Peter’s voice was strained. “But what if — what if — what if I’m the cause of Cathy’s infidelity? Remember that lunch with Colin Godoyo? He said his cheating on his wife was a cry for help.”
“Please, Peter. You and I both know that’s bullshit.”
“I’m not sure we each get a vote.”
“Regardless, I’m sure Cathy knows it’s bullshit.”
“I hope so.”
“You and Cathy had a good marriage — you know that. It didn’t rot away from within; it was attacked from outside.”
“I suppose,” said Peter, “but I’ve been mulling it over a lot — looking for any clue that we’d blown it somehow.”
“And did you find any?” asked the sim.
“No.”
“Of course not. You always tried to be a good husband — and Cathy was a good wife, too. Both of you worked at making the marriage a success. You take an interest in each other’s work. You’re supportive of each other’s dreams. And you talk freely and openly about everything.”
“Still,” said Peter, “I wish I could be sure.” He paused. “You remember Perry Mason? Not the original TV series with Raymond Burr, but the short-lived remake they made in the 1970s. Remember it? They repeated it on A E in the late nineties. Harry Guardino played Hamilton Burger. Remember that version?”
The sim paused for a moment. “Yes. It wasn’t very good.”
“In point of fact, it stank,” said Peter. “But you remember it?”
“Yes.”
“Remember the guy who played Perry Mason?”
“Sure. It was Robert Culp.”
“Can you recall him? Picture him in the courtroom? Do you remember him in that series?”
“Yes.”
Peter spread his arms. “Robert Culp never played Perry Mason. Monte Markham did.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I’d thought it was Culp, too, until I saw a story about Markham in yesterday’s Star; he’s in town doing Twelve Angry Men at the Royal Alex. But you know the difference between those two actors, Culp and Markham?”
“Sure,” said the sim. “Culp was in I Spy and Greatest American Hero. And, let’s see, in Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice. Great actor.”
“And Markham?”
“A solid character actor; always liked him. Never had a successful series, but wasn’t he in Dallas for a year or so? And, round ’bout 2000, he was in that awful sitcom with James Carey.”
“Right,” said Peter. “Don’t you see? We both had a memory — a good, solid memory — of Robert Culp playing a role that had really been played by Monte Markham. Right now, of course, you’re rewriting those memories, and now I’m sure you can see Markham in the role of Mason. That’s the way all memory works: we save only enough information to reconstruct events later. We save the deltas — we remember base pieces of information, and note changes. Then when we need to summon up a memory, we reconstruct it — and often do so inaccurately.”
“So what’s your point?” said the sim.
“My point, dear brother, is this: how accurate are our memories? We recall all the events leading up to Cathy’s affair, and find ourselves free from blame. Everything hangs together; everything is consistent. But is it accurate? In some way we’ve chosen not to remember, in some moment that we’ve edited out, by some actions that died in the neural cutting room, did we push her into the arms of another man?”
“I think,” said the sim, “that if you have the depth of introspection to ask such a question, you know the answer is probably no. You’re a thoughtful man, Peter — if I do say so myself.”
There was silence for a long time. “I haven’t been much help, have I?” asked the sim.
Peter considered that. “No, on the contrary. I feel a bit better now. Talking about this has helped.”
“Even if it was essentially talking to yourself?” asked the sim.
“Even if,” said Peter.
CHAPTER 23
A rare sunny morning in the middle of November, with light streaming around the edges of the living-room blinds.
Hans Larsen was sitting at the table in his breakfast nook nibbling on white toast with orange marmalade. His wife, Donna-Lee, over by the front door, was slipping on her ten-centimeter black heels. Hans watched her bend over to do that, her breasts — perfect handfuls — straining against her red silk blouse, the curve of her bottom tight against her black leather skirt, the leather too thick to show any panty lines.
She was a beautiful woman, Hans thought, and she knew how to dress to show it off. And that, of course, had been why he’d married her. A fitting wife, the kind that turned heads. The kind a real man should have.
He nibbled some more toast, and chased it with some coffee. He’d give it to her good when he got home tonight. She’d like that. Of course, he wouldn’t be home until late; he was seeing Melanie after work. No, wait — Melanie was tomorrow night; this was only Wednesday. Nancy, then. Even better; Nancy had tits to die for.
Donna-Lee checked herself in the mirror on the front-hall closet door. She leaned in close to examine her makeup, then called out to Hans, “See you later.”
Hans waved a slice of toast at her. “Remember, I’ll be late tonight. I’ve got that meeting after work.”
She nodded, smiled radiantly at him, and left.
She was a good wife, Hans thought. Easy on the eyes, and not too demanding on his time. Of course, one woman was hardly enough for a real man…
Hans had on a dark blue nylon sports jacket and light blue polyester shirt. A silver-gray tie, also synthetic, hung unknotted around his neck. He was wearing white Hanes underwear and black socks, but hadn’t yet put on his pants. There were still twenty minutes before he had to leave for work himself. From the breakfast nook, he could see the TV in the living room, the picture somewhat washed out by sunlight. Canada A.M. was on, with Joel Gotlib interviewing some balding actor Hans didn’t recognize.
Hans finished the last of his toast just as the doorbell rang. The TV automatically reduced Canada AM. to a small image in the upper-left corner. The rest of the screen filled with the view from the outside security camera. A man in a brown United Parcel Service uniform was standing on the stoop. He was carrying a large package wrapped in paper.
Hans grunted. He wasn’t expecting anything. Touching a button on the kitchen phone, he said, “Just a sec,” and went to find his pants. Once he had them on, he crossed through the living room to the entryway, with its bare hardwood floor, then unlocked the door and swung it open. His house faced east, and the figure on the stoop was lit harshly from behind. He was maybe forty years old, quite tall — a full two meters — and skinny. He looked like he could have been a basketball player a decade earlier. His features were sharp and he had a dark tan, as if he’d been south recently. Hans thought they must pay these UPS guys pretty well.
“Are you Hans Larsen?” asked the man. His voice had a British accent, or maybe Australian — Hans could never tell them apart.
Hans nodded. “That’s me.”
The deliveryman handed him the box. It was a cube about a half meter on a side, and it was surprisingly heavy — as if someone had shipped him a collection of rocks. Once his hands were free, the man reached down to his waist. A small electronic receipt pad was attached to his belt by a metal chain. Hans turned around to set the box down.
Suddenly he felt a painful jolt at the back of his neck, and his legs seemed to turn to jelly. He collapsed forward, the weight of the box pulling him in that direction. He felt the flat of a hand in the center of his back pushing him down. Hans tried to speak, but his mouth wouldn’t work. He felt himself being rolled onto his back by the deliveryman’s boot, and he heard the outside door clicking shut. Hans realized that he’d been touched with a stunner, a device he’d only ever seen on TV cop shows, robbing him of muscular control. Even as this sank in, he became aware that he was peeing in his pants.