An expanding universe. A universe of vast time. Even though she was far away now, Peter could still perceive the details of Cathy’s face, the lines around her eyes. Soon she gave up running, gave up even walking. She just stood there on the ever-growing surface. She continued to wave, but Peter understood that it had become a wave of good-bye — no immortality for her. The surface continued to expand, and soon she had slipped over the horizon, out of sight…

When Cathy got home that evening, she told Peter. Together, they watched the CityPulse News at six, but the report added very little to what she’d learned at work. Still, Peter was surprised to see how small a house Hans had had — a pleasing reminder that, at least in economic matters, Peter had been his better by an order of magnitude.

Cathy seemed to still be in shock — dazed by the news. Peter shocked himself by how … how satisfactory all this seemed. But it irritated him to see her mourning the death. Granted, she and Hans had worked together for years. Still, there was something deep in Peter that was affronted by her sadness.

Even though he had to get up early for a meeting — some Japanese journalists were flying in to interview him about the soulwave — he didn’t even make a pretense of trying to go to bed at the same time as Cathy. Instead he stayed up, watched white-haired Jay Leno for a bit, then ambled off to his office and dialed into Mirror Image. He received the same menu as before:

[Fl] Spirit (Life After Death)

[F2] Ambrotos (Immortality)

[F3] Control (unmodified)

Once again, he selected the Control sim.

“Hello,” said Peter. “It’s me, Peter.”

“Hello,” replied the sim. “It’s after midnight. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

Peter nodded. “I suppose. I’m just — I don’t know, I guess I’m jealous, in a funny sort of way.”

“Jealous?”

“Of Hans. He was killed yesterday morning.”

“Was he? My God…”

“You sound like Cath. All fucking choked up.”

“Well, it does come as a surprise.”

“I suppose,” said Peter. “Still…”

“Still what?”

“Still it bothers me that she’s so upset by this. Sometimes…” He paused for a long time, then: “Sometimes I wonder if I married the right woman.”

The sim’s voice was neutral. “You didn’t have much choice.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Peter. “There was Becky. Becky and I would have been wonderful together.”

The speaker made a very strange sound; perhaps the electronic equivalent of blowing a raspberry. “People think the choice of who they marry is a big decision, and a very personal reflection of who they are. It’s not — not really.”

“Of course it is,” said Peter.

“No, it’s not. Look, I’ve got nothing much to do these days except read stuff coming in off the net. One thing I’ve been looking into is twin studies — I guess kind of being your silicon twin has got me interested.”

“Gallium arsenide,” said Peter.

The raspberry sound again. “The studies show that twins separated at birth are enormously alike in thousands of ways. They have the same favorite chocolate bar. They like the same music. If male, they both choose to grow, or not to grow, a beard. They end up with similar careers. On and on — similarity after similarity. Except in one thing: spouses. One twin may have an athletic spouse, the other a delicate intellectual. One a blonde, the other a brunette. One an extrovert, the other a wallflower.”

“Really?” asked Peter.

“Absolutely,” said Control. “Twin studies are devastating to the ego. All those similarities in tastes show that nature, not nurture, is the overwhelming component of personality. In fact, I read a great study today about two twins separated at birth. Both were slobs. One had adoptive parents who were obsessive about neatness; the other was adopted by a family with a messy household. A researcher asked the twins why they were sloppy, and both said it was a reaction to their adoptive parents. One said, ‘My mother was such a neat-freak, I can’t bear to be so meticulous.’ But the other said, ‘Well, gee, my mother was a slob, so I guess I picked it up from her.’ In fact, neither answer is true. Being messy was in their genes. Almost everything we are is in our genes.”

Peter digested this. “But doesn’t the choice of radically different spouses refute that? Doesn’t that prove we are individuals, shaped by our individual upbringings?”

“At first glance, it might seem that way,” said Control, “but in fact it proves exactly the opposite. Think about when we got engaged to Cathy. We were twenty-eight, just about to finish our doctorate. We were ready to get on with life; we wanted to get married. Granted, we were already very much in love with Cathy, but even if we weren’t, we’d probably have wanted to get married about then. If she hadn’t been there, we would have looked around at our circle of acquaintances to find a mate. But think about it: we really had very few possibilities. First eliminate all those who were already married or engaged — Becky was engaged to somebody else at that point, for instance. Then eliminate all those who weren’t approximately our same age. Then, to be really honest with ourselves, eliminate those of other races or profoundly different religions. Who would have been left? One person? Maybe two. Maybe, if we’d been extraordinarily lucky, three or four. But that’s it. You’re fantasizing about all the people we could have married, but if you look at it — really look at it — you’ll find we had almost no choice at all.”

Peter shook his head. “It seems so cold and impersonal when put like that.”

“In a lot of ways, it is,” said the sim. “But it’s given me a new appreciation for Sarkar and Raheema’s arranged marriage. I’d always thought that was wrong, but when you get right down to it, the difference is trivial. They didn’t have much choice in who they married, and neither did we.”

“I suppose,” said Peter.

“It’s true,” said the sim. “So go to bed, already. Go upstairs and lie down next to your wife.” He paused. “I should be so lucky myself.”

CHAPTER 27

Detective Inspector Alexandria Philo had a love-hate relationship with this part of her job. On the one hand, questioning those who had known the deceased often provided valuable clues. But, on the other, having to pump distraught people for information was an unpleasant experience all around.

Even worse was the cynicism that went with the process: not everyone would be telling the truth; some of the tears would be crocodile. Sandra’s natural instinct was to offer sympathy for those who were in pain, but the cop in her said that nothing should be taken at face value.

No, she thought. It wasn’t the cop in her that made her say that. It was the civilian. Once her marriage to Walter was over, all the people who had earlier congratulated her on their engagement and wedding started saying things like, “Oh, I knew it would never last,” and “Gee, he really wasn’t right for you,” and “He was an ape” — or a Neanderthal, or a jerk, or whatever the individual’s favorite metaphor for stupid people was. Sandra had learned then that people — even good people, even your friends — will lie to you. At any given moment, they will tell you what they think you want to hear.

The elevator doors slid open on the sixteenth floor of the North American Life tower. Sandra stepped out. Doowap Advertising had its own lobby, all in chrome and pink leather, directly off the elevators. Sandra walked over to stand in front of the receptionist’s large desk. These days, most companies had gotten rid of the fluffy bimbos at the front desk, and replaced them with more mature adults of either sex, projecting a more businesslike image. But advertising was still advertising, and sex still sold. Sandra tried to keep her conversation to words of one syllable for the benefit of the pretty young thing behind the desk.