“I’m afraid I don’t see that at all,” Marsh replied. “From what you’ve said, it would seem to me that Alex would make the most ideal killer in the world, since he has no feelings.”
“And he would,” Torres agreed. “Except that murder is not part of his programming, and he’s only capable of doing what he’s programmed to do. Murder, as I’m sure you’re aware, is most often motivated by emotions. Anger, jealousy, fear — any number of things. But they are all things of which Alex has no knowledge or experience. He’s aware that emotions exist, but he’s never experienced them. And without emotions, he would never find himself prey to the urge to kill.”
“Unless,” Marsh replied, “he were programmed to kill.”
“Exactly. But even then, he would analyze the order, and unless the killing made intellectual sense to him, he would refuse the order.”
Marsh tried to digest Torres’s words, but found himself unable to. His mind was too filled with conflicting emotions and thoughts. He felt a numbness of the spirit that he abstractedly identified as shock. And why not? he thought. He’s dead. My son is dead, and yet he’s not. He’s somewhere right now, walking and talking and thinking, while I sit here being told that he doesn’t really exist at all, that he’s nothing more than … He rejected the word that came to mind, then accepted it: nothing more than some kind of a machine. His eyes moved to Ellen, and he could see that she, too, was struggling with her emotions. He got to his feet and went to her, kneeling by her chair.
“He’s dead, sweetheart,” he whispered softly.
“No,” Ellen moaned, burying her face in her hands as her body was finally racked by the sobs she had been holding back so long. “No, Marsh, he can’t be dead. He can’t be.…” He put his arms around her and held her close, gently stroking her hair. When he spoke again, it was to Raymond Torres, and his words were choked with anger and grief.
“Why?” he asked. “Why did you do this to us?”
“Because you asked me to,” Torres replied. “You asked me to save his life, any way I could, and that’s what I did, to the best of my ability.” Then he sighed heavily, and carefully placed his pipe back on his desk. “But I did it for myself, too,” he said. “I won’t deny that. I had the technology, and I had the skill.” His eyes met Marsh’s. “Let me ask you something. If you had been in my position, would you have done what I did?”
Marsh was silent for a full minute, and he knew that Torres had asked a question for which he had no answer. When he at last spoke, his voice reflected nothing except the exhaustion he was feeling. “I don’t know,” he said. “I wish I could say that I wouldn’t have, but I don’t know.” Shakily he rose to his feet, but kept his hand protectively on Ellen’s shoulder. “What do we do now?”
“Find Alex,” Torres replied. “We have to find him, and get him back here. Something happened yesterday, and I don’t know what effect it might have had on Alex. There was … well, there was an error in the lab, and Alex underwent some tests without anesthesia.” Briefly he described the tests, and what Alex must have experienced. “He didn’t show any effects afterward, which indicates that there was no damage done, but I’d like to be sure. And there’s still the problem of the memories he thinks he’s having.”
Marsh stiffened as he suddenly realized that for all his carefully worded explanations, Torres was still holding something back. “But he is having them,” he said. “How can that be?”
“I don’t know,” Torres admitted. “And that’s why I want him back here. Somewhere in his memory banks there is an error, and that error has to be corrected. What seems to be happening is that Alex is becoming increasingly involved in finding the source of those memories. There is no source,” Torres said, and paused as his words penetrated the Lonsdales like daggers of ice. “When he discovers that, I’m not sure what might happen to him.”
Marsh’s voice hardened once more. “It sounds to me, Dr. Torres, as if you’re implying that Alex might go insane. If that has indeed happened, isn’t it possible that you’re entirely wrong, and Alex could, after all, have committed murder?”
“No,” Torres insisted. “The word doesn’t apply. Computers don’t go insane. But they do stop functioning.”
“A systems crash, I believe they call it,” Marsh said coldly, and Torres nodded. “And in Alex’s case, may I assume that would be fatal?”
Again Torres nodded, this time with obvious reluctance. “I have to agree that that is quite possible, yes.” Then, seeing the look of fear and confusion on Ellen’s face, he went on: “Believe me, Ellen, Alex has done nothing wrong. In all likelihood, I’ll be able to help him. He’ll be all right.”
“But he won’t,” Marsh said quietly, drawing Ellen to her feet. “Dr. Torres, please don’t try to hold out any more false hope to my wife. The best thing she can do right now is try to accept the fact that Alex died last May. As of this moment, I do not know exactly who the person is who looks like my son and has been living in my house, but I do know that it is not Alex.” As Ellen began quietly sobbing once more, he led her toward the door. “I don’t know what to do now, Dr. Torres, but you may rest assured that should Alex come home, I will call the police and explain to them that Alex — or whoever he is — is legally in your custody, and that any questions they have should be directed to you. He is not my son anymore, Dr. Torres. He hasn’t been since the day I brought him to you.” He turned away, and led Ellen out of the office.
They were halfway back to La Paloma before Ellen finally spoke. Her voice was hoarse from her crying. “Is he really dead, Marsh?” she asked. “Was he telling us the truth?”
“I don’t know,” Marsh replied. It was the same question he’d been grappling with ever since they’d left the Institute, and he still had no answer. “He was telling us the truth, yes. I believe he did exactly what he says he did. But as for Alex, I wish I could tell you. Who knows what death really is? Legally, Alex could have been declared dead before we ever took him down to Palo Alto. According to the brain scans, there was no activity, and that’s a legal criterion for death.”
“But he was still breathing—”
“No, he wasn’t. Not really. Our machines were breathing for him. And now Raymond Torres has invented new machines, and Alex is walking and talking. But I don’t know if he’s Alex. He doesn’t act like Alex, and he doesn’t think like Alex, and he doesn’t respond like Alex. For weeks now, I’ve had this strange feeling that Alex wasn’t there, and apparently I was right. Alex isn’t there. All that’s there is whatever Raymond Torres constructed in Alex’s body.”
“But it is Alex’s body,” Ellen insisted.
“But isn’t that all it is?” Marsh asked, his voice reflecting the pain he was feeling. “Isn’t it the part we bury when the spirit’s gone? And Alex’s spirit is gone, Ellen. Or if it isn’t, then it’s trapped so deep inside the wreckage of his brain that it will never escape.”
Ellen said nothing for a long time, staring out into the gathering gloom of the evening. “Then why do I still love him?” she asked at last. “Why do I still feel that he’s my son?”