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decision to work for Chronos. But there’s something I want you to know... Max," her voice grew stronger. "Cryonics isn’t the only solution. There’s another option, too."
    I pricked up my ears. "Which is?"
    "Have you ever tried playing computer games? Those online multiplayer ones?"
    I winced again. "I used to. A lot. Really a lot."
    "Are you a professional gamer, then? You know all about these things, do you?"
    "No, I don’t," I crumpled the paper napkin and shoved it into an unfinished soft drink. "You need to earn serious money to be called a pro. You must use your skill to help push the product, or at least to farm elite items to sell, or rush newbies. I was   a regular hardcore shithead, excuse my French. Spent twelve hours a day playing. I’ve pissed away my friends, my girl and my studies. Only when my Dad died in a car accident and my Mom was left on my hands handicapped for life, only then did I manage to pull myself away from the monitor. I freaked out and formatted the disks. Since then I don’t even read gaming news for fear of a relapse."
    Olga sniffled again. I made a mental note not to go ballistic every five seconds. I was getting too easy to wind up. My nerves were like live wires.
    "I’m sorry, Olga. I’m just tired. And it still hurts me to talk about it. So what’s that option you mentioned? What’s that got to do with gaming?"
    "Have you ever heard anything about going perma mode? You haven’t. That’s funny. It’s all over the news these days. Even on television. Officially, the problem doesn’t even exist. State TV won’t touch it with a barge pole. But us – despite all our aggressive marketing tactics, our customer database has dropped seventy percent. That’s sensitive information, of course, so I haven’t told you anything-"
    "Just spit it out," I butted in. "I don’t give a damn about your sensitive shit. What’s this perma stuff you’re on about?"
    "Please understand, I’m not an expert. I don’t think I can explain it correctly. Look it up. It’s all over the Internet."
    "I will. Thanks for the tip. I owe you one. Do you like champagne?"
    "I prefer flowers."
    "Agreed. Flowers and champagne," I couldn't help smiling.
    I thanked her some more and mumbled a hasty goodbye. Then I   jumped into my trusty Korean tin can and headed back home, the new hope forcing my foot down. In less than an hour, I was sitting in front of my computer screen taking in search results.
    The Internet community was in a frenzy. Apparently, about two years ago, gaming blogs, portals and clan forums had been flooded with the first scary reports as more and more people had become stuck in a game for good. Nothing could sever the person’s connection with the game server, not even unplugging the Internet and shutting down the capsule. Later, it turned out that the person’s mind didn’t need a connection as it bled into the game world leaving its empty shell outside, devoid of identity.
    No one was sure of the existence of those unlucky enough to  get perma stuck  (or  go perma mode , or  get digitized , as some had put it) within a basic game of chess or Tetris. Nor would you envy those whose mind was locked inside various tanks, fighter planes and other combat simulators. No matter how much you loved your fighting gear, getting burned alive dozens of times a day scorched inside a tank's red-hot hull had become many a gamer’s personal hell—literally.
    Luckier were those perma-stuck inside full-feature worlds of multiplayer online games. Billions of square miles of their premises offered a well-developed social structure and a life virtually indistinguishable from reality. Apparently, quite a few victims were happy enough to escape there. No need to work or study, no worries about tomorrow, no staring into the mirror contemplating your flabby body and spotty (or, alternatively, wrinkled) face. Within FIVR, you were tough and strong. You were your own master. Certain population