Robert Sawyer - Watch

“Well, if—” Caitlin began, but suddenly the Braille words He’s lying popped in front of her vision.

Caitlin was so startled, she said, “How do you know?”

LaFontaine made some reply, but she ignored him, concentrating on the words Webmind was now sending to her: Voice-stress analysis of his speech and freeze-frame analysis of his micro-expressions.

She shook her head in wonder. Just another skill Webmind had effortlessly picked up along the way.

“I don’t know anything about Webmind’s physical makeup,” Caitlin said.

“Come, Ms. Decter,” said LaFontaine. “We’re here to help Webmind. Now, please: which specific servers does Webmind, or its source code, reside on?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ms. Decter, it really would be best—for you and for it—if you cooperated.”

“Look, I’m an…”

She stopped herself, but LaFontaine correctly guessed what she’d been about to say. “An American citizen? Yes, you are. Meaning you’re not a Canadian. Your rights are rather limited here, Ms. Decter. And I understand your mother is trying to get a permit to work in this country. I also understand that your father’s permit is temporary, and subject to revocation. We really would be grateful for your full cooperation.”

“That was a mistake,” Caitlin said, her tone even. “Threatening my parents. Threatening their livelihoods.”

“Dr. LaFontaine is just trying to underscore the gravity of this situation,” Park said.

“Doctor, is it?” said Caitlin. Webmind must have been intrigued, too, because he sent to her eye: Found: he’s a computer scientist, employed by CSIS specifically to deal with Web-based terrorism.

Terrorism! Caitlin thought, deeply offended. But what she said was, “Is it even legal for you to be talking to me? I’m sixteen. Shouldn’t you be talking to my parents?”

“It’s perfectly legal, and, as you saw, your principal knows we’re here.”

Caitlin looked at the two men. “I’m not trying to be difficult,” she said. “But I really can’t answer your questions.”

“Can’t, or won’t?” said LaFontaine.

“Look, I have a class right now—and it’s my favorite. I’d really like to get going.”

“As Mr. Park said, there are national-security concerns here. Indeed, there are international security concerns. You really need to see the larger picture.”

Caitlin thought about the photo of Earth from space that she’d shown Webmind recently. “Oh, I am,” she said. “And I know you’re not trying to protect Webmind.”

“Our only interest is in its safety.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Caitlin. “And, anyway, this isn’t about American security, or Canadian security, or Western security. Webmind is a gift to the entire human race. And I’m not going to let anyone pervert it, or subvert it, or divert it, or any kind of vert it.”

The two men glanced at each other. “We really do need your help, Ms. Decter,” said LaFontaine. “And I think perhaps you misunderstood me a moment ago. I wasn’t threatening your parents. I was saying we could assist them—get their paperwork taken care of.”

Lying again, sent Webmind.

“Well, that would be nice,” Caitlin said, “but as I’ve already said, I simply don’t know the answers to your questions, and so”—she swallowed, and tried to keep her voice steady—“and so, I’m going to leave now, if that’s all right with the two of you.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Decter,” said LaFontaine, “but we do need this information. We really must insist.”

Caitlin wondered if they were carrying guns. She thought about flinging open the door and making a run for it—but, damn it all, she was a lousy runner; you didn’t get much practice at that when you were blind. So, instead, very softly, she said, “Phantom?”—her original name for the emerging intelligence. “Help.” And then she spoke up, loudly and clearly: “Gentlemen, I am not going to miss my favorite class. I am going to walk out that door and get on with my day.”

“That’s not how it’s going to go down,” said LaFontaine, as both men stepped in front of the door to the hall.

“I beg to differ,” said Caitlin, as Braille dots started flashing in front of her vision. “You, Doctor LaFontaine, called your boss a tête du merde in email last week; I believe an accurate translation is ‘shithead.’ You have a mistress named Veronica Styles, although you like to call her ‘Pussywillow,’ who lives at 1433 Bank Street in Ottawa. You and she both have tickets on Air Canada next week—flight 163 to Vancouver, flight 544 from there to Las Vegas.”

She turned her head, politely looking at the person she was speaking to, just as her mother had taught her to when she was blind. “And you, Mr. Park, have accounts at Penthouse.com, Twistys.com, and Brazzers.com; you have a particular fondness for pictures of women urinating in public. You claimed when you applied to CSIS to be a graduate of Mc-Master University, but, in fact, you never completed your course work. Oh, and in an email last week you referred to Dr. LaFontaine here as a ‘second-rate, goose-stepping martinet.’ Now, unless you’d like these revelations to go public—or perhaps some equally juicy ones about the prime minister—you will step away from that door, and you will allow me to walk out of here.”

More fascinating facial expressions seen for the first time: that reddening of the cheeks and bulging of the eyes on LaFontaine must be what it looked like when someone was about to explode. And that narrowing of the eyes and averting of gaze on Park was doubtless uneasiness.

LaFontaine’s tone was one of barely controlled rage. “Ms. Decter, I—”

“I’ve started taking French since I came to Canada,” Caitlin said, looking now at him. “I’ll give you ten seconds: dix, neuf, huit, sept—”

“All right,” said Park. He moved aside. After a moment, LaFontaine did the same thing.

“Thank you,” said Caitlin as she strode toward the door, and, with a curt nod to LaFontaine, she added, “Au revoir.”

Instead of going back to math class, Caitlin went into the nearest stairwell, descended to the first floor, and called her mother on her cell phone.

“Hello?”

And suddenly all the bravado drained from her voice. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetheart. Is everything all right?”

“No. Two Canadian government agents just came to see me.”

“At school? God. What did they want?”

“They wanted to know about Webmind’s structure—about how he works.”

“My God. How did they even know about Webmind?”

“I don’t know. Reading my IM traffic, I suppose. I just—it’s all happened so fast, I never even thought about making sure my communications with Webmind were secure.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Still, I’m coming to get you.”

“No, Mom, that’s not necessary.”

“The hell it isn’t. Caitlin, you’re lucky they just didn’t take you away.”

“I don’t think they do that here in Canada,” Caitlin said.

“Nevertheless, I don’t want you out of my sight. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, all right?”

Caitlin thought about protesting again—but the hand she was holding the cell phone with was shaking. “Okay.”

The Perimeter Institute for Theoretical Physics was pretty much Malcolm Decter’s idea of heaven. Adjacent to a beautiful park and a lake, it had four levels, six wood-burning fireplaces, floor-to-ceiling blackboards in most rooms, pool tables, lounges—and espresso machines everywhere. There was a giant atrium with three interior bridges crossing it and skylights overhead, and a wonderful eatery called the Black Hole Bistro on the top floor.