Identity Theft by Robert J. Sawyer Read Free Book Online Page B

I can tell for sure.”
    I nodded. “Okay. Thanks, Raoul. Appreciate your help.”
    Raoul got up. “My pleasure. Now, how ‘bout that drink.”
    I opened my mouth to say yes, but then it hit me — what Wilkins must be doing. “Umm, later, okay? I’ve— I’ve got some more things to take care of here.”
    Raoul frowned; he’d clearly hoped to collect his booze immediately. But I started maneuvering him toward the door. “Thanks for your help, Raoul. I really appreciate it.”
    “Um, sure, Alex,” he said. He was obviously aware he was being given the bum’s rush, but he wasn’t fighting it too much. “Anytime.”
    “Yes, thank you awfully, Mr. Santos,” said Pickover.
    “No problem. If—”
    “See you later, Raoul,” I said, opening the door for him. “Thanks so much.” I tipped my nonexistent hat at him.
    Raoul shrugged, clearly aware that something was up, but not motivated sufficiently to find out what. He went through the door, and I hit the button that caused it to slide shut behind him. As soon as it was closed, I put an arm around Pickover’s shoulders, and propelled him back to the computer. I pointed at the line Raoul had highlighted on the screen, and read the ending of it aloud: “ ‘… dine at half past eight, enjoying seven courses.’ ”
    Pickover nodded. “Yes. So?”
    “Numbers are often coded info,” I said. “’Half past eight; seven courses.’ What’s that mean to you?”
    “To me?” said Pickover. “Nothing. I like to eat much earlier than that, and I never have more than one course.”
    “But it could be a message,” I said.
    “From who?”
    There was no easy way to tell him this. “From you to you.”
    He drew his artificial eyebrows together in puzzlement. “What?”
    “Look,” I said, motioning for him to sit down in front of the computer, “Raoul is doubtless right. You can’t sift a digital scan of a human mind for information.”
    “But that must be what Wilkins is doing.”
    I shook my head. “No,” I said. “The only way to find out what’s in a mind is to ask it interactively.”
    “But… but no one’s asked me my passphrase.”
    “No one has asked this you. But Joshua Wilkins must have transferred the extra copy of your mind into a body, so that he could deal with it directly. And that extra copy must be the one that’s revealed your codes to him.”
    “You mean… you mean there’s another me? Another conscious me?”
    “Looks that way.”
    “But… no, no. That’s… why, that’s illegal . Bootleg copies of human beings — my God, Lomax, it’s obscene!”
    “I’m going to go see if I can find him,” I said.
    “It, ” said Pickover, forcefully.
    “What?”
    “It. Not him. I’m the only ‘him’ — the only real Rory Pickover.”
    “So what do you want me to do when I find it?”
    “Erase it, of course. Shut it down.” He shuddered. “My God, Lomax, I feel so… so violated! A stolen copy of my mind! It’s the ultimate invasion of privacy…”
    “That may be,” I said. “But the bootleg is trying to tell you something. He — it  — gave Wilkins the passphrase, and then tacked some extra words onto it, in order to get a message to you.”
    “But I don’t recognize those extra words,” said Pickover, sounding exasperated.
    “Do they mean anything to you? Do they suggest anything?”
    Pickover re-read what was on the screen. “I can’t imagine what,” he said, “unless… no, no, I’d never think up a code like that.”
    “You obviously just did think of it. What’s the code?”
    Pickover was quiet for a moment, as if deciding if the thought was worth giving voice. Then: “Well, New Klondike is circular in layout, right? And it consists of concentric rings of buildings. Half past eight — that would be between Eighth and Ninth Avenue, no? And seven courses — in the seventh circle out from the center? Maybe the damned bootleg is trying to draw our attention to a location, a specific place here