“I guess I did notice that.”
“You had some sessions with him before this one didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Can we get a transcript of them?”
“Sure.” They took their drinks and headed back down to the lab. Sarkar tapped a few keys and the printer disgorged several dozen thin sheets.
Peter glanced over the text. “Do you have a grammar checker online?”
“Better than that, we have Proofreader, one of our expert systems.”
“Can you feed this text through it?”
Sarkar typed some commands into the computer. An analysis of Spirit’s comments from their various sessions appeared on screen. “Amazing,” said Sarkar. He pointed to a figure. Ignoring simple interjections, Spirit averaged thirty-two words per sentence, and in some places had gone over three hundred words in a single sentence. “Normal conversation averages only ten or so words per sentence.”
“Can this Proofreader of yours do a cleanup on the transcripts?”
“Sure.”
“Do it.”
Sarkar typed some commands. “Incredible,” he said, once the results were on screen. “There was almost nothing to fix. Spirit has even his giant sentences completely under control and never loses his train of thought.”
“Fascinating,” said Peter. “Could it be a programming glitch?”
Sarkar smoothed his hair with his hand. “Have you noticed Control or Ambrotos doing the same thing?”
“No.”
“Then offhand I would say it’s not a glitch, but rather a real by-product of the modifications we made. Spirit is the simulation of life after death — the intellect outside of the body. I’d say this effect must be a real consequence of having cut some neural-net connections related to that.”
“Oh, Christ!” said Peter. “Of course that’s it! For the other sims, you still simulate breathing. But Spirit doesn’t have a body, so he doesn’t have to pause to breathe when speaking. Breathing pauses must cause real people to express themselves in concise chunks.”
“Interesting,” said Sarkar. “I guess if you didn’t have to breathe, you could express more complex thoughts in a single go. But that wouldn’t really make you any smarter. It’s thinking, not speaking, that counts.”
“True, but, umm, I’ve noticed Spirit has a tendency to be a bit obtuse.”
“I’ve noticed that too,” said Sarkar. “So?”
“Well, what if he isn’t being obtuse at all? What if, instead — gee, I don’t even like saying this — what if he’s simply talking over our heads? What if not just his manner of speaking but his actual thoughts are more complex than my own?”
Sarkar considered. “Well, there’s nothing analogous to breathing pauses in the physical brain, except — except—”
“What?”
“Well, neurons only fire for so long,” said Sarkar. “A neural net can only stay excited for a limited period.”
“Surely that’s a fundamental limitation of the human mind.”
“No, it’s a fundamental limitation of the human brain — more precisely, a limitation of the electrochemical process by which the brain works. The hardware of the brain is not designed to keep any one thought intact for any period of time. You’ve felt it, I’m sure: you come up with a brilliant idea you wish to write down, but by the time you get to a pen, you’ve lost it. The idea has simply decayed in your brain.”
Peter lifted his eyebrows. “But Spirit is operating without a brain. He’s just a mind, a soul. He’s pure software, working without any hardware limitations. No breathing pauses. No nets decaying before he’s finished with them. He can build as long a sentence, or as complex a thought, as he wants.”
Sarkar was shaking his head slightly in amazement.
“That’s how one’s mind could go on forever after death,” said Peter. “You couldn’t just do it making simple connections, like chicken-crossing-the-road jokes. You’d run out of new juxtapose-A-and-B thoughts eventually. But Spirit can juxtapose A through Z, plus alpha through omega, plus aleph through tav, until, in all those complex combinations, some new, exciting, amusing association comes up.”
“Incredible,” said Sarkar. “It means—”
“It means,” said Peter, “that perhaps the afterlife is full of jokes, but jokes so complex and subtle and obtuse that you and I will never understand them.” He paused. “At least not until after we’re dead.”
Sarkar made a low whistle, but then his expression changed. “Speaking of being dead, I’ve got to get home or Raheema will kill me. I’m cooking dinner tonight.”
Peter looked at the clock. “Gripes. I’m late for meeting Cathy — we’re going out for dinner.”
Sarkar laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’ll get it,” said Sarkar. “Eventually.”
CHAPTER 32
The sim had been monitoring Food Food’s computer, waiting for an order for the Churchill address. Finally, there it was — the same thing Rod, creature of habit that he was, had ordered for the last six weeks.
As soon as the order appeared in the system, the sim intercepted it, made one small modification, then let it continue on its way through the phone line to the Food Food store at Steeles and Bayview, six blocks from Rod Churchill’s house.
Peter and Cathy had taken Cathy’s car down Bayview Avenue. This part, some ten kilometers south of where her parents lived, was entirely lined with shops, boutiques, and restaurants. They’d briefly stopped in at The Sleuth of Baker Street, Toronto’s mystery bookstore, and were now looking for a break in the traffic so they could cross over to the little Korean restaurant they both liked on the other side of the street.
A round man with a shock of white hair and clad in a navy blue trench coat, was walking down the sidewalk. Peter noticed him doing a double take as he passed them. He was slowly getting used to that; he’d had enough press lately that people were recognizing him on the streets. But the man didn’t move on. Instead, he came toward them.
“You’re Peter Hobson, aren’t you?” he said. He was about sixty, with little veins visible on the surface of his nose and cheeks.
“Yes,” said Peter.
“You the guy who discovered that soul signal?”
“Soulwave,” said Peter. “We call it the soulwave.” A beat. “Yes, that’s me.”
“I thought so,” said the man. “But you know, unless your soul is saved, you’ll go to hell.”
Cathy took Peter’s arm. “Come on,” she said.
But the man moved to block their way. “Give yourself over to Jesus, Mr. Hobson — it’s the only way.”
“I’m, ah, really not interested in discussing this,” said Peter.
“Jesus forgives you,” said the man. He reached into the pocket of his trench coat. For one horrible moment, Peter thought the man was going for a gun, but instead he brought out a worn Bible, bound in bloodred leather. “Hear the word of God, Mr. Hobson! Save your soul!”
Cathy spoke directly to the man. “Leave us alone.”
“I can’t let you go,” said the man. He reached out an arm and—
— connected with Cathy’s shoulder.
Before Peter could react, Cathy had brought her shoe down on the man’s instep. He yowled in pain. “Get lost!” shouted Cathy, and she firmly took Peter’s arm, and propelled them both across the street.
“Hey,” said Peter, still flustered but nonetheless impressed. “Pretty good.”
Cathy tossed her black hair back. “No one messes with my husband,” she said, grinning her megawatt grin. She led them the few doors down to the restaurant. “Now, let me buy you dinner.”
The doorbell rang. Rod Churchill glanced at his watch. Twenty-six minutes. He’d yet to get a free meal, although a history teacher at his high school said she’d gotten lucky twice in a row. Out of habit, Rod glanced at the security camera display on his TV. Yup, a Food Food driver, all right: the orange-and-white uniform was quite distinctive. Rod walked down to the entryway, checked himself in the hall mirror to make sure his hair was still properly combed over his bald head, and opened the door. He signed the receipt for the driver, who gave him one copy, then took his packaged food up to the dining room. Rod opened the envirofoam containers carefully, got himself a glass of white wine, put on the TV — easily visible from his place at the dining-room table — and sat down to enjoy his meal.