That room. That meal. That shirt.

Suddenly, it all clicked. She had accessed a specific dinner.

"-tough meeting with Dejong." Kyle's voice, or at least his memory of the words. Dejong was the university's comptroller. "We may have to cut back on the APE project."

For a moment, Heather thought something was amiss-she had no recollection of that conversation.

No, she'd doubtless tuned it out at the time; Kyle often lamented budget cuts. Heather felt chastened-it had been important to him, and she'd paid no attention. But after a moment, Kyle began mentioning Dejong's problems with his wife, and Heather did recognize the exchange. Was she that shallow, ignoring the serious problem and homing in on the gossip?

It was startling to see herself as Kyle saw her. For one thing-G.o.d bless him-she looked perhaps ten years younger than she really was; she hadn't had that shirt long enough for him to ever have seen her in it looking this young.

Becky came in and took a chair. She had much longer hair back then, tumbling halfway down her back.

"'Evening, Pumpkin," said Kyle.

Becky smiled.

They had had been a family once. It pained Heather to be reminded of what they'd lost. been a family once. It pained Heather to be reminded of what they'd lost.

But now she had an image of Becky to lock onto. She used it as a starting point to explore her husband's memories of Becky. She could, of course, jump into Becky's mind from his, but how would she ever justify that? Although violating Kyle's privacy was wrong-she knew that and hated herself for doing it-there was was a reason for it. But to invade Becky's mind . . . a reason for it. But to invade Becky's mind . . .

No, no, she wouldn't do that-especially since as yet she didn't know if there was any way to distinguish false memories from real ones. She'd continue her searching, her archeology, here, in Kyle's mind. He He was the one on trial. was the one on trial.

She pressed on, wondering what the verdict would be.

Kyle arrived at the lab early Monday morning. As he left the elevator on the third floor and came around the curve of the corridor, his heart jumped. An Asian woman was leaning against the railing around the edge of the atrium.

"Good morning, Dr. Graves."

"Ah, good morning,-um-"

"Chikamatsu."

"Yes, of course, Ms. Chikamatsu." This dark-gray suit looked even more expensive than the one she had worn last time.

"You have not returned my phone calls and you have not replied to my e-mail messages."

"Sorry about that. I've been rather busy. And I haven't solved the problem yet. We've stabilized the Dembinski fields, but we're still getting ma.s.sive decoherence." Kyle pressed his thumb against the scanning plate by the lab door. It bleeped in acknowledgment and the door bolt snapped free, sounding like a gunshot.

" 'Morning, Dr. Graves," said Cheetah, who had been left running since Sat.u.r.day. "I've got another joke for-oh, forgive me, I didn't realize you had anyone with you."

Kyle put his hat on the ancient rack; he always wore a hat in the summer, to protect his bald spot. "Cheetah, this is Ms. Chikamatsu."

Cheetah's eyes whirred into focus. "Pleased to meet you, Ms. Chikamatsu."

Chikamatsu lifted her thin eyebrows, perplexed.

"Cheetah is an APE," said Kyle. "You know, a computer simulation that apes humanity."

"I really do find the use of the term 'ape' offensive," said Cheetah.

Kyle smiled. "See? Genuine-sounding indignation. I programmed that myself. It's the first thing you need in a university environment: the ability to take offense at any slight, real or imagined."

The opening notes of Beethoven's Fifth issued from Cheetah's speakers.

"What was that?" that?" asked Chikamatsu. asked Chikamatsu.

"His laughter. I'm going to fix that at some point."

"Yeah," said Cheetah. "Get rid of those Vienna string instruments. How about a woodwind instead? Maybe a Bonn oboe?"

"What?" said Kyle. "Oh. I get it." He looked at Chikamatsu. "Cheetah is trying to master humor."

"Bonn oboe?" repeated the woman.

Kyle grinned despite himself. "Bonn is where Beethoven was born; a bon.o.bo is a pygmy chimp-an APE, see?"

The j.a.panese woman shook her head, perplexed. "If you say so. Now, about my consortium's offer? We know you will be busy once you do make your breakthrough; we want you to give us a commitment to immediately deal with our problem."

