls where he stands?" 
She eyed the panting beast. "He'll fall into the riv . . . Oh! We'd lose half 
the carcass." Ankle nodded soberly. "So we try getting him ashore first?" 
"Right. And quickly! We don't want him suffering needlessly." 
Several tribesmen made pious gestures in agreement. Through ritual, hunters like 
these used to appease the spirits of beasts they killed, which made me wonder -- 
would modern folk eat so much meat if they had to placate the ghost of each 
steer or chicken? My time in a simulated stone age hasn't made a vegetarian of 
me, but I better appreciate the fact that meat once lived. 
Long Stick called for rope. Bearing coils of braided leather, we worked toward 
the bull from three sides. The treadmill imitated slippery mud beneath my feet, 
while the body suit tickled nerves so that I felt hip-deep in slimy water. 
Electronically-stirred receptors in my nose "smelled" the creature's blood and 
defiance, above the rank swamp stench. It was hard work, floundering toward our 
prey. Harder and more varied than lifting weights in a gym, and more terrifying. 
The buffalo shifted left and right, bellowing and threatening with its horns. 
Everything had seemed more vivid since Gaia bought that extra memory, including 
this beast's hot zeal to survive. "Watch out!" Ankle cried as it lunged. I 
swerved and felt a wall of fur and muscle glance off my shoulder, rushing 
through space I'd just occupied. Teetering in the mud, I glimpsed a snaking 
lasso chase the old bull, landing round its neck. "Got him!" Long Stick cried. 
"My turn!" called a higher voice. Ankle cast her lariat -- only to fall short as 
the angry beast thrashed aside. "Wait!" I cried when she plunged after it. Too 
late, I watched the girl vanish beneath the frothy, scummy surface. 
"Ankle!" 
Suddenly, I was too busy dodging to worry about my young aide. Sharp horns 
flashed viciously. While I knew the computer wouldn't kill me, other slipups in 
the gym had left me bruised for weeks. 
_She's only a program,_ I told myself, backpedaling from a roaring, shaggy face 
the size of a small pickup. _Programs can take care of themselves._ 
"Yip-yi-i-yip!" 
The cry coincided with a sudden change in the creature's bellows. It whirled and 
I blinked in astonishment. The young hunter, Ankle, had clambered on its back! 
Dripping water and marsh reeds, she held tightly to its mane and slipped her 
noose over the shaggy head, while the bull snorted, wild-eyed and convulsing. 
Others joined her exultant shout as ropes pulled taut from three directions. 
Resignation seemed to settle over the animal as it let itself be drawn toward 
dry land. Two meters . . . three . . . 
Then, in one last, desperate heave, it reared. Ankle flew off, arms whirling, to 
splash near the bull's stomping hooves. 
With a shout I dove toward her. 
Or tried to. Today's virtuality tech can't fake _buoyancy,_ so the machine won't 
cooperate. The body suit did let me flounder forward, though, evading the 
thrashing horns while flailing underwater in search of my apprentice. Frantic 
seconds passed . . . and finally I felt the touch of a slim arm! A small hand 
closed vice-like round my wrist as I yanked back hard . . . just as the buffalo 
pitched over, toppling with a mighty splash on the spot where Ankle had lain. 
We made it ashore downstream from where the tribe was already commencing the 
frenetic ritual of butchery. In olden times, a kill like this came at best once 
a month, so these hunters sang their joy to the spirits of water, earth and sky. 
But the artful ceremony was wasted on me as I slogged uphill, feeling pressure 
leave my cramping legs exactly like water slipping reluctantly aside. The weight 
in my arms seemed all too real as I lowered Ankle to a patch of grass. 
This was an awful lot of trouble to go to, just for a piece of software. I might 
have rationalized that good persona programs are expensive, but the thought 
didn't cross my mind as I hurriedly checked Ankle's breathing. Pale, mud-grimed 
from crown to toe, she gave two sudden, wheezing coughs, then revealed twin 
flashes of abalone blue as her eyes popped open. Ankle gasped a sudden, stricken 
sob and threw both arms around my neck. 
"Urk!" I answered. Never before had my exercise togs yanked me down so, into 
such a flood of sensations. Pain lanced my palms from impacting pebbles. 
Sunlight spread heat across my mud-splattered back. Then there was the press of 
her warm body, clinging beneath mine, much more cushiony, in places, than I had 
imagined. 
Soon I realized, Ankle no longer clung to me for comfort. She was moving, 
breathing in ways having little to do with reassurance. I grunted surprise for a 
second time, and reached up to pry loose her arms. "Stop simulation!" I shouted. 

My last glimpse, before yanking off the helmet, was of Ankle lying there, muddy 
all over, wiry-strong and hunter-attired, yet suddenly utterly female, gazing at 
me both worshipful and willing. 
