000 wtshxowlveamfhiqhgdiigjmh rpeqwursudnfe

“Using cumulative evolution, the computer can get from that random starting point to the desired ending point in a matter of seconds.”

“How?” asked Peter.

“Say that every generation, one text string can produce thirty-nine offspring. But, just as in real life, the offspring are not exactly the same as the parent. Rather, in each offspring, one gene — one character — will be different, moving up or down the alphabet by one: a Y can become an X or a Z, for instance.”

“Okay.”

“For each of the thirty-nine offspring, the computer finds the one that is best suited to this environment — the one that is closest to Marlowe, our ideal of a perfectly adapted life form. That one — the fittest — is the only one that breeds in the next generation. See?”

Peter nodded.

“Okay. We’ll let evolution run its course for a generation.” Sarkar pushed another key. Thirty-nine virtually identical strings appeared on screen, and a moment later thirty-eight of them winked out. “Here’s the fittest offspring.” He pointed at the screen:

wtshxowlveamfhiqhgdiigjmh rpeqwursudnfe

wtshxowlvdamfhiqhgdiigjmh rpeqwursudnfe

“It is not obvious,” said Sarkar, “but the lower string is marginally closer to your target than the original.”

“I can’t see a difference,” said Peter.

Sarkar peered at the screen. “The tenth character has changed from E to D. In the target, the tenth character is a space — the space between ‘where’ and ‘hell.’ We’re using a circular alphabet, with space as the character between Z and A. D is closer to a space than E is, so this string is a slight improvement — slightly fitter.” He pushed another key. “Now, we’ll let it run through to the end — there, it’s done.”

Peter was impressed. “That was fast.”

“Cumulative evolution,” said Sarkar, triumphantly. “It took only 277 generations to get from gibberish to Marlowe — from randomness to a complex structure. Here, I’ll just display every thirtieth generation, with genes that have evolved to their target values in upper case.”

Keyclicks. The screen showed:

000 wtshxowlvdamfhiqhgdiigjmh rpeqwursudnfE

030 wttgWoxmvdakgiiphfdHghili STerwuotucneE

060 xrtgWoymwccigihpiddHfihll STesxuovvapdE

090 xqugWm nzccfhihomcdHfihkM STcuyunvvzpdE

120 ypudWl p bcEijhmnbbHfihkMzSTbWyvmvwyrcE

150 zpvdWj R aeEjlhlqbzHfigkMyST WyvkvwvsBE

180 AozcWibR fEklhkrbyHEjgiMxST W wjvwtuBE

210 ANzaWHERd HELLhISawHEjEiMwST WbwgvxsuBE

240 AND WHERE HELLfIS THEnEiMUST WdwEVzszBE

270 AND WHERE HELLcIS THEREbMUST WE EVER BE

He pressed a couple more keys. “And here are the last five generations.”

AND WHERE HELLcIS THEREaMUST WE EVER BE

AND WHERE HELLbIS THEREaMUST WE EVER BE

AND WHERE HELLalS THEREaMUST WE EVER BE

AND WHERE HELLalS THERE MUST WE EVER BE

AND WHERE HELL IS THERE MUST WE EVER BE

“That’s neat,” said Peter.

“It is more than just neat,” said Sarkar. “It is why you and I and the rest of the biological world are here.”

Peter looked up. “You surprise me. I mean, well, you’re a Muslim — I assumed that meant you were a creationist.”

“Please,” said Sarkar. “I am not fool enough to ignore the fossil record.” He paused. “You were raised a Christian, even if you don’t practice that faith in any meaningful way. Your religion says we were created in God’s image. Well, that’s ridiculous, of course — God would have no need for a belly button. What ‘created in His image’ means to me is simply that He provided the selection criteria — the target vision — and the form we evolved to take was one that was pleasing to Him.”

CHAPTER 25

And so, at last, Peter Hobson’s story and Sandra Philo’s story had converged, the death of Hans Larsen — and the other murder attempts that were to come — drawing their lives together. Sandra worked at integrating Peter’s memories with her own of that time — piecing the puzzle together, bit by bit…

Detective Inspector Alexandria Philo of the Metropolitan Toronto Police sat at her desk, staring out into space.

The evening shift would come on in half an hour, but she wasn’t looking forward to going home. It had been four months since she and Walter had split up, and Walter had joint custody of their daughter. When Cayley was with him, as she was this week, the house seemed vast and deserted.

Maybe getting a pet would help, Sandra thought. Perhaps a cat. Something alive, something that would move, something that would greet her when she came home.

Sandra shook her head. She was allergic to cats, and could do without the runny nose and the red eyes. She smiled sadly; she’d broken up with Walter so she’d stop having those very same things.

Sandra had lived with her parents through university, and had married Walter right after graduation. She was now thirty-six, and, with her daughter away, she was alone for the first time in her life.

Maybe she’d go to the YWHA tonight. Work out a bit. She looked critically at her thighs. Better than watching TV, anyway.

“Sandra?”

She looked up. Gary Kinoshita was standing there, a file folder in his hands. He was almost sixty, with a middle-age spread and tightly cropped gray hair. “Yes?”

“Got one for you — it was just called in. I know it’s almost shift change, but Rosenberg and Macavan are busy with that multiple on Sheppard. Do you mind?”

Sandra held out her hand. Kinoshita handed the file to her. Even better than the Y, she thought. Something to do. Her thighs could wait. “Thanks,” she said.

“It’s, ah, a bit gruesome,” said Kinoshita.

Sandra opened the file, scanned the description — a computer-generated transcript of the radio message from the officer who first arrived on the scene. “Oh.”

“A couple of uniforms are there now. They’re expecting you.”

She nodded, got to her feet, adjusted her holster so that it sat comfortably, then slipped on a pale green blazer over her dark green blouse. Metro’s two hundred and twelfth homicide of the year now belonged to her.

The drive didn’t take long. Sandra worked out of 32 Division on Ellerslie just west of Yonge, and the crime scene was at 137 Tuck Friarway — Sandra hated the stupid street names in these new subdivisions. As always, she took stock of the neighborhood before going in. Typical middle-class — modern middle-class that is. Tiny cookie-cutter red-brick houses in rows, with gaps between them so narrow that you’d have to squeeze sideways to get through. Front yards that were mostly driveway, leading up to two-car garages. Communal mailboxes at the intersections. Trees that were little better than saplings growing in tiny plots of grass.

Location, location, location, thought Sandra. Yeah.

A white Metro Police car sat in the driveway of 137, and the station wagon used by the medical examiner was parked illegally on the street. Sandra walked up to the front door. It was wide open. She stopped on the threshold and looked in. The body was right there, stretched out. Dead for about twelve hours, it looked like. Dried blood on the floor. And there it was, just as the transcript had said. A mutilation case.

A uniformed officer appeared, a black man who towered head and shoulders above Sandra — no mean feat; they’d called her “Stretch” in high school.

Sandra flashed her badge. “Detective Inspector Philo,” she said.

The uniform nodded. “Step to right as you come through, Inspector,” he said in a rich Jamaican accent. “Lab not been yet.”

Sandra did so. “You are?”

“King, ma’am. Darryl King.”

“And the deceased is?”

“Hans Larsen. Worked in advertising.”

“Who found the body, Darryl?”