Peter considered. “All right,” he said. “If it will put an end to all this, yes, I’ll agree to a test, here and now. But in the absence of counsel, you may ask three questions only — did I kill Hans Larsen? Did I kill Rod Churchill? Did I arrange their deaths?”

“I have to ask more than three questions — calibrating the machine requires it; you know that.”

“All right,” said Peter. “Presumably you have a script of calibration questions. I’ll agree to the test so long as you don’t deviate from that script.”

“Very well.” Sandra opened her attache case, revealing the polygraph equipment within.

Peter peered at the device. “Don’t you have to be a specialist to operate those machines?”

“You should read your own product brochures, Peter. There’s an expert-system AI chip inside. Anyone can operate one these days.”

Peter grunted. Sandra affixed small sensors to Peter’s forearm and wrist. A flat-panel screen popped up from the attache case, and Sandra angled it so that only she could see it. She touched a few controls, then began to ask questions. “What’s your name?”

“Peter Hobson.”

“How old are you?”

“Forty-two.”

“Where were you born?”

“North Battleford, Saskatchewan.”

“Now lie to me. Tell me again where you were born.”

“Scotland.”

“Tell the truth: What is your wife’s first name?”

“Catherine.”

“Now lie: what is your wife’s middle name?”

“Ah — T’Pring.”

“Did you kill Hans Larsen?”

Peter watched Sandra carefully. “No.”

“Did you kill Rod Churchill?”

“No.”

“Did you arrange the killing of either of them?”

“No.”

“Do you have any idea who killed them?” Peter held up a hand. “We agreed only three questions, Inspector.”

’’I’m sorry. Surely you don’t mind answering one more, though?” She smiled. “I no more like having to be suspicious of you than you like being a suspect. It I would be nice to be able to scratch you off my list.”

Peter thought. Dammit. “All right,” he said slowly. “I don’t know any person who might have killed them.”

Sandra looked up. “I’m sorry — I guess I upset you I when I went beyond what we’d agreed. There was some very strange activity when you said ‘person.’ Would you please bear with me for just one moment I more and repeat your last answer?”

Peter yanked the sensor from his arm, and threw it n the desktop. “I’ve already put up with more than we agreed,” he said, an edge in his voice. He knew he was making matters worse, and he fought to keep panic from overwhelming him. He pulled the second sensor off his wrist. “I’m through answering questions.”

“I’m sorry,” said Sandra. “Forgive me.”

Peter made an effort to calm himself. “That’s all right,” he said. “I hope you got what you were looking for.”

“Oh, yes,” said Sandra, closing her case. “Yes, indeed.”

It didn’t take long for Spirit’s artificial life-forms to develop multicellularism: chains of distinct units, attached together into simple rows. Eventually, the lifeforms stumbled onto the trick of doubling up into two rows: twice as many cells, but each one still exposed on at least one side to the nutrient soup of Spirit’s simulated sea. And then the long rows of cells began to double back on themselves, forming U shapes. And, eventually, the U shapes closed over on the bottom, forming bags. Then, at last, the great breakthrough: the bottom and top of the bag opened up, resulting in a cylinder made of a double layer of cells, open at both ends: the basic body plan of all animal life on Earth, with an eating orifice at the front and an excretory one at the rear.

Generations were born. Generations died.

And Spirit kept selecting.

CHAPTER 40

It had taken some work, but on December 4 Sandra Philo had gotten the monitoring warrant she’d requested, allowing her to place a transponder inside the rear bumper of Peter Hobson’s car. She’d been given a ten-day permit by the judge. The transponder had a timing chip in it: it had operated for precisely the period authorized, and not a second longer. The ten days were now up, and Sandra was analyzing the collected data.

Peter drove to his office a lot, and also went frequently to several restaurants, including Sonny Gotlieb’s, a place Sandra quite liked herself; to North York General Hospital (he was on their board of directors); and elsewhere. But there was one address that kept appearing over and over in the logs: 88 Connie Crescent in Concord. That was an industrial unit that housed four different businesses. She cross-referenced the address with Peter’s telephone records, obtained under the same warrant. He’d repeatedly called a number registered to Mirror Image, 88 Connie Crescent.

Sandra called up InfoGlobe and got screens full of data about that company: Mirror Image Ltd., founded in 2001 by wunderkind Sarkar Muhammed, a firm specializing in expert systems and artificial-intelligence applications. Big contracts with the Ontario government and several Financial Post 100 corporations.

Sandra thought back to the lie-detector test Peter Hobson had taken. “I don’t know any person who might have killed them,” he’d said — and his vital signs had been agitated when he said the word “person.”

And now he was spending time at an artificial-intelligence lab.

It was almost too wild, too crazy.

And yet Hobson himself hadn’t committed the murders. The lie detector had shown that.

It was the kind of thing the law-enforcement journals had been warning was coming down the pike.

Perhaps, now, at last, it was here.

Here.

Sandra leaned back in her chair, trying to absorb it all.

It certainly wasn’t enough to get an arrest warrant.

Not an arrest warrant, no. But maybe a search warrant…

She saved her research files, logged off, and headed out the door.

It took five vehicles to get them all there: two patrol cars with a pair of uniformed officers apiece; a York Region squad car with the liaison officer from that police force — the raid would be conducted on York’s turf; Sandra Philo’s unmarked car, carrying her and Jorgenson, head of the computer-crimes division; and the blue CCD van, carrying five analysts and their equipment.

The convoy pulled up outside 88 Connie Crescent at 10:17 a.m. Sandra and the four uniformed officers went directly inside; Jorgenson went over to the CCD van to confer with his team.

The receptionist at Mirror Image — an elderly Asian man — looked up in shock as Sandra and the uniforms entered. “Can I help you?” he said.

“Please move away from your computer terminal,” said Sandra. “We have a warrant to search these premises.” She held up the document.

“I think I better call Dr. Muhammed,” said the man.

“You do that,” said Sandra. She snapped her fingers, indicating that one of the uniforms should stay here, preventing the receptionist from using his terminal. Sandra and the other three headed inside.

A thin dark-skinned man appeared at the far end of the corridor.

“May I help you?” he said, his voice full of concern.

“Are you Sarkar Muhammed?” asked Sandra, closing the distance between them.

“Yes.”

“I’m Detective Inspector Philo, Metropolitan Toronto Police.” She handed him the warrant. “We have reason to believe that computer-related crimes have been committed from this establishment. This warrant gives us authority to search not just your offices, but your computer systems as well.”

At that moment, the door to the reception area burst open and Jorgenson and the five analysts came in. “Make sure none of the employees touch any computer equipment,” Jorgenson said to the senior uniformed officer. The cops started fanning out into the building. One of the corridor walls was largely glass, overlooking a big data-processing facility. Jorgenson pointed to two of the analysts. “Davis, Kato — you’re in there.” The two analysts went to the door, but it had a separate FILE lock.