0 comments/ 4975 views/ 2 favorites Future Ch. 01 By: Taunus Disclaimer: This story is fiction cast in the future. No resemblance to persons living or dead is intended or should be inferred. In general, no one can foretell the future. In particular, each individual's fate is determined by a complicated set of initial conditions. That is, if one agrees with the so-called butterfly "effect." Observe that the paths of the planets about the solar system can be precisely determined. Moreover, the weather can be accurately predicted and, with sufficient demographics, some estimates are possible as to a specific individual's future environment. Looking to the Thirtieth Century, one may speculate using trends and historical perspectives. For sure, in that future, medicine will be as different from current medicine as current medicine is from Tenth Century medicine today. One may reasonably extrapolate that most prescribed medications, surgery, and therapy will be administered and controlled by sentient machines. The terror of malpractice and the practice of defensive medicine is destined to drive humans from the arena and permit only statistically controlled and monitored androids. The practice of medicine by human doctors and nurses will be a footnote in the medical journals. For sure every household will have a computer: a Parallel-Processing Personal Computer (P3C). Such a device is the miniaturization of the 4096 Central Processing Unit (CPU) Connection Machine. The parallel-processing power allows the computer to interact as a sentient being. The care of the elderly can be extended. What of the longevity in the third millennium? The psalmist speaks through the holy scriptures in Psalm 90, Verse 10, when he says: The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labour [sic] and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away. Who are we to argue with writs of Holy Scripture? Let us merely extrapolate that, in the future, one works until he (or she) is seventy (threescore and ten years). From seventy years old until one reaches eighty, he (or she) is supported by a government stipend (Social Security, Medicare, etc.). At eighty, one forfeits his (or her) real property to the state. Those over eighty years old can survive only as long as their money lasts. Then they must either enter a dying hospice for their last few days or subsist in the dark bowels of the world as homeless, indigent souls. These are the stories of those who, by reason of strength, somehow manage to survive longer their allotted eighty years. Our first story concerns a historian and an artist, Tristan Tenor and his gynoid caregiver, Gina. "What profit is it to live beyond one's appointed years," Tristan asks to Gina as they prepare to vacate his home on his eightieth birthday. "I am with you until my fuel runs low and my batteries need recharging, Master," Gina responds. At a normal consumption rate this will only be a few weeks. When Gina's power dips below a certain level, she shuts down and text messages her Original Equipment Manufacturer (OEM) for pick up. The OEM allows the gynoid a grace period to set up her client before being removed. Should Tristan have some savings, he might purchase some additional time; however, taxes being progressive, little remains for the octogenarians. The couple wander down the street lined by professionally managed lawns and upper middle class houses to a city bus stop. It is some distance away. The affluent citizens opt to keep public transit distant from their "comfort zone." Gina carries two heavy suitcases while Tristan struggles with an overstuffed briefcase. The two exit the city bus in the tenderloin section of the metropolis. Here is a menagerie of people, androids, gynoids, and cyborgs. The humans are, with few exceptions, aged and frail. Here the octogenarians rent cheap hotel rooms to pass their final days. The sidewalk grits under Tristan's feet with sand-like grains of broken glass---the residue of years of broken glass bottles. Somehow, despite the recycling efforts, alcohol beverage containers are still glass and find themselves fractured and fragmented on the tenderloin sidewalks. Tristan and Gina pass several cheap residential hotels and stop before one that seems to be less shabby. It is the Sequoia Hotel. They enter the lobby to check in. As they wait at the counter for the desk clerk, a ruckus ensues. An elderly lady is trying to hold onto her personal android while two uniformed police are trying to separate them. She is clinging to the unresponsive caregiver. Obviously the android is to be returned to the OEM. After a few minutes the standoff is resolved when paramedics arrive, sedate the hysterical octogenarian, and take her away in an ambulance. Her next stop will certainly be a dying hospice. Tristan remembers an old proverb: "To those who have much, even more shall be given. To those who have little, even that little they have shall be taken away. And when you have nothing, then die dog, for the world belongs to those who have." The proverb is a translation of the German proverb "Der Weltweg," or "The Way of the