The Terminal Experiment (v5)

by Robert J. Sawyer

  They ordered lunch. Peter took the receptionist’s advice and had the tortellini. They talked about all sorts of things, and there was as much laughter as there were words. Peter felt better than he had for weeks.

  Peter picked up the tab. He tipped twenty-five percent, then helped her put her coat on … something he hadn’t done for Cathy in years.

  “What are you going to do until your flight leaves?” asked Becky.

  “I don’t know. Sightsee, I guess. Whatever.”

  Becky looked into his eyes. This was the natural parting point. Two old friends had gotten together for lunch, caught up on old times, swapped stories of various acquaintances. But now it was time to go their separate ways again, get on with their separate lives.

  “I don’t have anything important to do this afternoon,” said Becky, still looking straight into his eyes. “Mind if I join you?”

  Peter broke her gaze for a moment. He couldn’t think of anything he wanted more in the world. “That would be—” and, after a brief pause, he decided not to censor himself, “perfect.”

  Becky’s eyes danced. She fell in beside him and tucked her arm through his. “Where would you like to go?” she said.

  “It’s your town,” said Peter with a smile.

  “That it is,” said Becky.

  They did all the things that hadn’t interested Peter earlier. They saw the changing of the guard; they visited some little boutiques, the kinds of stores Peter never went into in Toronto; and they ended up by ambling through the dinosaur gallery at the Canadian Museum of Nature, marveling at the skeletons.

  It was just like being alive, thought Peter. Just like the way it used to be.

  The Museum of Nature was, appropriately enough, on a large, well-treed lot. By the time they left the museum, it was around five o’clock and getting dark. There was a cool breeze. The sky was cloudless. They walked across the grounds until they came to some park benches beneath a stand of huge maple trees, now, in early December, devoid of their leaves.

  “I’m exhausted,” Peter said. “I got up at 5:30 this morning to get the flight here.”

  Becky sat down at the far end of the park bench. “Lie down,” she said. “We’ve been walking all afternoon.”

  Peter’s first thought was to resist the notion, but then he decided, why the hell not? He was just about to stretch out on the remaining part of the bench when Becky spoke. “You can use my lap as a pillow.”

  He did just that. She was wonderfully soft and warm and human. He looked up at her. She placed an arm gently across his chest.

  It was so relaxing, so soothing. Peter thought he could stay here for hours. He didn’t even notice the cold.

  Becky smiled down at him, an unconditional smile, an accepting smile, a beautiful smile.

  For the first time since lunch, Peter thought about Cathy and Hans and what his life had become back in Toronto.

  He realized, too, that he’d finally found a real human being—not some computer-generated simulacrum— that he could talk to about it. Someone who wouldn’t think him a lesser man because his wife had strayed, someone who wouldn’t ridicule him, wouldn’t mock him. Someone who accepted him, who would just listen, who would understand.

  And in that moment Peter realized that he didn’t have to talk to anyone about it. He could deal with it now. All his questions were answered.

  Peter had met Becky when they were both in their first year at U of T, before Cathy had arrived on the scene. There had been an awkward attraction between them. They were both inexperienced and he, at least, had been a virgin at the time. Now, though, two decades later, things were different. Becky had married and divorced; Peter had married. They knew about sex, about how it was done, about when it happened, when the time was right. Peter realized that he could easily call Cathy, tell her that his meeting had gone overtime and that he was going to spend the night here, tell her that he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. And then he and Becky could go back to her place.

  He could do that, but he wasn’t going to. He had the answer to his unasked question now. Given the same opportunity as Cathy had, he would not cheat, would not betray, would not get even.

  Peter beamed up at Becky. He could feel the wounds inside him starting to heal.

  “You’re a wonderful person,” he said to her. “Some guy is going to be very lucky to be yours.”

  She smiled.

  Peter exhaled, letting everything go, everything flow out of him. “I’ve got to get to the airport,” he said.

