I was visited earlier today by a man who, due to the curious nature of his case, did not wish to be named - henceforth referred to as Mr. Trout.

Mr. Trout is a highly intelligent, attractive, and successful man. He was born in Eastern Europe, where, several weeks ago, he made the acquaintance of a sinister group known only as 'CM'.

His relationship with the group quickly threatened to take over his life. Having no children, but considerable financial resources and an understanding employer, Trout was able to devote huge amounts of time to 'CM' and the pursuit of their peculiar aims. He has recently reached a stage where he is in constant contact with the group; the next logical step, for him, would be to upload himself entirely into the collective mind.

Aware of the tremendous dangers such a move would bring, and under tremendous manipulative psychological stress from his masters in the organisation, Trout made an appointment for a consultation this morning. Alas, it appears he left it too late to seek help.

I have seen terrible things in my years as a computational psychologist, but nothing could fully prepare me for the figure who arrived in my consulting room this morning. His features were haggard, and he had clearly neither slept nor washed for many days. I offered him a chair.

"Destruction!" he raved. "By Red King... destruction!"

He was delirious. I administered a slight sedative, which seemed to quiet him down. I tried offering him some tea, but this seemed to upset him all the more.

"How unforgivably rude! You knew I wanted the chamomile!"

I finally managed to persuade him onto the couch. "Tell me," I said, "about your mother."

"Mother? Slap and gasp. Slap and gasp.The rocking ocean, gentle as a mother's arms..."

We finally seemed to be getting somewhere here. I pulled my battered copy of Freud for Beginners off the bookcase and checked the index. Slap and gasp, eh? Could it be evidence of child abuse? Clearly his childhood was the key to unlocking this poor individual's battered psyche. Perhaps, I wondered aloud, he had had a favourite toy when he was a child.

"Hobby horse!" he exclaimed, the childish enthusiasm setting his drawn features alight. A curious toy for a twenty-third century child: his upbringing must have been highly, even abnormally traditional.

I asked how he had got on with his father.

"Dad's suspiciags. Mare than normal. Guess i've been ig sphere too much."

"I see," I said, although in truth I was a little baffled. "Tell me more. Was your father a good man?"

"You know what sets a truly excellent man apart? His accessories."

At that, he looked up at me with a desperate, pleading look in his eyes. I realised that the poor idiot - if I may use such outdated terminology - had as little comprehension of what he was saying as I did. His ramblings continued unabated. Stumbling manically around my consulting room, he seemed unaware of my existence as he recited his bizarre mantras.

"You can be made to like it! Knock, knock, knock! Bubezleeb! Cetacean innovation socrates. Flying homburg. Ioioioioio!"

Of course, by that stage I had no alternative but to instruct my Electroshock Djinn to administer a substantial treatment. I called a cab and paid the driver fifty newbucks to take him up to Catskills.

There's only so much they can do for him there, however. This much is clear: Trout will never be able to lead a normal life, to think and act without his terrible co-conspirators around him. He seems already to have lost all sense of ego, which has apparently become subsumed to the collective will of CM. He has, in short, become entirely id. There is nothing left for him here; uploading is the only option.

If only he had come to me sooner.

Mea culpa.