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Authors: Robert J. Sawyer
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herself, of Kyle, of Becky, and yes, of Mary.
What had really gone on?
If only there were an archive of our memories—some infallible record of everything that had ever happened.
Irrefutable proof, one way or the other.
She closed her eyes.
If only.
9
Kyle had a huge demonstration coming up; it was vitally important to the continued funding of his research project. He should have been worrying about that—but he wasn’t. Instead, as always these days, he was preoccupied with Becky’s accusation.
So far, besides Heather and Zack, he’d spoken about it with no one except Cheetah. The only person he’d confided in wasn’t a person at all; he might as well have unburdened himself to Mr. Coffee.
Kyle needed to talk this over with somebody really human. He thought long and hard about whom he could confide in. No one in the Computer Science Department would do; he wanted to leave that pristine, except for his locked talks with Cheetah. In the months ahead, his lab might be the only haven he would know.
Mullin Hall was right next door to the Newman Centre, which housed the Roman Catholic Chaplaincy at U of T. Kyle thought briefly about speaking to the chaplain, but that wouldn’t do, either. The pattern was completely different, but a cassock was black and white. Just like a zebra’s hide.
And then it hit him.
The perfect person.
Kyle didn’t know him well, but they’d served on three or four committees together over the years, and they’d eaten lunch together, or at least as part of the same group, in the Faculty Club from time to time.
Kyle picked up his office phone and spoke the name he wanted. “Internal directory: Bentley, Stone.”
The phone bleeped, then a reedy voice came on. “Hello?”
“Stone? It’s Kyle Graves.”
“Who? Oh—Kyle, sure. Hi.”
“Stone, I wonder if you might be free for drinks tonight.”
“Uh, okay. Sure. The Faculty Club?”
“No, no. Somewhere off campus.”
“How about The Water Hole, on College Street?” said Stone. “Know it?”
“I’ve walked past it before.”
“You’ll be coming from Mullin?”
“That’s right.”
“Stop by my office at five. Persaud Hall, Room Two Twenty-two—just like the old TV show. It’s on the way.”
“I’ll be there.”
Kyle clicked off, wondering what exactly he’d say to Stone.
Heather entered her office at U of T. It wasn’t huge, but at least universities had never adopted cubicles for their academics. Normally, she shared the office with Omar Amir—another associate prof—but he spent all of July and August at his family’s cottage in the Kawarthas. So, for the summer at least, she had total privacy in which to think and work. Indeed, although some of the newer offices had frosted-glass panes running floor-to-ceiling next to their thin doors, Heather and Omar’s office was an old fashioned inner sanctum, with a solid wooden door that squeaked on hinges, and a window that looked east, out over the concrete courtyard between Sid Smith and St. George Street. It also had drapes, once probably a rich burgundy but now a pale brown. In the morning, they had to be drawn to shield her from the rising sun.
Yesterday’s alien radio message was still displayed on her monitor. Since the interval between the beginnings of successive messages was thirty hours and fifty-one minutes, every message began almost eight hours later in the day than the one before. The most recent message had been received at 4:54 AM., Eastern time Wednesday; today’s was expected to begin at 11:45 A.M. The messages were picked up by different nations’ radio telescopes, depending on what part of Earth happened to be pointing at Alpha Centauri at the appropriate time, but they were all posted as they were received to the World Wide Web. An additional orbital receiver was also always aimed at Alpha Centauri.
Heather kept hoping that one day she would look at the latest message and it would all make sense. She missed the
What had really gone on?
If only there were an archive of our memories—some infallible record of everything that had ever happened.
Irrefutable proof, one way or the other.
She closed her eyes.
If only.
9
Kyle had a huge demonstration coming up; it was vitally important to the continued funding of his research project. He should have been worrying about that—but he wasn’t. Instead, as always these days, he was preoccupied with Becky’s accusation.
So far, besides Heather and Zack, he’d spoken about it with no one except Cheetah. The only person he’d confided in wasn’t a person at all; he might as well have unburdened himself to Mr. Coffee.
Kyle needed to talk this over with somebody really human. He thought long and hard about whom he could confide in. No one in the Computer Science Department would do; he wanted to leave that pristine, except for his locked talks with Cheetah. In the months ahead, his lab might be the only haven he would know.
Mullin Hall was right next door to the Newman Centre, which housed the Roman Catholic Chaplaincy at U of T. Kyle thought briefly about speaking to the chaplain, but that wouldn’t do, either. The pattern was completely different, but a cassock was black and white. Just like a zebra’s hide.
And then it hit him.
The perfect person.
Kyle didn’t know him well, but they’d served on three or four committees together over the years, and they’d eaten lunch together, or at least as part of the same group, in the Faculty Club from time to time.
Kyle picked up his office phone and spoke the name he wanted. “Internal directory: Bentley, Stone.”
The phone bleeped, then a reedy voice came on. “Hello?”
“Stone? It’s Kyle Graves.”
“Who? Oh—Kyle, sure. Hi.”
“Stone, I wonder if you might be free for drinks tonight.”
“Uh, okay. Sure. The Faculty Club?”
“No, no. Somewhere off campus.”
“How about The Water Hole, on College Street?” said Stone. “Know it?”
“I’ve walked past it before.”
“You’ll be coming from Mullin?”
“That’s right.”
“Stop by my office at five. Persaud Hall, Room Two Twenty-two—just like the old TV show. It’s on the way.”
“I’ll be there.”
Kyle clicked off, wondering what exactly he’d say to Stone.
Heather entered her office at U of T. It wasn’t huge, but at least universities had never adopted cubicles for their academics. Normally, she shared the office with Omar Amir—another associate prof—but he spent all of July and August at his family’s cottage in the Kawarthas. So, for the summer at least, she had total privacy in which to think and work. Indeed, although some of the newer offices had frosted-glass panes running floor-to-ceiling next to their thin doors, Heather and Omar’s office was an old fashioned inner sanctum, with a solid wooden door that squeaked on hinges, and a window that looked east, out over the concrete courtyard between Sid Smith and St. George Street. It also had drapes, once probably a rich burgundy but now a pale brown. In the morning, they had to be drawn to shield her from the rising sun.
Yesterday’s alien radio message was still displayed on her monitor. Since the interval between the beginnings of successive messages was thirty hours and fifty-one minutes, every message began almost eight hours later in the day than the one before. The most recent message had been received at 4:54 AM., Eastern time Wednesday; today’s was expected to begin at 11:45 A.M. The messages were picked up by different nations’ radio telescopes, depending on what part of Earth happened to be pointing at Alpha Centauri at the appropriate time, but they were all posted as they were received to the World Wide Web. An additional orbital receiver was also always aimed at Alpha Centauri.
Heather kept hoping that one day she would look at the latest message and it would all make sense. She missed the
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