Robert Sawyer - The Terminal Experiment

“I see,” said Sandra. “What about Hans’s boss?”

“Nancy Caulfield? Now, there’s a character! Let me tell you how Hans finally got her…”

For Spirit, the life-after-death sim, there was no such thing anymore as biological sleep, no distinction between consciousness and unconsciousness.

For a flesh-and-blood person, dreams provided a different perspective, a second opinion about the day’s events. But Spirit had only one mode, only one way of looking at the universe. Still, he sought connections.

Cathy.

His wife — once upon a time.

He remembered that she had been beautiful … to him, at least. But now, freed from biological urges, the memory of her face, her figure, excited no aesthetic response.

Cathy.

In lieu of dreaming, Spirit cogitated idly. Cathy. Is that an anagram for anything? No, of course not. Oh, wait a moment. “Yacht.” Fancy that; he’d never thought of that before.

Yachts had pleasing lines — a certain mathematical perfection dictated by the laws of fluid dynamics. Their beauty, at least, was something he could still appreciate.

Cathy had done something. Something wrong. Something that had hurt him.

He remembered what it was, of course. Remembered the hurt the same way, if he cared to, that he could summon the memories of other pains. Breaking his leg skiing. A skinned knee in childhood. Bumping his head for the dozenth time on that low ceiling beam at Cathy’s parents’ cottage.

Memories.

But finally, at last, no more pain.

No pain sensor.

Sensor. An anagram of snores.

Something I don’t do anymore.

Dreams had been great for making connections.

Spirit was going to miss dreaming.

Even though Toby Bailey had given her some good leads, Sandra continued to work her way alphabetically down the roster of Doowap employees. Finally, it was Cathy Hobson’s turn — one of those Bailey had mentioned Hans had been involved with.

Sandra sized up Cathy as she seated herself. Pretty woman, thin, with lots of black hair. Good dresser. Sandra smiled. “Ms. Hobson, thank you for your time. I won’t keep you long. I just want to ask a few questions about Hans Larsen.”

Cathy nodded.

“How well did you know him?” Sandra asked.

Cathy looked past Sandra at the wall behind her. “Not very.”

No point in confronting her just yet. Sandra glanced at a printout. “He’d worked here longer than you had. I’d be interested in anything you could tell me. What sort of a man was he?”

Cathy looked at the ceiling. “Very … outgoing.”

“Yes?”

“And, well, a somewhat crude sense of humor.”

Sandra nodded. “Somebody else mentioned that, too. He told a lot of dirty jokes. Did that bother you, Ms. Hobson?”

“Me?” Cathy looked surprised, and met Sandra’s eyes for the first time. “No.”

“What else can you tell me?”

“He, ah, was good at his job, from what I understand. His end and mine didn’t intersect very often.”

“What else?” Sandra smiled encouragingly. “Anything at all might be useful.”

“Well, he was married. I assume you knew that. His wife’s name was, oh…”

“Donna-Lee,” said Sandra.

“Yes. That was it.”

“A nice lady, is she?”

“She’s all right,” said Cathy. “Very pretty. But I only met her a couple of times.”

“She came by the office, then?”

“No, not that I can recall.”

“Then where did you meet her?”

“Oh, sometimes the gang from here would go out for a drink.”

Sandra consulted her notes. “Every Friday,” she said. “Or so I’ve been told.”

“Yes, that’s right. Sometimes his wife would show up for a bit.”

Sandra watched her carefully. “So you did socialize with Hans, then, Ms. Hobson?”

Cathy lifted a hand. “Only as part of a group. Sometimes we would get a bunch of tickets to a Blue Jays game, too, and go down for that. You know — tickets given to the company by suppliers.” She covered her mouth. “Oh! That’s not illegal, is it?”

“Not as far as I know,” said Sandra, smiling again. “Not really my department. When you saw Hans and his wife together, did they seem happy?”

“I can’t really say. I suppose so. I mean, who can tell, looking at a marriage from the outside, what’s really going on?”

Sandra nodded. “Ain’t that the truth.”

“She seemed happy enough.”

“Who?”

“You know — Hans’s wife.”

“Whose name is …?”

Cathy looked confused. “Why, D … Donna-Lee.”

“Donna-Lee, yes.”

“You said it earlier,” said Cathy, a bit defensively.

“Oh, yes. So I did.” Sandra tapped the cursor keys on her palmtop computer, consulting her list of questions. “On another matter, a couple of the other people I’ve interviewed here said that Hans had a bit of a reputation as a ladies’ man.”

Cathy said nothing.

“Is that true, Mrs. Hobson?” For the first time, Sandra had said “Mrs.,” not “Ms.”

“Uh, well, yes, I suppose it is.”

“Someone told me he had slept with a number of the women here at this company. Had you heard similar things about him?”

Cathy picked some invisible lint off her skirt. “I guess so.”

“But you didn’t feel it worth mentioning?”

“I didn’t want…” She trailed off.

“Didn’t want to speak ill of the dead. Of course, of course.” Sandra smiled warmly. “Forgive me for asking this, but, ah, did you ever have a relationship with him?”

Cathy looked up. “Certainly not. I’m a—”

“A married woman,” said Sandra. “Of course.” She smiled again. “I do apologize for having to ask.”

Cathy opened her mouth to object further, then, after a moment, closed it. Sandra recognized the drama playing over Cathy’s face. The lady doth protest too much, methinks.

“Do you know of anyone he did have a relationship with?” asked Sandra.

“Not for certain.”

“Surely, if he had that reputation, word must have gotten around?”

“There have been rumors. But I don’t believe in repeating gossip, Inspector, and” — Cathy rallied some strength here — “I don’t believe you have the authority to compel me to do so.”

Sandra nodded, as if this was completely reasonable. She closed the lid on her palmtop. “Thank you for your candor,” she said, her tone so neutral as to make characterizing the remark as either sincere or sarcastic impossible. “Just one more question. Again, I apologize, but I have to ask this. Where were you on November fourteenth between eight A.M. and nine A.M.? That’s when Hans died.”

Cathy tilted her head. “Let’s see. That was the day before we all heard about it. Well, I would have been on my way to work, of course. In fact, now that you mention it, that would have been the day I picked up Carla and gave her a lift to where she works.”

“Carla? Who’s that?”

“Carla Wishinski, a friend of mine. She lives a couple of blocks from where Peter and I do. Her car was in the shop, so I agreed to give her a lift.”

“I see. Well, thank you very much, Ms. Hobson.” She glanced down the list of names. “When you go back out, could you ask Mr. Stephen Jessup to come in please?”

Getting rid of Hans Larsen had been easy. After all, why worry about covering one’s tracks? Yes, the police would certainly investigate the crime, but they’d soon find that there were dozens of people who might have wanted to see the philandering Hans dead in the same poetic-justice fashion.

For the second elimination, though, the sim knew he would have to be more subtle. Something untraceable was called for — something that didn’t even look like murder.