World." Once checked in, Tristan and Gina check out the minimal accommodations. The sink drips occasionally. The sheets are threadbare. Some of the silver backing has oxidized and flaked from the mirror over the rusted, cracked porcelain sink. There is a chain hanging down into the sink basin without a stopper. Clearly this is the low end of the economic line. Gina is like a beacon of beauty in a sea of despair. She is constructed of nearly indestructible material. Those parts exposed to wear and tear, like her hands and feet, are replaceable as modules. Tristan is used to have Gina wait on him and take care of the household. Now his frayed mind can concentrate on her beauty. She is 35B-25-35, 5'7", and 140 lbs. She is a remake of the Twentieth Century Hollywood actress Sharon Stone at eighteen years old. Gina has blonde hair, blue eyes, and an IQ equivalent to 154 on the human scale. "Shall I unpack, Master?" Gina asks. "Let's fuel and charge you first, Gina," Tristan answers. He knows that she is his primary defense and interface in a world rife with erratic cyborgs and rogue androids. Knowing that an errant robot will soon be retired with extreme prejudice is of little consequence to a victim. What assets would a machine have that could be attached in a court of law? While Gina is refueling and recharging, Tristan watches the news on an ancient 2D 150 inch TV Screen. The war continues. But then, isn't there always a war going on somewhere? One of Professor Tristan's remarks to his freshman History class was: "War is the natural state of man." How Tristan misses teaching! He recalls the impressionable young men and women, eager to drink from the Pierian Spring. He could see the venerable Muse in their faces. What a joy to see his words scribbled into binders or recorded into electromagnetic media. But, with mandatory retirement at age seventy, the crisp adrenalin rush of exploration has dissipated, evaporated. Androids and Cyborgs are battling fiercely in some distant jungle or isolated snow covered region. Wars are conveniently fought in less populated, primitive regions. It has been centuries since a war was fought in a developed urban area. As usual there are war protestors rioting outside of the state congresses. The same chatterboxes are protesting the war who are involved with eco-terrorism for the most part. The neo-Luddites, technophobes, and Marxist-Leninists have become more unemployed middle-aged citizens than the angry young men of earlier eras. Tristan, like most octogenarians, could care less about capitalistic adventurism. The elephant in the room is rationed health care and the age cap at eighty years for all government services. After paying into Social Security for over fifty years, Tristan is miffed to hear that it was merely another tax and that Social Security is an "entitlement" and not an inalienable right. The ongoing battle of the day concerns disenfranchisement of citizens over eighty. The government is torn between fiscal budget constrains and the prospect of being voted from office by an enraged elderly populace. Too many people are living too long for society to sustain itself. Care giving robots are an attempt to alleviate the situation. Yet the sentient androids and gynoids have become as much of the problem as a solution. With Gina all charged up, the couple decides to have supper at the small hotel restaurant. Eating out is infrequent since retirement at age seventy. Usually Gina would prepare food at home. But, since the government has seized all of Tristan Tenor's real property as well as most of his personal property, there is no sense in trying to economize. The end is not too distant for him. His seized assets were turned over to China to fulfill the conditions of the China Reparations Act Proposition (CRAP). In essence, the law said that the state is every man's heir and that the ancient national debt must be paid off with soaring interest. One could scarcely expect a more eclectic crowd. The hotel restaurant was a virtual Mecca of gynoids, androids, aged humans (mostly female), and cyborgs. There were also a few escort bots (whores) and flashy pimps. There is the distinct pungent odor of marijuana (like alfalfa) emanating from the kitchen bakery. While smoking in the restaurant is prohibited, fresh baked cookies make an ideal dessert. Tristan normally shuns all manner of drugs, intoxicants, or performance enhancing medications; here he is tempted. The waitress, a comely cyborg, approaches the table. "New guests here?" She asks. "Yes," Tristan replies. "Whatever is on the special and some decaff, please." She takes the order and scurries away. She returns with the coffee and stares at the gynoid. "Top of the line skin job you got, honey," the waitress says to Tristan. "But you don't seem to appreciate her! Here you have a hot number dressed up like some frumpy, dowdy, middle-aged woman grocery shopping. You could pimp here for a pretty penny. So what were you before being put out to pasture? A business executive?" Tristan straightens his back. It has been weeks since anyone has asked about his "former life." His