up, and the graphics on the monitor were not nearly as clear as they had been when Torres had produced the original depiction of Alex’s injured brain.
“This is, of course, an operating program, not a diagnostic one,” Torres had said smoothly. “What you’re seeing here was never really meant for human eyes. It’s a program designed to be read by a computer, and fed to a robot, and the graphics simply aren’t important. In fact, they’re incidental.”
“And they don’t mean a damned thing to me, Dr. Torres,” Marsh declared. “You told me you’d explain what’s happening to Alex, and so far, all you’ve done is dodge the issue. You now have a choice. Either get to the point, or I’m walking out of here—with my wife—and the next time you see us we’ll all be in court. Can I make it any clearer than that?”
Before Torres could make any reply, the telephone rang. “I said I wasn’t to be disturbed under any circumstances,” he said as soon as he’d put the phone to his ear. He listened for a moment, then frowned and held the receiver toward Marsh. “It’s for you, and I take it it’s some sort of emergency.”
“This is Dr. Lonsdale,” Marsh said, his voice almost as impatient as Torres’s had been. “What is it?”
And then he, too, listened in silence as the other person talked. When he hung up, his face was pale and his hands were trembling.
“Marsh …” Ellen breathed. “Marsh, what is it?”
“It’s Alex,” Marsh said, his voice suddenly dead. “That was Sergeant Finnerty. He says he wants to talk to Alex.”
“Again?” Ellen asked, her heart suddenly pounding. “Why?”
When he answered, Marsh kept his eyes on Raymond Torres!
“He says Cynthia and Carolyn Evans are both dead, and he says he has reason to think that Alex killed them.”
As Ellen gasped, Raymond Torres rose to his feet.
“If he said that, then he’s a fool,” Torres rasped, his normally cold eyes glittering angrily.
“But that is what he said,” Marsh whispered. Then, as Torres sank slowly back into his chair, Marsh spoke again. “Please, Dr. Torres, tell me what you’ve done to my son.”
“I saved him,” Torres replied, but for the first time, his icy demeanor had disappeared. He met Marsh’s eyes, and for a moment said nothing. Then he nodded almost imperceptibly.
“All right,” he said quietly. “I’ll tell you what I did. And when I’m done, you’ll see why Alex couldn’t have killed anyone.” He fell silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, Marsh was almost sure he was speaking more to himself than to either Marsh or Ellen. “No, it’s impossible. Alex couldn’t have killed anyone.”
Speaking slowly and carefully, he explained exactly what had been done to Alex Lonsdale.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Ellen tried to still her trembling hands as her eyes searched her husband’s face for whatever truth might be written there. But Marsh’s face remained stonily impassive, as it had been all through Raymond Torres’s long recitation. “But … but what does it all mean?” she finally asked. For the last hour, at least, she had no longer been able to follow the details of what Torres had been saying, nor was she sure the details mattered. What was frightening her was the implications of what she had heard.
“It doesn’t matter what it means,” Marsh said, “because it’s medically impossible.”
“Think what you like, Dr. Lonsdale,” Raymond Torres replied, “but what I’ve told you is the absolute truth. The fact that your son is still alive is the proof of it.” He offered Marsh a smile that was little more than a twisted grimace. “The morning after the operation, I believe you made reference to a miracle. You were, I assume, thinking of a medical miracle, and I chose not to correct you. What it was, though, was a technological miracle.”
“If what you’re saying is actually true,” Marsh said, “what you’ve done is no miracle at all. It’s an obscenity.”
Ellen’s eyes filled with tears, which she made no attempt to wipe away. “But he’s alive, Marsh,” she protested, and then shrank back in her chair as Marsh turned to face her.
“Is he? By what criteria? Let’s assume that what Torres says is true. That Alex’s brain was far too extensively damaged even to attempt repairs.” His eyes, flashing with anger, flicked to Torres. “That is what you said, isn’t it?”
Torres nodded. “There was no brain activity whatever, except on the most primitive level. His heart was beating, but that was all. Without the respirator, he couldn’t