The Terminal Experiment

CHAPTER 39

Peter had been trying to prepare himself for the inevitable encounter. Still, every time his intercom buzzed, he felt his heart begin to race. The first few times were false alarms. Then—

“Peter,” said his secretary’s voice, “there’s an Inspector Philo here to see you, from the Metro Police.”

Peter took a very deep breath, held it for a few seconds, then let it out in a long, whispery sigh. He touched a button on his intercom. “Send her in, please.”

A moment later the door to his office opened and in walked Alexandria Philo. Peter had expected her to be in a police uniform. Instead, she was wearing a trim, professional gray blazer, matching slacks, and a coffee-colored silk blouse. She had on two tiny green earrings. Her short hair was bright red, her eyes bright green. And she was tall. She was carrying a black attache case.

“Hello, Detective,” Peter said, rising to his feet and extending his hand.

“Hello,” Sandra said, giving his hand a firm shake. “I take it you were expecting me?”

“Um, why do you say that?”

“I couldn’t help overhear you talking to your secretary. You said ‘send her in.’ But she hadn’t told you my first name, or given you any other indication that I was a woman.”

Peter smiled. “You’re very good at your job. My wife had said a few things about you.”

“I see.” Sandra was quiet, staring expectantly at Peter.

Peter laughed. “On the other hand, I’m very good at my job, too. And a large part of it involves attending meetings with government officials, all of whom have taken courses in interpersonal communication. It’s going to take more than just a protracted silence to get me to spill my guts.”

Sandra laughed. She hadn’t looked pretty to Peter when she came in, but when she laughed she looked very nice indeed.

“Please have a seat, Ms. Philo.” She smiled and took a chair, smoothing out her pants as she sat as if she often wore skirts. Cathy had the same habit.

There was a short silence. “Would you like coffee?” asked Peter. “Tea?”

“Coffee, please. Double double.” She looked uncomfortable. “This is a part of my job that I don’t like, Dr. Hobson.”

Peter got up and crossed over to the coffeemaker. “Please — call me Peter.”

“Peter.” She smiled. “I don’t like the way involved parties get treated in a case such as this. We police often bully people with little regard for good manners or the principle of assumed innocence.” Peter handed her a cup of coffee. “So, Doctor — ” She stopped herself and smiled. “So, Peter, I’m going to have to ask you some questions, and I hope you’ll understand that I’m just doing my job.”

“Of course.”

“As you know, one of your wife’s coworkers was murdered.”

Peter nodded. “Yes. It came as quite a shock.” Sandra looked at him with her head titled to one side.

“I’m sorry,” said Peter, confused. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just that there was evidence that a stunner was used to subdue the victim. Your ‘quite a shock’ comment struck me as funny.” She raised a hand. “Forgive me; you develop a fairly thick skin in this line of work.” A pause. “Have you ever used a stunner?”

“No.”

“Do you own one?”

“They’re illegal in Ontario, except for police work.” Sandra smiled. “But you can buy them easily in New York or Quebec.”

“No,” said Peter, “I’ve never used one.”

“I’m sorry to have to ask,” said Sandra.

“That darned police training,” said Peter.

“Exactly.”

She smiled. “Did you know the deceased man?”

Peter tried to say the name nonchalantly. “Hans Larsen? Sure, I’d met him — I’ve met most of Cathy’s coworkers, either at informal gatherings or at her company’s Christmas parties.”

“What did you think of him?”

“Of Larsen?” Peter took a sip of coffee. “I thought he was a jerk.”

Sandra nodded. “A number of people seemed to have shared your opinion, although others spoke highly of him.”

“I suspect that’s the way it is for just about everyone,” said Peter.

“Just about.” Silence again, then: “Look, Peter, you seem like a nice guy. I don’t want to bring up painful memories. But I know your wife and Hans, well…”

Peter nodded. “Yes, they did. But that was over a long time ago.”

Sandra smiled. “True. But it was more recently that your wife told you about it.”

“And now Larsen is dead.”

Sandra nodded once. “And now Larsen is dead.”

“Ms. Philo—”

She raised a hand. “You can call me Sandra.”

Peter smiled. “Sandra.” Play it cool, he thought. Sarkar would have the virus ready today or tomorrow. It’ll all be over soon. “Let me tell you something, Sandra. I’m a peaceful person. I don’t like wrestling or boxing. I haven’t hit anyone since I was a boy. I’d never hit my wife. And if I had a child, I’d never spank him or her.” He took a sip of coffee. Had he said enough? Would more be better? Cool, dammit. Be cool. But all he wanted to do was tell her the truth about himself — not those machine duplicates, but the real him, the flesh-and-blood him.

“I — I think a lot of the problems in this world come from violence. By spanking our kids we teach them that there are times when it’s okay to hit someone you love — and then we’re shocked to discover that these same kids grow up thinking it’s okay to hit their spouses. I don’t even kill houseflies, Sandra — I capture them in drinking glasses and take them outside. You’re asking whether I killed Larsen. And I’ll tell you directly that I might indeed have been angry with him, I might indeed have hated him, but killing or physically hurting isn’t in my nature. It’s something I simply would not do.”

“Or even think about?” asked Sandra.