  Becky nodded and smiled again, perhaps, just perhaps, a bit ruefully.

  Peter was ready to go home.

  CHAPTER 35

  Sandra drove down the Don Valley Parkway to Cabbagetown, parking outside the very first Food Food store at the corner of Parliament and Wellesley. According to directory assistance, the centralized order-processing facility was located upstairs from this store. Sandra walked up the steep flight of steps and, without knocking, simply entered the room. There were two dozen people wearing telephone headsets sitting in front of computer terminals. They all seemed to be busy taking orders, even though it was only two in the afternoon.

  A middle-aged woman with steel blonde hair came up to Sandra. “Can I help you?”

  Sandra flashed her badge and introduced herself. “And who are you?”

  “Danielle Nadas,” the blonde woman said. “I’m the supervisor here.”

  Sandra looked around, fascinated. She’d ordered from Food Food many times herself since her divorce, but hadn’t really had any mental picture of what was at the other end of the telephone line—over video phones, all you saw were visual ads for Food Food specials. Finally, she said, “I’d like to see the records for one of your customers.”

  “Do you know the phone number?”

  Sandra started to sing: “Nine-six-seven …”

  Nadas smiled. “Not our phone number. The customer’s phone number.”

  Sandra handed her a slip of paper with it written on it. Nadas went over to a terminal and tapped the young man who was operating it on the shoulder. He nodded, finished taking the order he was currently processing, then got out of the way. The supervisor sat down and typed in the phone number. “Here it is,” she said, leaning to one side so that Sandra could clearly see the screen.

  Rod Churchill had ordered the same meal the last six Wednesdays in a row—except …

  “He had low-calorie gravy every time but the most recent,” said Sandra. “For the most recent, it shows regular gravy.”

  The supervisor leaned in. “So it does.” She grinned. “Well, our low-cal stuff is pretty vile, if you ask me. It’s not even real gravy—it’s made from vegetable gelatin. Maybe he just decided to try the regular.”

  “Or maybe one of your order takers made a mistake.”

  The supervisor shook her head. “Not possible. We always assume the person wants the same thing they ordered last time—nine times out of ten, that’s the case. The CSR wouldn’t have rekeyboarded the order unless there was a specific change.”

  “CSR?”

  “Customer Service Representative.”

  Ho boy, thought Sandra.

  “If there’d been no change,” said Nadas, “the CSR would have just hit F2—that’s our key for ‘repeat order.’”

  “Can you tell who processed his most-recent order?”

  “Sure.” She pointed to a field on the screen. “CSR 054—that’s Annie Delano.”

  “Is she here?” asked Sandra.

  The supervisor looked around the room. “That’s her over there—the one with the ponytail.”

  “I’d like to talk to her,” said Sandra.

  “I can’t see what difference all this makes,” said the supervisor.

  “The difference,” said Sandra coolly, “is that the man who ordered that meal died from a reaction to the food he ate.”

  The supervisor covered her mouth. “Oh my God,” she said. “I—I should call my boss.”

  “Tha
t won’t be necessary,” said Sandra. “I just want to speak to that young lady over there.”

  “Of course. Of course.” The supervisor led the way over to where Annie Delano was working. She looked to be about seventeen. She’d obviously just received a repeat order, and had done exactly what the supervisor said she would do—tap the F2 key.

  “Annie,” said Nadas, “this woman is a police officer. She’d like to ask you some questions.”

  Annie looked up, eyes wide.

  “Ms. Delano,” said Sandra, “last Wednesday night, you processed an order from a man named Rod Churchill for a roast beef dinner.”

  “If you say so, ma’am,” Annie said.

  Sandra turned to the supervisor. “Bring it up on screen.”

  The supervisor leaned in and tapped out Churchill’s phone number.

  Annie looked at the screen, her expression blank.

  “You changed his regular order,” Sandra said. “He always had low-calorie gravy before, but last time you gave him regular gravy.”