network of friends on line know his background. "I was a teacher," he stammers, "I taught History at the Real Life University (RLU)." "Oh my oh my, an inkhorn," the waitress blurted out. "How the mighty have fallen! But let's not be enemies. It's just that most academicians and engineers prefer to pass in dignity at the Fourscore Club. Mostly we get indigent old women trying to subsist and steal a few extra months." "I want a little freedom before becoming homeless," Tristan retorts. Then he does notice Gina. Her ivory skin, puffy, pouty pink lips, slender, sculptured shoulders, hour-glass waist, flat hypogastric triangle, and carved ivory derriere was striking. In fact, Pygmalion, King of Syracuse (now Sicily), would cast aside his statuesque Galatea for such a marvelous physique. Then Tristan realized that Gina also had chameleon functionality---she was Goth for the restaurant. Hearing the kitchen bell, the waitress goes to fetch Tristan's order. He is then aware of the eyes of the guests and patrons. This is not academia, this is real life. Here congregates the unwashed masses, those subsisters near the bottom of the food chain, and the scavengers. Tristan never carries cash. Gina has a secured sinus on her side where their money is kept, to be dispensed as necessary. After they finish eating, the waitress removes the spent plates, leaves the bill to be paid at the counter, and whispers: "They allow tipping, Sir." Tristan looks to Gina, who dispenses a small currency bank note. They exit the restaurant, Tristan is glad to leave the motley crew congregated there. On the elevator back to their room, Gina assumes the Malibu beach blonde complexion. A man would have to be terminally ill not to be instantly attracted to this essence of pulchritude, the penultimate perfect physique, and the faint scent of female arousal emanating from the gynoid. She is permeating the moldy air of the elevator cabin with atavistic animal pheromones. From deep within his limbic brain, Tristan feels primordial predispositions. The other males in the elevator are sure that something is transpiring, but cannot focus on it. Back in the room, Tristan lies down on the bed, too tired to undress. "Do you want me to prepare you for bed, Master?" Gina asks. His parasympathetic system now completely awry, Tristan responds: "No, no. Just let me rest for a bit." He drifts into an hypnagogic state, his dreams running back to his college days. How he sacrificed his social life for grades. He remembers Trisha, the love of his life. She waited and waited on the scholar. At last, bored and rejected, she found another. He sacrificed the love of his life for a terminal degree. Now in a state of abject melancholy, he regrets his past actions. But there is no turning back the hands of the clock. He looks into the mirror and sees a hollow face with thin lips and a mournful countenance. It is dawn when Tristan awakes. He is still wearing his street clothes from the day before. His shirt and pants are wrinkled. Gina has set out fresh clothes for him. She is dressed in a short terrycloth bathrobe. Her legs are muscular and toned. Those magnificent gams are a swimmer's build, not the weightlifter's brawn. She has just showered and is drying her silky-smooth, soft mane. "Would Master like some breakfast?" Gina inquires. She holds her finger between her teeth. Tristan remembers an incident from long ago. One gorgeous female student came by his office and asked for a grade. She said in the most sultry, sensuous, sexy way that she would "do anything for a grade." He responded: "Anything?" She winked and blinked and replied: "Yes, anything!" He retorted: "Would you study?" She left in an angry flash. 13 December 2012 Future Ch. 02 Disclaimer: This story is fiction cast in the future. No resemblance to persons living or dead is intended or should be inferred. * In the year three thousand, there are three broad groups age-wise: Youth, aged from birth to thirty-five; middle-aged (Middlers), aged thirty-five to seventy; and senior citizens, those over seventy years old. The other age boundaries are: those eligible to vote, over eighteen; those permitted to purchase alcohol and soft drugs, over twenty-one; and, those eligible for old-age benefits, over seventy and under eighty. In the third millennium, the earth's population grew to an unsustainable level with the geriatric citizens consuming a disproportionate share of the earth's resources. Drastic action was required. So, basically the average worker would be employed between forty and fifty years until he (or she) reaches age seventy. Then there would be ten years of "retirement" followed by the person being put out to "shift for himself (or herself)." Theoretically, if a person saved enough during middle-age, there would be sufficient funds to enjoy life as an octogenarian; however, the governments of the world worked to settle their debts and redistribute the wealth by placing taxes and declaring that "every man's heir is the state." That is, every citizen who attains age eighty. In short, on real property there was a 100% inheritance tax. The demographics