She was only software -- bits of illusion on a silicon chip. Besides, I barely 
knew her. 
She was already the second most desirable woman I had ever known. 
Now get this, I love my wife. Always figured myself one of those lucky bastards 
whose woman understands him, inside and out, and _despite_ that thinks the world 
of him. 
So, I figured, there's got to be a mistake here! 
Trembling, I peeled off my sweaty body suit and stumbled into the shower, 
wondering. _How am I going to explain this to Gaia?_ 
Then, while soaping myself, I thought. _What's to explain? I didn't do 
anything!_ 
Rinsing, I pondered. _And if I had? Would it've been adultery? Or an exotic form 
of masturbation?_ 
I recall how Mom blithely tolerated Dad's collection of erotic magazines, 
apparently quite unthreatened by his harmless, private fantasies. Nor did Gaia 
ever seem to consider my electronic Playboy subscription a rival. Sometimes she 
would dial it up herself . . .. "for the articles." Still, if a certain amount 
of healthy, visually-stimulated autoeroticism was okay, I also knew it would 
hurt her terribly if I ever had a real-life affair. 
So . . . what had nearly taken place in my VR gym? The experience seemed to fall 
somewhere between boffing a co-ed and an encounter with an inflatable doll. 
Too bad they never produced that sci-fi gimmick, a direct computer-mind 
interface. Then I might have dismissed any sim-adventure as something purely 
mental. But so much of what we are and do is tied up in our bodies . . . the 
nerves, hormones and muscles. To have a truly vivid experience, you must take 
your meat along. 
With flesh taking part, virtuality can mimic any surface. I've crawled across 
grass and tide pools and steaming sands while stalking prey. 
But simulating a _woman_ . . .? 
And then I knew . . . it was obvious. Must happen all the time, in fact. Just 
not talked about very much, I guess. Still, it was awfully disturbing. 
"Hi-tech marches on, but this is ridiculous!" I laughed, drying under a blast of 
warm air, then put on a terry cloth robe and went out to tell Gaia everything. 
I had last seen my wife in the nursery, where she had been humming while sorting 
things for the baby, and cheerfully wished me a "good hunt." Gaia wasn't there, 
but I felt a warm glow just looking around the little room, its walls decorated 
with hologram mobiles and floating planets. I had installed most of the nursery 
equipment myself, including the bottom-baster, with its simmering vat of Liquid 
Diaper. The flotation crib would be programmed to mimic my wife's heartbeat and 
other rhythms, comforting baby's first weeks with sensations familiar from the 
womb. 
_This_ was where my life was anchored, I thought. Not in some make-believe 
blyworld hunting band that femismo psychologists thought every modern man 
required. _My family._ For all its pollution, crowds and exhaustion, the real 
world was where you lived real life. 
"Gaia?" I asked, searching the living room. "You'll never guess what happened . 
. ." 
She wasn't there either. I tried the kitchen, throbbing with busy, scrabbling 
sounds of captive insects. Still no sign of her. 
_Funny,_ I thought. She hadn't said anything about another NatuBirth class 
tonight. 
"Computer, did my wife leave a message where she was going?" 
The control voice answered. _"Your wife hasn't left the apartment. She is in her 
Virtuality Room."_ 
"Ah . . . of course. Her turn. Must have gone in while I showered." 
I sat on the couch gingerly, still feeling tremors from this evening's hi-stress 
workout. I picked up the remote control and scanned tonight's cable listings. 
Besides the normal thousand channels of infotainment, there were amateur-vids, 
pubforums, hobby and spec-interest lines, two-way chatshows, and "Uncle Fred" 
showing slides of his blimp-ride to Everest. The usual stuff. I fell back on 
dialing a good book from the library, and actually stared at the first page of 
Robinson Crusoe for about ten minutes before pounding the cushion beside me. 
"Hell." 
I told myself I was getting up to fetch a drink . . . then to go to the can . . 
. then to look in the closet for my tennis shoes . . .. Maybe I'd go outside for 
an old-fashioned walk . . .. 
I found the sneakers where I'd left them, near the crack in the closet wall. 
Leaning close, I heard soft sounds coming from the room next door -- my wife's 
private sanctum. 
They weren't sounds of conversation, but exertion, heavy breathing. 
_Well, gatherers also used to work hard, netting fish, cutting wild grain . . 
.._ 
I knew I was rationalizing as I brought my eye to the crack. 
Wearing helmet and body suit, Gaia squatted much as the last time I had seen her 
in this place, hands outstretched and down before her, as if grasping something. 
Underneath, the treadmill-floor mimicked an oblong hummock which she straddled 
while strenuously rocking back and forth. Whatever she was doing in her private 
world, it apparently involved a lot of effort, for her head rocked back and I 
heard her moan aloud. 
