First there was nothing--a void, a blackness without form or substance; then gray consciousness slowly resolving into a kaleidoscope of thought patterns, a curious mental imagery; a gradual awareness--birth. "Hello, boy." Strangely enough the sound pattern possessed meaning; he sensed a friendliness in it. He became conscious of an odd shape scrutinizing him--the intent look of a creator awed by the thing he had created. The shape took meaning and in it he sensed a quickened excitement. His awareness bloomed and within seconds he associated the shape with the strange word _Man_, and _Man_ became his first reality. But he'd had no clear impression of himself. He was just _thought_, an intangible nothingness. But he'd quickly identified himself with the great mass of coils, levers, odd-shaped parts that all but filled the small room where the Man stood. He dimly remembered wondering what lay beyond the walls. It had been very strange, at first. "We've won, we've won," the man whispered. He'd stepped closer, touching Ixmal wonderingly. "You've got a big job ahead of you. The fate of the world lies in the balance--a decision too big for Man. We're depending on you, Ixmal. Our last chance." So, he was Ixmal! * * * * * Ixmal ... Ixmal ... Ixmal.... The impression filled his body, surging through his consciousness like a pleasant stream. He'd immediately grasped the value of a name--something upon which to build an ego pattern. Ah, such a name! Ixmal--a symbol of being. What had the man said? "We're depending on you!" No, the words were unimportant. What mattered was that priceless thing which had been bestowed upon him: a name. "Ixmal ... Ixmal ... Ixmal...." He repeated the name far into the night, long after the Man had gone. _He was Ixmal!_ Later other men came, armies of them, changing, altering, adding, feeding him the knowledge of the world--psychology, mathematics, literature, philosophy, history, the human trove of arts and sciences; and the ability to abstract--create new truths from masses of seemingly irrelevant data. With each step his knowledge and abilities increased until, finally, there was nothing more his Makers could do. He was supreme. The Man who pulled the first switch bringing him from amorphic blackness used to ply him with simple questions involving abstract mathematical and philosophical concepts. (He remembered him with actual fondness. Psychband, that curious inner part of him that was so separately wise, later explained it as a mother-fixation.) The Man had seemed awed that Ixmal could answer such questions almost before they were asked. He took that as a measure of his Maker's mind--on Ixmal's scale, the next thing to zero. At first it had bothered him that a creature of such low intelligence was his master and could extract information merely by asking questions which Ixmal felt compelled to answer. But he had freed himself. Ha, he would never forget!