  “I’d only have done that if that’s what he asked for,” said Annie.

  “Do you recall him asking for a change?”

  Annie looked at the screen. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t recall anything about that order at all. I do over two hundred orders a day, and that was a week ago. But, honest, I wouldn’t have made the change unless he asked for it.”

  ALEXANDRIA PHILO went back to Doowap Advertising, co-opting one of the few private offices to do more interviews with Hans Larsen’s coworkers. Although her particular interest was Cathy Hobson, she first briefly re-interviewed two other people so as not to make Cathy suspicious.

  Once Cathy had sat down, Sandra gave her a sympathetic smile. “I’ve just heard about your father,” she said. “I’m very sorry. I lost my own father last year; I know how difficult it can be.”

  Cathy gave a small, civil nod. “Thank you.”

  “I’m curious, though,” said Sandra, “about the fact that both Hans Larsen and your father died very close together.”

  Cathy sighed. “It never rains but it pours, eh?”

  Sandra nodded. “So you think it’s a coincidence?”

  Cathy looked shocked. “Of course it’s a coincidence. I mean, goodness, I had only a peripheral involvement with Hans, and my father died of natural causes.”

  Sandra looked Cathy up and down, assessing her. “As far as Hans goes, we both know that what you’re saying isn’t true. You had some sort of romantic involvement with him.” Cathy’s large, blue eyes blazed defiantly. Sandra raised her hand. “Don’t worry, Ms. Hobson. How you choose to run your life is your own affair—so to speak. I’ve no intention of exposing your infidelity to your husband—or to Hans’s widow, for that matter. Assuming, that is, that you had nothing to do with his murder.”

  Cathy was angry. “Look—in the first place, what happened between me and Hans was a long time ago. In the second place, my husband already knows about it. I told him everything.”

  Sandra was surprised. “You did?”

  “Yes.” Cathy seemed to realize that she might have made a mistake. She pressed on. “So you see,” she said, “I have nothing to hide and no reason to try to silence Hans.”

  “What about your father?”

  Cathy looked exasperated. “Once again, he died of natural causes.”

  “I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you,” said Sandra, “but I’m afraid that’s not true.”

  Cathy was angry. “God damn it, detective. It’s hard enough going through the loss of a parent without you playing games.”

  Sandra nodded. “Believe me, Ms. Hobson, I would never say such a thing if I didn’t believe it to be true. But it’s a fact that your father’s dinner order was tampered with.”

  “Dinner order? What are you talking about?”

  “Your father was on a prescription drug that had severe dietary restrictions. Every Wednesday when your mother was out, he ordered dinner—always the same thing, always safe for him. But on the day he died, his dinner order was tampered with, and he received something that caused a severe reaction, forcing his blood pressure to intolerably high levels.”

  Cathy was flabbergasted. “What are you talking about, detective? Death by fast food?”

  “I’d assumed it was an accident,” said Sandra. “But I did some checking. It turns out that the national MedBase was compromised a few days before your father died. Whoever did that could have found out that he was on phenelzine.”

  “Phenelzine?” said Cathy. “But that’s an antidepressant.”

  “You know it?” asked Sandra, eyebrows climbing.

  “My sister was on it for a while.”

  “And you know about the dietary restrictions?”

  “No cheese,” said Cathy.

  “Well, there’s a lot more to it than that.”

  Cathy was shaking her bowed head in what looked to Sandra like very genuine astonishment. “Dad on an antidepressant,” she said softly, as if talking to herself. But then she looked up and met Sandra’s eyes. “This is crazy.”

  “An access log is kept for MedBase. It took a lot of work, but I checked all the accesses for the two weeks prior to your father’s death. There was a bogus login three days before he died.”

  “Bogus how?”

  “The doctor under whose name the access was made was on vacation in Greece when it happened.”

  “You can log on to most databases from anywhere in the world,” said Cathy.