Kyle busied himself with the coffeemaker. "My wife, she really thinks that whatever Huneker detected belongs to all of humanity-and I guess I agree. I'd gladly undertake to decode the message for you, but I won't sign an NDA about its contents."

Chikamatsu frowned. "I am empowered to sweeten the deal. We can offer you a three-percent royalty-"

"It's not that. Really, it's not."

"We will have to approach Dr. Saperstein, then."

Kyle gritted his teeth. "I understand that." But then he smiled. "Tell Shlomo I say hi." Let Saperstein know that they came to me first-that he was getting my discards. Let Saperstein know that they came to me first-that he was getting my discards.

"I really wish you would reconsider," said Chikamatsu.

"I'm sorry."

"If you change your mind," she said, proffering a plastic business card, "call me." Kyle took the card and glanced at it. It had only the word "Chikamatsu" printed on it, but there was a magstripe along one edge. "I will be at the Royal York for another two days-but swipe that card through any phone anywhere in the world and it will call my cellular at my expense."

"I won't change my mind," said Kyle.

Chikamatsu nodded and headed for the door.

"What was that all about?" asked Cheetah after she was gone.

Kyle did his best Bogart. "The shtuff that dreams are made of."

"Pardon?" said Cheetah.

Kyle rolled his eyes. "Kids today," he said.

30.

Heather found all sorts of memories of Becky in Kyle's mind, but none of them were relevant to Becky's accusation.

Heather went as long as she could in psychos.p.a.ce between bathroom breaks, but on one of the breaks she watched the videotape through the viewfinder on the camcorder.

To her astonishment, the collection of cubes did shimmer-both the paint and the substrate aglow-and then the components seemed to recede, each const.i.tuent cube twisting free as it did so.

And then, incredibly, it was gone.

She fast-forwarded, watched it bloom into existence again out of nothingness.

Amazing.

It really did fold up kata kata or or ana; ana; it really did transcend to another realm. it really did transcend to another realm.

Heather kept searching throughout the weekend, encountering many aspects of Kyle. Although she was concentrating on his thoughts about his daughters, she also encountered memories of his work, of their marriage-and of her. Apparently he didn't always see her with uncritical eyes. Corrugated thighs indeed!

It was illuminating, fascinating, compelling. There was so much more she wanted to learn about him.

But she could not tarry. She was on a mission.

And, finally, at last, on Monday morning, she found what she was looking for.

She was scared, not wanting to go on.

The rape of that anonymous French woman haunted her still, but this- This, if what she feared were true- This would haunt her, scar her, disgust her, make her homicidally enraged.

And, she knew, she'd never be able to wash the images from her mind.

But it was was what she'd been looking for-of that there could be no doubt. what she'd been looking for-of that there could be no doubt.

Nighttime. Becky's bedroom, illuminated by light from the street coming in around the edges of her venetian blinds. On the wall, difficult to make out in the wan illumination, was a holoposter of Cutthroat Jenkins, a rock star Becky had idolized when she was fourteen or so.

The view was from Kyle's point of view. He was standing on the threshold of the room. The corridor he was in was dark. He could see Becky lying in the bed, beneath the heavy green comforter she'd had then. Becky was awake. She looked up at him. Heather expected to see fear, or revulsion, or even melancholy resignation on her face, but to her shock, Becky smiled: a glint in the night; she'd worn braces back then.

She smiled. smiled.

There was no such thing as consent between a minor and an adult-Heather knew that. But the smile was so warm, so accepting . . .

Kyle closed the distance, and Becky wriggled over to the far side of her small bed, making room for him.

And then she sat up.

Kyle lowered himself down, sitting on the edge of the bed. Becky reached out a hand toward him- -and took the mug he was offering.

"Just the way you like it," said Kyle. "With lemon."

"Thanks, Daddy," said Becky. Her voice was raw. She used both hands to hold the mug and took a sip.

It came back to Heather. Becky had had a terrible cold five or so years ago. They'd all eventually come down with it.

