Eighth Circle

'For example, suppose that you were once a renowned musician. Your present situation precludes you from appearing in person but that does not mean you cannot continue to perform through a surrogate. He or she takes the credit for a top performance and you have the satisfaction of exercising you musical talents. It is an excellent relationship which benefits both parties.'

'Will my implant be done by a surrogate?' Tom asked.

'It will, Professor. The hand that wields the scalpel will be that of a surrogate. The brain that controls the hand will be that of a distinguished surgeon with over three-hundred-years' experience at the operating table.'

'Where is the implant going?'

'In your shoulder, Professor.'

'Nowhere near my brain?'

'Certainly not. Only those who have been elevated to the final stage of immortality can receive an implant in the brain. You will have to wait for at least a hundred years before you can receive that honour.'

The chancellor glanced at his tablet.

'Oh. How time flies. I must leave you now. Your surgeon won't be long. Just sit here and make yourself at home.'

***

A palace troll appeared and bowed deeply. Tom despised them. They occupied privileged positions as servants to the high and mighty and that gave them an inflated opinion of themselves.

'The esteemed surgeon awaits your pleasure.'

They could never call a spade a spade.

'Would Your Excellency pray proceed.'

Their language was flowery in the extreme. Tom assumed that his turn had come and followed the troll to the end of a long corridor. A man in a white gown, with a blue sash, appeared in a doorway.

'Professor Carter. This is a great honour.'

He summoned Tom into a small room.

'It is not often that we welcome a new member to our fellowship.'

Tom figured he was hearing one of the immortals speaking through the mouth of a mortal man and guessed that the brain working the lips was back in the racks in the building he had just come from.

'We met a few moments ago but you probably don't recognise me.'

He beamed at Tom as if he had made a joke.

'Third row, fourth jar from the right ... 3R4R for short.'

'I don't recognise you,' Tom agreed.

'There is no reason why you should.' The man smiled. 'Indeed, I prefer it like that. Being in a jar gives you the sort of anonymity you wish you had when you were still trundling around on two legs. I now have ten pairs of legs and ten entirely different persona. That suits me very well.'