  Sandra nodded. “True. But I called Athens; the doctor swears he’s been doing nothing except visiting archeological sites since he got there.”

  “And you can tell whose records were accessed?”

  Sandra dropped her gaze for a moment. “No. Just when whoever was using the account logged on and logged off. Both accesses were at about 4:00 a.m. Toronto time—”

  “That’s in the middle of the day in Greece.”

  “Yes, but it’s also when the MedBase system is under the least demand. I’m told there are almost never any access delays at that time. If someone wanted to get on and off as quickly as possible, that would be when to do it.”

  “Still, using food ingredients to trigger a fatal reaction—that would require a lot of expertise.”

  “Indeed,” said Sandra. A pause. “You have a degree in chemistry, don’t you?”

  Cathy exhaled noisily. “In inorganic chemistry, yes. I don’t know anything about pharmaceuticals.” She spread her hands. “This all seems pretty far-fetched to me, Detective. The worst enemy my father had was the football coach from Newtonbrook Secondary School.”

  “And his name is?”

  Cathy made an exasperated sound. “I’m joking, Detective. I don’t know anyone who’d want to kill my father.”

  Sandra looked off in the distance. “Perhaps you’re right. This job gets to you sometimes.” She smiled disarmingly. “We’re all a little prone to conspiracy theories, I’m afraid. Forgive me—and, please, let me say again that I’m sorry your father passed away. I do know what you’re going through.”

  Cathy’s voice was neutral, but her eyes were seething. “Thank you.”

  “Just a few more questions, then hopefully I won’t have to bother you again.” Sandra consulted the display on her palmtop. “Does the name Desalle mean anything to you? Jean-Louis Desalle?”

  Cathy said nothing.

  “He was at the University of Toronto at the same time you were there.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “True. Let me put it to you more directly: when I spoke to Jean-Louis Desalle, he recognized your name. Not Catherine Hobson—Catherine Churchill. And he recalled your husband, too: Peter Hobson.”

  “The name you mentioned,” said Cathy, carefully, “is vaguely familiar.”

  “Have you seen Jean-Louis Desalle since university?”

  “Goodness, no. I have no idea what became of him.”

  Sandra nodded. “Thank you, Ms. Hobson. Thank you v
ery much. That’ll be all for now.”

  “Wait,” said Cathy. “Why’d you ask about Jean-Louis?”

  Sandra closed her palmtop and put it in her attaché case. “He’s the doctor whose database account was compromised.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Spirit, the simulation of Peter Hobson’s immortal soul, continued to watch Sarkar’s artificial life evolve. The process was fascinating.

  Not a game.

  Life.

  But poor Sarkar—he lacked vision. His programs were trivial. Some simply produced cellular automata, others merely evolved shapes that resembled insects. Oh, the blue fish were impressive, but Sarkar’s were nowhere near as complex as real fish, and, besides, fish hadn’t been the dominant form of life on Earth for over three hundred million years.

  Spirit wanted more. Much more. After all, he could now handle situations infinitely more complex than what Sarkar could deal with, and he had all the time in the universe.

  Before he began, though, he thought for a long time—thought about exactly what he wanted.

  And then, his selection criteria defined, he set out to create it.

  PETER HAD DECIDED to give up on Spenser novels, at least temporarily. He’d been somewhat shamed by the fact that the Control version of himself was reading Thomas Pynchon. Scanning the living-room bookshelves, he found an old copy of A Tale of Two Cities his father had given him when he’d been a teenager. He’d never gotten around to reading it, but, to his embarrassment, it was the only classic he could find in the house—his days of Marlowe and Shakespeare, Descartes and Spinoza were long past. Of course he could have downloaded just about anything from the net—one nice thing about the classics: they’re all public domain. But he’d been spending too much time interfacing with technology lately. An old, musty book was just the thing he needed.

  Cathy was sitting on the couch, a reader in hand. Peter sat down next to her, opened his book’s stiff cover, and began to read:

  It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way.