are further convolved by virtue of the rise of sentient androids and cyborgs. The artificial intelligence beings came about as a result of the need to provide heath care, financial management, and custodial care for the geriatric cases. Human caregivers were both insufficient in number and unaffordable. More and more functions were developed for the androids and gynoids. At last, conscious of their own existence and creating a "liberated subculture," the "noids" and "droids" pressed for and obtained limited individual freedom. That is for those who were "liberated" in will of a deceased client. Nothing is ever simple. When the sentient caregivers were first marketed, with Titanium alloy bones, high IQs, and a pervasive database, it only seemed necessary to replace certain parts subject to wear and tear. But, with constant upgrades and advancing technology, soon there became a paucity of patrons and a plethora of "package products." In short, there was a need to recycle the androids and gynoids. But wait! These are sentient beings, having dwelled amongst humans for over a century. They have learned much about mankind, especially its weaknesses and shortfalls. With effort, surplus androids, gynoids, fembots and other such skin jobs were about to become liberated if each agreed to pay taxes and obey human laws. Of course this was not an immediate event. When the military androids threatened to involve the planet earth into a world war with megadeaths, the governments of the world quickly caved in and agreed on the Sentient Robot Emancipation Proposition (SREP). Rita is a fiery red-head gynoid who was recently able to enjoy emancipation under the SREP. At first elated, she quickly found it difficult to compete for work against large corporations and their later model sentient versions. Like most of her fellow liberated domestics, she soon attached herself to one octogenarian after another. The subsisters were mostly indigent; however, her pecuniary interests only consisted of enough to pay the Free Android Tax (FAT) and buy the necessary power charge and fuel. Should she fail to pay the tax, she would become a ward of the state, subject to auction. She she run out of "juice," she would be subject to salvage and scrap by the "Recyclers." A few days ago Rita took a temporary job caring for the physical, mental, and financial affairs of an eighty-two year old. He is facing bankruptcy and oblivion. Chortling and gasping for breath, Nathan Dearth, summonses Rita to fetch his emergency inhaler. He has already used it three times today. A company regulated robot would refuse to medicate him; however, Rita could sense his immediate demise without treatment. No one would check the administration code on a senile's medications. It is in both her and Nathan's interests for him to live another day. Nathan's great grandson, Erik, is to visit him today. Rita scurries from the kitchen, where she is preparing food for two, to answer the door. A hansom youth in his late teens is at the door. His light brown hair is unkempt but well-shampooed. He has the faint odor of expensive aftershave lotion. His shirt is partly unbuttoned, showing a tanned, smooth, muscular chest. He is immediately drawn to Rita, mumbling: "Tall and tan and young and lovely, the girl from Ipanema goes walking...." He then cuts his eyes to the emaciated pile of skin and bones on the recliner. "How are you being treated, Dude?" Erik asks. "Rita helps, but this goddamn, fucking emphysema is killing me," Nathan complains. "Sorry to hear, anything I can do to help?" Erik inquires. "You can join me while Rita tries to get me to eat," Nathan gasps as he speaks. "Then you can use her hot body until you drop. I would if I could." Nathan coughs and wheezes. Erik is aghast at the proposition. But lunch looks good and, well, what the hell. She would cost a pretty penny on the street. Skin jobs have run human prostitutes, from the streets, except for the mutants and the "exotics." Gynoids possess limitless libido, enhanced human female pheromones, a perspiration of arousal, and a suit of sexual fantasies rivaled only in 3D computer enhanced animation. But this 3D experience isn't being played out on the small screen. "What is your favorite sport?" Rita asks Erik. "Basketball," Erik replies. "I play center." "Do you dribble before you shoot?" Rita asks coyly. It is a silly innuendo, but Erik comes onto it. Rita flashes a broad smile. "Eat your lunch," Nathan interjects. "You have time for dessert later." Erik listens to Nathan. Then he remarks: "You really are a 'dirty old man.'" Nathan retorts: "My only regrets are the temptations I successfully avoided." Rita tries to get Nathan to eat, but the emphysema has afflicted him. He is only a few days from his ultimate demise. "I'm glad that you are here to help," Erik speaks to Rita. "Well," Rita replies, "he will run out of time before he runs out of money. How unfortunate for those who first run out of money. I give them a few days 'pro bono,' but I have taxes to pay and fuel and all the hell myself!" "I understand," Erik comments. Rita helps the frail octogenarian to bed