The Terminal Experiment - Robert J. Sawyer Page 0,54
a space than E is, so this string is a slight improvement—slightly fitter.” He pushed another key. “Now, we’ll let it run through to the end—there, it’s done.”
Peter was impressed. “That was fast.”
“Cumulative evolution,” said Sarkar, triumphantly. “It took only 277 generations to get from gibberish to Marlowe—from randomness to a complex structure.
Here, I’ll just display every thirtieth generation, with genes that have evolved to their target values in upper case.”
Keyclicks. The screen showed:
000
wtshxowlvdamfhiqhgdiigjmh rpeqwursudnfE
030
wttgWoxmvdakgiiphfdHghili STesxuovvapdE
060
xrtgWoymwccigihpiddHfihll STesxuovvapdE
090
xqugWm nzccfhihomcdHfihkM STcuyunvvzpdE
120
ypudWl p bcEijhmnbbHfihkMzSTbWyvmvwyrcE
150
zpvdWj R aeEjlhlqbzHfigkMyST WyvkvwvsBE
180
AozcWibR fEklhkrbyHEjgiMxST W wjvwtuBE
210
ANzaWHERd HELLhISawHEjEiMwST WbwgvxsuBE
240
AND WHERE HELLfIS THEnEiMUST WdwEVzszBE
270
AND WHERE HELLcIS THEREbMUST WE EVER BE
He pressed a couple more keys. “And here are the last five generations.”
273
AND WHERE HELLcIS THEREaMUST WE EVER BE
274
AND WHERE HELLbIS THEREaMUST WE EVER BE
275
AND WHERE HELLaIS THEREaMUST WE EVER BE
276
AND WHERE HELLaIS THERE MUST WE EVER BE
277
AND WHERE HELL IS THERE MUST WE EVER BE
“That’s neat,” said Peter.
“It is more than just neat,” said Sarkar. “It is why you and I and the rest of the biological world are here.”
Peter looked up. “You surprise me. I mean, well, you’re a Muslim—I assumed that meant you were a creationist.”
“Please,” said Sarkar. “I am not fool enough to ignore the fossil record.” He paused. “You were raised a Christian, even if you don’t practice that faith in any meaningful way. Your religion says we were created in God’s image. Well, that’s ridiculous, of course—God would have no need for a belly button. What ‘created in His image’ means to me is simply that He provided the selection criteria—the target vision—and the form we evolved to take was one that was pleasing to Him.”
CHAPTER 25
And so, at last, Peter Hobson’s story and Sandra Philo’s story had converged, the death of Hans Larsen—and the other murder attempts that were to come—drawing their lives together. Sandra worked at integrating Peter’s memories with her own of that time—piecing the puzzle together, bit by bit …
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR ALEXANDRIA PHILO of the Toronto Police Service sat at her desk, staring out into space.
The evening shift would come on in half an hour, but she wasn’t looking forward to going home. It had been four months since she and Walter had split up, and Walter had joint custody of their daughter. When Cayley was with him, as she was this week, the house seemed vast and deserted.
Maybe getting a pet would help, Sandra thought. Perhaps a cat. Something alive, something that would move, something that would greet her when she came home.
Sandra shook her head. She was allergic to cats, and could do without the runny nose and the red eyes. She smiled sadly; she’d broken up with Walter so she’d stop having those very same things.
Sandra had lived with her parents through university, and had married Walter right after graduation. She was now thirty-six, and, with her daughter away, she was alone for the first time in her life.
Maybe she’d go to the YWHA tonight. Work out a bit. She looked critically at her thighs. Better than watching TV, anyway.
“Sandra?”
She looked up. Gary Kinoshita was standing there, a file folder in his hands. He was almost sixty, with a middle-age spread and tightly cropped gray hair. “Yes?”
“Got one for you—it was just called in. I know it’s almost shift change, but Rosenberg and Macavan are busy with that multiple on Sheppard. Do you mind?”
Sandra held out her hand. Kinoshita handed the file to her. Even better than the Y, she thought. Something to do. Her thighs could wait. “Thanks,” she said.
“It’s, ah, a bit gruesome,” said Kinoshita.
Sandra opened the file, scanned the description—a computer-generated transcript of the radio message from the officer who first arrived on the scene. “Oh.”
“A couple of uniforms are there now. They’re expecting you.”
She nodded, got to her feet, adjusted her holster so that it sat comfortably, then slipped on a pale green blazer over her dark green blouse. The city’s two hundred and twelfth homicide of the year now belonged to her.
The drive didn’t take long. Sandra worked out of 32 Division on Ellerslie just west of Yonge, and the crime scene was at 137 Tuck Friarway—Sandra hated the stupid street names in these new subdivisions. As always, she took stock of the neighborhood before going in. Typical middle-class—modern middle-class that is. Tiny cookie-cutter red-brick houses in rows, with gaps between them so narrow that you’d have to squeeze sideways to get through. Front yards that were mostly driveway, leading up to two-car garages. Communal mailboxes at the intersections. Trees that were little better