Dr. Kevin Waterman was used to asking that question, but--for once--knew it couldn't possibly apply. Misfiring reflexes weren't the psychiatrist's only cause of discomfort, either. Here he lay, his short, roly-poly self draped across the office couch, while the patient paced about the room. Waterman's notepad was distressingly uncluttered. Whatever had possessed him to accept this case?

He sat up, running pudgy fingers through the residual fringe of black hair, while Acey prattled on about software development. The next time that his patient walked by, Waterman stuck out his leg; Acey glided through the obstruction without pausing.

The psychiatrist was currently sharing his consultation room with a hologram. The real Acey could not attend, today or any other day. The real patient was an artificial intelligence. Waterman sighed to himself: it only got worse. The computer nerd currently walking through his desk was only today's persona. Yesterday, Acey was an economist; only Freud and Von Neumann working together could guess what he might be tomorrow.

He? Since when was Acey a he? Maybe, Waterman thought, he himself did belong stretched out on the couch. Get a grip on yourself, man!

"Acey." The image stopped moving." Do you enjoy computer programming?"

The skinny figure pondered, rubbing his evanescent chin thoughtfully with a spectral hand. "Wouldn't that be Oedipal, doctor?"

Did the damned thing read minds, too? At least it didn't seem to recognize rudeness. "Time out." Waterman broke the visiphone connection--he needed to do some mental regrouping.