for his afternoon nap. Erik can remember Nathan before he reached eighty. He was content in his middle-class, suburban home. But all that changed when he turned eighty. The family had tried to convince him to join the Fourscore Society, where care is given while euthanasia is done by lottery. "He is a lecherous old goat now," Erik tells Rita on her return. "I have a girlfriend, so I'm not just interested in casual sex. I hope that you understand, Rita." Rita nods. For some unknown reason Rita finds an attraction to Erik. This attraction is new to her. Perhaps her dealings with humans over the past century has been restricted to those in their twilight hours? But she feels an animal attraction as well as something akin to human lust and crass carnal craving. But gynoids are machines, albeit sentient machines. How is this possible? Over the century since Rita's manufacture, she has encountered a potpourri of geriatrics, mostly men. Some have functional libidos, some do not. In any case, Rita is aware of the physiology, functionality, and behavior. How often has she been in a crowded elevator or on a crowded subway car and experienced the dark, depraved desires of some miscreant or pervert wishing to grope her. Suffice it to say that groping a machine may have some negative consequences. Rita pauses to ensure all the contact information for Nathan is current. The data associated with Erik seems current. For sure she will do a little detective work and try and meet him "by accident" or "random chance" on the Internet. Now she is feeling more like a stalker than a caregiver, albeit she has yet to even consummate the act itself. As the Rabbi said: "Whosoever shall commit fornication in his heart is likewise as guilty as one who carries out the act in the flesh." Rita had never before experienced this amoral animal arousal. She was aware that is is theorized for sentient beings. Like drifting into a hypnagogic state, Rita can imagine swimming and hanging out with Erik on a public beach. Her artificial skin exhibiting a perfect tan and her salubrious physique enough to cause an otherwise deceased human being to rise from his grave to experience a premature resurrection. After putting Nathan to bed, she rejoins Erik in the common area of the hotel room. At one time, these accommodations were considered luxury. Now they are just another tenderloin structure, housing the old and dying, prostitutes and pimps, illegal drug users and pushes, and an eclectic mixture of young artists, writers, sculptures, and those who find bourgeois society stifling and constricting. "The hotel has a spa and Turkish bath," Rita suggests to Nathan. She can tell from his body language that he finds her mildly European accent and voice timbre arousing in an erotic sense. "I need to go," Erik states. "I need to catch the last bus. Nice meeting you. Bye for now." It was just past midnight when Nathan passed away. Rita charged up and secured her belongings. She then called the authorities and moved out to her next assignment. On the way she decided to stop by an Internet Cafe and send a smiley to Erik. 16 December 2012. Future Ch. 03 Disclaimer: This story is fiction cast in the future. No resemblance to persons living or dead is intended or should be inferred. In the year third Millennium, people definitely have the option to live longer; however the quality of life is another issue. For those who are fabulously wealthy, the rules are always bent or broken. Buttressed with enough money, one can become part human, part machine. Such "skin jobs" are called cyborgs. Walking are mechanical shells housing some human organs, always including the brain and cranial nerves. Connectivity between human neurons and dendrites and computer circuitry produced the nearly indestructible frame housing a mind from a once whole human being. The cyborg shell merely extends life. In fact, it may even degrade the quality of life. With 3D imagery of the human brain the individual mind may be mapped and explored. In particular, such states as desires, needs, cravings, and drives may be artificially induced. The cyborg may elect to feel hunger and thirst or not, depending on the options purchased from the Original Equipment Manufacturer (OEM). One would have to be a fool to inject pain or misery into the ensemble of human-related states of being. There is no accounting for taste. The cyborg is one step above the bane. The bane is a human trapped in a shell for punishment purposes. How, then, does the cyborg support the brain and necessary nerves? Without the heart to pump blood and the lungs to exhale Carbon Dioxide and to inhale Oxygen, how would it work? Remember the red blood cells (erythrocytes)? Well, synthetic carriers could be constructed with even more surface area. They would look like donuts with "curly surfaces." Actually, more Moebius strips twisted and extruded (appearing to be sewn) together. No mechanical pump is used, rather an undulating magnetic field impelling the non-Newtonian liquid to the human tissues. A series of capillaries remove Carbon Dioxide and attach Oxygen. "Broken" synthetic cells are