Kyle reached out a hand and stroked his daughter's dark hair once. "Nothing's too good for my little girl," he said.

Becky smiled again. "Sorry my coughing woke you."

"I think I was up anyway," said Kyle. He shrugged a little. "Sometimes I don't sleep that well." He then leaned in, kissed her gently on the cheek, and rose to his feet. "I hope you feel better tomorrow, Pumpkin."

And with that, he left his daughter's room.

Heather felt terrible. When it came right down to it, she had been ready to believe the most horrible thing possible about her own husband. There'd never been a shred of evidence to support Becky's charge, and all sorts of reasons to believe it the product of an overzealous therapist-and yet as soon as that memory started unraveling, showing Kyle entering his daughter's room late at night, she'd expected to see the worst. The mere suggestion of child abuse was was indeed enough to tar a man. For the first time, Heather felt a real understanding of the horror Kyle had been going through. indeed enough to tar a man. For the first time, Heather felt a real understanding of the horror Kyle had been going through.

And yet- And yet just because one night's encounter-one that easily came to the surface-was benign, did it mean that nothing untoward had ever happened? Becky had lived with her parents for eighteen years, which was-what?-six thousand or so nights. So what if Kyle had been the dutiful, loving father on one of those?

She was getting the hang of accessing specific memories; concentrating on an image a.s.sociated with a desired incident was the key. But the image had to be accurate. It was distasteful in the extreme to try to conjure up an image of Kyle molesting Becky, but it also was pointless. Unless the image exactly matched Kyle's own recollection-from his point of view, of course-there would be no connection, and the memory would remain locked.

Heather had seen her daughter naked. They had belonged to the same health club on Dufferin Street-indeed, Heather had started taking Becky there as a teenager. She'd never really looked closely at her daughter except to notice, with some envy, that she had a trim, youthful figure, with none of the stretch marks Heather herself had had ever since her first pregnancy. She had noted that Becky's high, conical b.r.e.a.s.t.s hadn't yet begun to sag, though.

Becky's b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

A rush of memory-but Heather's own, not Kyle's.

Becky had come to see her mother when she was fifteen or sixteen, just about the time she'd first started dating. She'd taken off her shirt and her small bra and shown her mother the s.p.a.ce between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She had a large brown mole there, raised like a pencil eraser.

"I hate it," Becky had said.

Heather had understood the timing: Becky had lived with the mole for years; indeed, three years ago she'd overcome her modesty to ask Dr. Redmond about it, and he'd a.s.sured her it was benign. No doubt countless girls had seen it in the locker room at school. But now that she was dating, she was thinking about how a boy boy might react to it. It was all too fast for Heather-her daughter was growing up much too quickly. might react to it. It was all too fast for Heather-her daughter was growing up much too quickly.

Or was she? Heather herself had only been sixteen the first time she'd let Billy Karapedes get his hand up under her shirt. They'd done that in the dark, in his car. He hadn't seen seen anything-but if Heather had had a mole like Becky's, he would have felt it. What would his reaction have been? anything-but if Heather had had a mole like Becky's, he would have felt it. What would his reaction have been?

"I want to have it removed," said Becky.

Heather had thought before responding. Two of Becky's high-school friends had already received nose jobs. One had had freckles lasered off. A fourth had even had breast-enlargement surgery. Compared to that, this was nothing: a local anesthetic, a flick of a scalpel, and voila! voila!-a real source of anxiety gone.

"Please," said Becky when her mother made no reply. She sounded so earnest that for a second, Heather thought Becky was going to say she needed it done by Friday night, but apparently things weren't moving that that fast. fast.

"You'd need a st.i.tch or two, I bet."

Becky considered this. "Maybe I could get it done over spring break," she said, evidently not wanting to face the locker room with suture protruding from her sternum.

"Sure, if you like," said Heather, smiling warmly at her daughter. "We'll get Dr. Redmond to recommend somebody."

"Thanks, Mom. You're the best." She paused. "Don't tell Daddy, though. I'd die of embarra.s.sment."

Heather smiled. "Not a word."