I knew that sound. I looked again at the shape beneath her, and saw that it 
recreated no patch of ground, no fallen log. Even without goggles for seeing, 
earphones for hearing, or gloves for touching, I could tell the outline of a 
man. 
I needed those sneakers, after all. I left at once, and took a walk along the 
sky bridges lacing the gray metropolis at the forty story level, overlooking the 
maze of transport tubes and vibrating machinery which keeps the city alive. 
Looking up past the towering canyon walls of Chitown, I could see no stars, just 
a hazy glow diffused by pollutant haze. Late at night, I should have been 
grateful for the countless Public Safety cameras, peering from each lamp post. 
But they only made me feel conspicuous, _supervised_. On the veldt, you don't 
fear being victimized by a million strangers. Twenty thousand years ago there 
_were_ no strangers. All you needed was your tribe. 
I ducked into a local bar, under a 4-D holoneon sign with one dimension burned 
out. The beer was excellent, the atmosphere depressing. Other men sat nursing 
drinks, scrupulously avoiding eye contact with those around them. A wire-o in 
the corner kept dropping quarters into a stim-zap machine, then sticking his 
head under the hood for direct jolts of electric pleasure. His sighs were 
sterile, emotionless. 
Gaia's had been throaty, lusty. 
Now I knew where she had learned that provocative, swaying motion -- the one 
she'd used the last few times we made love. Apparently, she had a tutor, a good 
one. One I would never meet, let alone get to punch in the face. 
_Fair is fair,_ I thought. Hadn't I already rationalized my own encounter with 
sex-by-simulation, before finding out that Gaia was doing it first? If it fell 
into the category of masturbation for me, and not infidelity, then why not for 
her? 
_That's different!_ -- part of me replied. But hard as I tried, I couldn't see 
how. My "rival" was a phantom, no threat in real terms. He could never 
impregnate Gaia, or give her a disease, or boast of cuckolding me to my business 
partners, or ever take her away from me. 
What it really came down to was the mental image, provoking jealousy at a deep, 
gut level. Jealousy based on ancient drives a _civilized_ man should be able to 
overcome. 
I was no longer sure I wanted to be a civilized man. 
No, I didn't get roaring drunk, or provoke a fight with the big guy two stools 
down. I thought about it, but what the hell? By now I was much too skilled at 
killing to trust myself in a friendly brawl, out in the real world. Anyway, my 
neighbor also looked like he worked out. Maybe, for exercise, _he_ took scalps 
with Cochise, or rode with a VR Ghengiz Khan. Under our gray urban disguises, we 
can all be dangerous mysteries. 
I paid up and left. 
Gaia was dozing on the couch when I got back, or pretending to be. She seemed 
relieved to have me home, and I tried not to show my inner turmoil. I turned on 
the TV wall and she, sensing it wiser, went to bed. 
Half an hour later, I slipped into my body suit and re-entered my private world. 

Weeks passed. Gaia grew larger. We spoke little. 
My consulting firm finally won the Taiko Tech account, worth millions. I rushed 
home and celebrated with Ankle by first killing a lion, then making love by a 
cool bend in the river. We lay together, listening to locusts and the wind in 
the swaying branches, while a dry heat seemed to suck all the dank, fetid odors 
of the office out of my skin. Tension at work had left knots up and down my 
spine, which Ankle worked out with her strong hands. 
She listened quietly to my recitation of setbacks and victories in the corporate 
world, clearly understanding none of it. That didn't matter. My VR people knew 
and accepted that their chief spent most of his time far away, in the Land of 
Gods. In a way, Ankle was the perfect, uncritical sounding board. 
If only it had been that simple dealing with the hanging, unspoken tension 
between me and Gaia. Ankle would have listened to that, too, but what was there 
to say? 
The whole thing was preposterous and my fault. Why should it bother me what my 
wife did in fantasy play? 
It did bother me. It was starting to split us apart. 
"I want to show you something," Ankle announced, picking up her clothes and 
evading my grasp. "Come," she urged. "Long Stick can send some boys for the 
lion. There is something nearby you must see." 
I shrugged into my tunic. "What is it?" 
She only smiled and motioned for me to follow. Still wrestling to lace my 
moccasins, I tried to keep up as she led me toward a forested rise. It lay in 
the direction of "Camp," the fictitious home base I had never seen during all of 
my workouts with small groups of hunters. It would have taken so much computing 
power to process a full tribe that it simply never occurred to me to journey in 
this direction. 