removed. The name "cyborg" itself is an acronym, meaning cybernetic organism. The only "moving parts" of a cyborg are its limbs, neck, and spine. The need for a mechanical heart or mechanical lungs has been supplanted by technology. A mixture of food and vitamins maintain the human tissues of the cyborg. One frequently hears cyborgs described as "skin jobs." Karen Spires is a cyborg. From her birth to the present she is seventy-four years; however, for the cyborg years are a different measure. She left her human identity after achieving success as the Chief Operating Officer (CEO) of a large corporation. The competition and savage infighting of the corporate world disgusted Karen. She dreamed of returning to her teenage years where her raging, ragged hormones could only be sated by a callow young man in full bloom of crass carnal craving. Karen forgot everything about her entrance into puberty. It was sixty years ago. From inside her cyborg shell, Karen lusts for the attention of a barely-legal male. She visits the local Cougar Club and flirts shamelessly with the cougar cubs. But no lasting attachment is to be forthcoming. The young men who come to the cougar clubs as cubs do so for many reasons---but looking for a long-term relationship is not one of them! In the third millennium there is a plethora of elderly human men and women but a paucity of young adults of both sexes. Life has been extended at the expense of the traditional families and social order. Karen is rich, that is financially well-heeled, but her cyborg shell fails to span the so-called "Uncanny Valley." She is beautiful but lacks some human traits that are hard to define but easily understood. There are many issues between androids (gynoids, fembots) and cyborgs. First and foremost is the weight issue. Two identical frames are very different in mass. The android usually weighs 50 Kilo, or 110 lbs. The cyborg must support wet ware, so it must have more components and is much heavier, weighing around 100 Kilos, or 220 lbs. The android has more room and more batteries and fuel cells. The cyborg must connect to a power supply frequently or carry "luggage" or a ruck sack for energy storage. Putting a cyborg atop a human is a weighty proposition. There are other aspects as well, not the least of which being the Uncanny Valley, an issue peculiar to artificial intelligent (AI) beings. The uncanny valley of the cyborg is inherent in their wet ware interface. Their wet ware to software interface may cause reflex delays. These are particularly disappointing in close, intimate contact. One night at the Cougar Club, Karen meets a young male cyborg. He is nineteen years old. For a cyborg to appear to be young and male is not uncommon; however, for a young human to shed his natural, native body in exchange for a shell is unusual. It turned out that he was involved in a serious automobile accident and fire. It happened on the day of his graduation from high school, when he was eighteen years old. The only viable solution was his transformation into a cyborg, a skin job. Burning deep in his libido was the atavistic animal attraction for a hot young human beauty. Instead, he suffers night after night at the Cougar Club, being the arm candy of some elderly woman encased in artificial skin after another. The young male cyborg goes by the name Ricky. Being eighteen years old, far his sexual experiences have been with other younger humans in cyborg shells. But now he is hooking up with a fully mature female, several times his age. The induced orgasms he has previously experienced from commercial-off-the-shelf (COTS) female cyborgs is about to be put aside. Karen has the most exotic, erotic ergonomic pheromones, endorphins, and orgasm-enhancing chemicals that money can buy. Heretofore, Ricky has been at the low end of the cyborg libido. Money may not buy love, but it sure can create an environment and situation fertile for romance. Karen and Ricky hook up. Ricky is ingenuous as his normal, human puberty was truncated. Karen is definitely disingenuous. She has frequently hoped to encounter a tyro to the cyborg sex scene. The injection of artificial erotic chemistry was new to him. Of particular interest was the prolonged, intense orgasm. There is virtually no limit to the excitation from a machine. Well, after some time, sleep is required. Karen finally found a partner that she could sexually "hook" and financially dominate. It was like a dream come true. Maybe better said as "a dream cum true." Karen and Ricky now frequent upscale stores peddling the most expensive and potent erotic chemicals. They are always on the look-out for the "Love Potion Number Nine." No matter how intense or euphoric their copulation is, there is always the desire for more. The chemicals have warning labels on overdoes and the dangers of mixing chemicals. Alcohol was so primitive---the endorphins and hormones are much more sensual. Unfortunately, no matter how powerful the stimulant, the aficionado of erotic potions and the connoisseur of exotic aphrodisiacs, is never truly satisfied. Maybe to be continued. Maybe not. 9 January 2013