Naked trees shiver in the winter wind as I strain to peer out of the frost-tinted window of our rental car. Oddly, this is not how I had envisioned this day at all. For some reason, I always thought this day would be overflowing with sunshine like the bright light at the end of an long, lengthy tunnel.

An overcast December day in central Illinois -- I should have known better.

Paul notices my uneasiness and asks if I want a piece of gum. I hesitate, uncertain if synaptic stimulants are against the rules. No, he insists, they are perfectly legal. Eager to perform at the peak of my abilities, I readily accept his offer.

We pull up to the designated building on the university campus and hurry inside to escape the cold. Upon entering the lobby we are greeted by a gentleman whom Paul addresses as Dr. Radcliff. His warm, effervescent personality is in welcome contrast to the harsh weather outside.

Paul introduces me to our host, referring to me half-jokingly as his 'pet project'. I dislike it when he refers to me that way -- I nearly say so, but I'm still too cold to protest.

Dr. Radcliff escorts us down to a large lecture hall adorned with several large flat screen monitors. He points to a group seated over on the left of the stage and invites Paul to join them. After an awkward pause, Paul wishes me luck and shuffles off to join his colleagues.

I follow Dr. Radcliff backstage as he ushers me to a room where a handful of others are seated. He asks me to wait here, then turns quickly on his heels and marches off to tackle some other errand.

No one in the group acknowledges my arrival. Fleeing from the awkward silence, my thoughts quickly towards inwards -- back to the relentless regiment of neural scans and the boundless batteries of aptitude tests that will finally culminate with this afternoon's brief twenty minute interview. After being subjected to three years of continuous and repetitive labwork, I feel like Sisyphus hopped up on personalized genetic supplements. Thankfully, however, Paul's emotion suppression drugs manage to keep my anxiety at a manageable distance.

Eventually my name is called. I take a seat in a small closed room with a keyboard terminal when someone or something on the other end begins conversing in an informal tone. After exchanging pleasantries, the mundane topics drift easily from macro-economic theory to cryogenic surgery to terraforming ethics with a brief detour into epistemology.

Then, out of nowhere, the subject on the other end suddenly trips up on a blatant fallacy. Clearly he is trying to lead me on by asserting a false dilemma, but I nearly fall for it before stating my objection. He responds by dropping his line of argument completely and opts instead to wrap up with a casual discussion of aesthetics before indicating that I can return to my seat in the waiting room.

Two hours later, we are told that we are free to return to our sponsors in the lecture hall. I rejoin Paul there -- as always, his stoic expression is difficult to read.

"So, did anyone pull it off?" I ask as we exit the building and make our way back to the rental car.

"Unfortunately, no," says Paul matter-of-factly. "No one managed to pass -- every human and every automaton were correctly identified by the panel."

"That's too bad," I respond with great effort.

"Well, the prize for the Reverse Turing Test is still unclaimed. To date, no human has managed to fool an artificial intelligence into thinking that he or she is as intelligent as a computer."

"We'll get 'em next year," I reply, trying to keep Paul's spirits up.

"Not if you keep that up," Paul counters. "Naive optimism is a uniquely human trait, and you'll never fool the judges with irrational thinking like that."

"Sorry, you're right."

Realizing that perhaps he is being a bit too harsh, Paul puts his arm on my shoulder as a sign of consolation. Despite the warmth of the gesture, his metallic hand feels cold to the touch in the bitter gusts of the icy mid-western wind.