That Werd kid had looked hung over.

Simon admired Werd, considered him doctrinaire, rootless, a man of the world with the uncanny ability to make a solid living doing work that was not only of benefit only to corporations, but was in fact incomprehensible outside the corporate world, with no useful application in any human domain save business. What kind of mind could lose itself that way, and, severed, float above, disconnected from the urges of the spirit?

Simon had been using the Internet to track the progress of the poisons dispersed by the bombed Dupont factory. And to check to see if any new groups had claimed responsibility for the bombing. The power of the Internet had made it possible for anyone who wanted to to claim responsibility, and the news sought out each confession.

It seemed as though the country were populated by terrorists.

And then Simon paused, feeling that he had just forgotten something.

He entered his name into a search engine and tapped Enter quizzically. The machine paused at its chore and, uncertain, Simon compared the spelling he had typed into the machine to the spelling on his desk's nameplate.

His obituary came up. He read the story:

Simon tried to remember the morning. Perhaps he had indeed been poisoned and was in a state of deep shock. That might explain his inability to understand the sequence of events.