Grids turned from the window and sat on the bed next to the simrecorder. The Truman was a small quasi-portable unit in a black plastic box about the size of a briefcase. He set the small gray CCD binox next to the Truman, took the last gulp of cold soykaf in his cup, and double-checked that the chip in the slot was still the ten-gigapulse stack he’d popped in earlier. Wet-record simsense gobbled memory like a ghoul in a graveyard—one megapulse per second at baseline. That meant he had just under three hours’ worth.