We reached the top of the rise and soon picked up faint sounds . . . human 
voices, talking and laughing. We approached stealthily, crawling the last few 
meters to peer over a steep bluff. There we saw, a couple of hundred meters 
downslope, a small gathering of people clustered around an oak tree. They were 
using tall poles to bat away at an object high in the branches. Occasionally, 
one of them dropped her pole and hopped about, swatting at the air while others 
laughed. 
_Gatherers,_ I realized. _Going after a beehive._ This was my first glimpse of 
the other half of my "tribe". Calmly, I noted that many were accompanied by 
children . . . and that one of the unaccompanied ones was decidedly pregnant . . 
.. 
My breath suddenly caught as I recognized the rotund, laughing figure. 
All this time, Gaia and I had played in our own pretend neolithic worlds, and 
never guessed they were different parts of the same tribe! 
It hadn't started out that way. We had bought the original versions of our 
programs separately, before we even met. But in retrospect it seemed an obvious 
thing for the computer to do . . . to save memory space by pooling our 
adventures in the same metaphorical landscape. 
"It affects us," Ankle said. 
"Who?" 
"We. Your folk." She motioned toward the gatherers, slapped her own chest, and 
waved toward the east, where the hunting parties roamed. "It hurts us." 
"What hurts you?" I asked, perplexed, distracted. 
"The break . . . the pain between you two." 
I was too confused, too curious about this new turn of events to follow what she 
was saying. I peered at the figures below, and saw two _men_ among the women 
down there, helping to steal honey. Just as some women could be hunters, certain 
males might choose the rites and rhythms of gathering. Probably, one of them was 
my rival, Gaia's synthetic paramour. 
Suddenly it seemed important to get closer. But as I made ready, Ankle stopped 
me. 
"You cannot," she said. 
"What do you mean?" 
"Certain charms are needed. To unite us. Unite the tribe." 
"Charms? 
She nodded. "From the Land of Gods." 
After a pause. " . . . Oh, I get it." 
She meant more memory, much more. Until recently, I had hunted with just one 
companion, then ten or so. Joining the two simulated worlds, depicting several 
score personified characters, would take more power than our house console 
possessed. 
But that was no problem now! I had a big raise coming. I could go right out and 
buy the chips on credit! My fist clenched in anticipation. By this time 
tomorrow, I'd get a much closer look at the bastard who . . . 
Suddenly, the laughter below broke under a single, warbling cry. One of the 
women dropped her pole and doubled over in agony, clutching her swollen abdomen. 

I didn't stop to think. With a bellow I came to my feet, running downhill toward 
the petite form, writhing amid a cluster of anxious women. "Gaia!" I cried, 
frustrated that the ground grew tarry with each step. The gatherers, too, seemed 
to blur around the edges as I neared, one heavy step at a time. The earth 
trembled and Ankle clutched my arm. 
"Not that way!" she screamed, cringing as I whirled in anger. "You must go!" She 
slapped the side of her head, then pointed to mine. 
Damn the realism of it all! 
Cursing, I tore off the helmet, gashing my cheek on the strap. The body suit 
still formed a matrix of other-world sensations -- hot savannah wind and gritty 
moccasins. But abruptly my eyes saw a tiny, off-white chamber, its coarse floor 
of needles mimicking a steep hillside. Sense-conflict made me sway in confusion 
as I dove for the door. 
"I'm coming Gaia!" I cried, stumbling into the hallway in haste to reach my 
wife. 
They're making a big deal out of it. I've been interviewed on some of the lesser 
zines. There's even talk of reviving childbirth classes for husbands. But it's 
just silly, all the fuss. Any other man would've done the same. What matters is 
that everything turned out all right. 
Tommy junior thrives as his stim-crib eases him into the gaudy multi-world. 
He'll grow up in Chitown, and on Mars, in mythic Greece and a neolithic clan. 
He'll roam forests, to know what we've lost. As a teen, he'll live out fantasies 
lads of my time only imagined. Still, even his generation should learn to tell 
what's real. _Reality_ is what still hurts when you take the suit off. 
Gaia and I solved our problems once our tribes united. Each of us still plays 
with personas now and then. Despite all the sudden yammerings of the neo-prudes 
-- who could resist? Anyway, we always come home to each other, and that's what 
counts. Virtuality is fun -- it's good to be the Chief -- but nothing matches 
the sweetness of her real skin, or the unpredictability of her real mind. 
My blood pressure is low. My arteries are squeaky-clean and muscles wiry, 
strong. I stay a little hungry, like my ancestors, and may live past a hundred. 
In a cramped world of twelve billion souls, I can run for hours seeing no one 
but gazelles, or a lonely hawk. 
Lions know to give me a wide berth. 
Let others be gods in their private realms. I'm content to be a man. 
Give me time. I'm even learning to like termites. 
----- 
This ASCII representation is the copyrighted property of 
the author. You may not r