Peter spread his arms. “Well, we all think about things. But there’s a world of difference between an idle fantasy and reality.” If there weren’t, thought Peter, I’d have had you and my secretary and a hundred other women right on this very desktop.

Sandra rearranged herself slightly in her chair. “I don’t normally talk about my personal life while on the job, but I went through something very similar to what you did, Peter. My husband — my ex-husband, as of a few months ago — cheated as well. I’m not a violent person, either. I know some would consider that an unlikely thing for a police officer to say, but it’s true. But when I found out what Walter had done — well, I wanted him dead, and I wanted her dead. I’m not given to throwing things, but when I found out I threw the remote control for our TV across the room. It smashed into the wall, and the case broke open; you can still see the spot on the wall where it hit. So I know, Peter, I know that people have violent reactions when this sort of thing happens.”

Peter nodded slowly. “But I did not kill Hans Larsen.”

“We believe it was a professional murder.”

“I didn’t arrange for his killing, either.”

“Let me tell you exactly what my problem is here,” said Sandra. “As I said, we’re looking at a professional hit. Frankly, that sort of thing costs a lot of money — especially with the, ah, extra work this one involved. You and Cathy are better off than most of her coworkers; if anyone could have afforded this sort of thing, it would have been you or her.”

“But we didn’t do it,” said Peter. “Look, I’d be glad to take a lie-detector test.”

Sandra smiled sweetly. “How thoughtful of you to volunteer. I have portable equipment with me.”

Peter felt his stomach muscles tighten. “Really?”

“Oh, yes. In fact, it’s a Veriscan Plus — that’s made by your company, isn’t it?”

His eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

“So I’m sure you have a lot of faith in its abilities. Would you really be willing to take such a test?”

He hesitated. “With my legal counsel present, of course.”

“Legal counsel?” Sandra smiled again. “You haven’t been charged with anything.”

Peter considered. “All right,” he said. “If it will put an end to all this, yes, I’ll agree to a test, here and now. But in the absence of counsel, you may ask three questions only — did I kill Hans Larsen? Did I kill Rod Churchill? Did I arrange their deaths?”

“I have to ask more than three questions — calibrating the machine requires it; you know that.”

“All right,” said Peter. “Presumably you have a script of calibration questions. I’ll agree to the test so long as you don’t deviate from that script.”

“Very well.” Sandra opened her attache case, revealing the polygraph equipment within.

Peter peered at the device. “Don’t you have to be a specialist to operate those machines?”

“You should read your own product brochures, Peter. There’s an expert-system AI chip inside. Anyone can operate one these days.”

Peter grunted. Sandra affixed small sensors to Peter’s forearm and wrist. A flat-panel screen popped up from the attache case, and Sandra angled it so that only she could see it. She touched a few controls, then began to ask questions. “What’s your name?”

“Peter Hobson.”

“How old are you?”

“Forty-two.”

“Where were you born?”

“North Battleford, Saskatchewan.”

“Now lie to me. Tell me again where you were born.”

“Scotland.”

“Tell the truth: What is your wife’s first name?”

“Catherine.”

“Now lie: what is your wife’s middle name?”

“Ah — T’Pring.”

“Did you kill Hans Larsen?”

Peter watched Sandra carefully. “No.”

“Did you kill Rod Churchill?”

“No.”

“Did you arrange the killing of either of them?”

“No.”

“Do you have any idea who killed them?” Peter held up a hand. “We agreed only three questions, Inspector.”

’’I’m sorry. Surely you don’t mind answering one more, though?” She smiled. “I no more like having to be suspicious of you than you like being a suspect. It I would be nice to be able to scratch you off my list.”

Peter thought. Dammit. “All right,” he said slowly. “I don’t know any person who might have killed them.”

Sandra looked up. “I’m sorry — I guess I upset you I when I went beyond what we’d agreed. There was some very strange activity when you said ‘person.’ Would you please bear with me for just one moment I more and repeat your last answer?”

Peter yanked the sensor from his arm, and threw it n the desktop. “I’ve already put up with more than we agreed,” he said, an edge in his voice. He knew he was making matters worse, and he fought to keep panic from overwhelming him. He pulled the second sensor off his wrist. “I’m through answering questions.”

“I’m sorry,” said Sandra. “Forgive me.”

Peter made an effort to calm himself. “That’s all right,” he said. “I hope you got what you were looking for.”

“Oh, yes,” said Sandra, closing her case. “Yes, indeed.”

It didn’t take long for Spirit’s artificial life-forms to develop multicellularism: chains of distinct units, attached together into simple rows. Eventually, the lifeforms stumbled onto the trick of doubling up into two rows: twice as many cells, but each one still exposed on at least one side to the nutrient soup of Spirit’s simulated sea. And then the long rows of cells began to double back on themselves, forming U shapes. And, eventually, the U shapes closed over on the bottom, forming bags. Then, at last, the great breakthrough: the bottom and top of the bag opened up, resulting in a cylinder made of a double layer of cells, open at both ends: the basic body plan of all animal life on Earth, with an eating orifice at the front and an excretory one at the rear.

Generations were born. Generations died.

And Spirit kept selecting.