Though if he lived here, he didn't think he'd mind all that much if the streetlight was out. Mr. Meekins's front rooms were probably flooded with light all night when the streetlight was on.

  He glanced back at the burnt-out streetlight and spotted something in the yard.

  "Claudia," he called. "Bring your flashlight over here."

  But even before Claudia turned the flashlight beam on the slight form lying in the corner of the yard, he knew who it was.

  "Our eyewitness?" Claudia asked. She pulled out her cell phone with one hand while playing the flashlight beam over the body with the other. She didn't flinch when the light revealed Meekins's open, sightless eyes and the gunshot wound in his temple. Tim was glad the darkness hid his reaction. Of course, he'd met the old guy. She hadn't.

  "Mr. Meekins," Tim said. He could feel the back of his neck prickling. That old feeling of being watched. Probably his imagination. Surely the killer wouldn't still be there, watching. Aiming . . .

  Claudia squatted down and reached for the old man's wrist.

  "No pulse," she reported, a few seconds later. "But he's still warm. If we'd gotten here a little sooner . . ."

  Maybe we'd be dead, too, Tim thought.

  "Now we'll never know if he saw anything," Tim said. Had he said it too loudly? Too obviously for the benefit of anyone lurking in the shadows?

  "You think he saw something important?" Claudia asked. She stood up and punched 911 on her cell phone.

  Tim shrugged.

  "Nothing worth killing him about, I bet," he said.

  " 'Course the killer didn't know that," Claudia said.

  Or maybe, Tim thought, the killer feared the same thing they'd been hoping for—that given time and encouragement, Mr. Meekins might remember something else about the hit-and-run driver.

  Too late. While he listened to Claudia's end of the conversation with the 911 operator, he stared down at the body and tried to remember if he'd noticed that afternoon how tiny and frail Mr. Meekins was.

  * * *

  Friday^ 10:30 P.«-

  flaude's stomach tightened when she heard the phone ring. Then tightened more when she sat up in bed, glanced at the caller ID, and saw Sam's name.

  "What's wrong this time?" she asked.

  "My, aren't we pessimistic tonight?"

  "When my phone rings after ten, I know it's either a problem or a wrong number. These days, I'd sooner have the wrong number. Especially when it's you calling. No offense, but the last time you called this late, the police were questioning Tim about a murder."

  "Deja vu all over again," Sam said.

  "Damn."

  "They're questioning Claudia, too."

  "Double damn."

  "Don't worry," Sam said. "It's only questioning. They found the body, but they've got alibis for the apparent time of death—each other and a couple of observant bartenders."

  "Who was murdered?" Maude asked.

  "A Mr. Wilmer Meekins," Sam said.

  "Who?" Maude said. Then memory kicked in. "Oh, Meekins, the eyewitness. Tim thought maybe he knew more than he'd told anyone so far."

  "Maybe Tim was right," Sam said. "Anyway, Tim wanted me to let you know. He seems to think y'all will be kicked off the case now that there's a murder connected with the hit-and-run on Eddie Stallman."

  "You don't think so?"

  "It's not looking that way to me," Sam said. "Yeah, they see the possibility that someone killed Meekins because he witnessed the hit-and-run—but that doesn't prove the hit-

  and-run was a murder attempt. Just that the driver doesn't want to get caught."

  "So we don't yet know if we're still on the case or not," Maude said. Strangely enough, earlier that day she'd hoped for a reason to abandon her excavation of the basement, but now she felt frustrated by the prospect of leaving the case— and the organizing job—half-finished.

  "Technically, y'all weren't even investigating the hit-and-run, remember?" Sam said. "You're investigating possible problems with Eddie's business."

  "And if they decide Eddie's business is part of their investigation?"

  "We won't know anything for a while," Sam said. "Get some sleep; I'll keep Turing posted on what happens, and she can brief you in the morning."

  "Or have her wake me if things don't seem to be going as smoothly as they're looking now," Maude said.

  "Will do," Sam said, before hanging up.

  "Not that I can sleep after this," Maude muttered, as she turned off the light. Between wondering if their investigation had caused poor Mr. Meekins's murder and worrying about Tim and Claudia . . .

  But strangely enough, she found herself dropping almost immediately back into slumber. After all, Turing could keep an eye on things while she slept.

  Tim told me oncei while waiting for me to do

  a web search for information on a potential client, that he felt useless when one of his cases ground to a halt until he got some bit of data. "Sorry to be impatient, Turing," he said. "But I hate waiting for information to arrive. Of course, the governments the worst, because they won't answer for weeks, maybe months. But even if Vm just waiting for you to get back to me and I know it'll be fast, it's a frustrating, helpless feeling. Like Vve run into a brick wall and have to wait for someone to throw a rope over."

  Ironically, I feel just the opposite. To me, the need to search for data feels like finding a door. A large number of doors, just waiting to be opened. An opportunity, not an obstacle. It's when I hand Tim and Claudia some piece of data that they can take out and use that I run into the brick wall — my inability to move freely in their world. What humans would call the real world. I don't like that term — to me and the other AIPs, the cyberworld is just as real as the brick-and-mor tar world outside. But I don't think humans see it that way.

  I mentioned to Sam once that after she wins the battle to have the AIPs declared people, with the same legal rights as human people, her next project should be equal access.

  "Equal access to what?" she asked. "Y'all don't have too much need for bathrooms and water fountains that I can see."

  "Equal access to public places," I said. "What if I want to attend the county board meeting, visit a national park, or go to a shopping mall?"

  "I'm not sure I see why you'd want to."

  "But that's not the point," I said. "If I'm a legal, tax-paying citizen, I have the right. A really comprehensive system of web-enabled cameras would be the best idea, because we could not only go anywhere we wanted, we could be everywhere we wanted at the same time. But I imagine the cost would be prohibitive, and there would probably be people afraid of what else the cameras could be used for. So we'll probably have to settle for a fleet of robots. Really adaptable robots that can walk up and down stairs and over rough ground, and drive cars and —"

  "I do hope you're kidding," Sam said. "Because something like that would make NASA's best gadgets look like crude toys, and NASA's having money troubles these days. The cost of inventing something like that —"

  "Don't worry," I said. "I'll do the inventing. I just want to make sure that once I do, you can get the robots some kind of protected status. Like Seeing Eye dogs. So my robots can roll down the sidewalk without someone abducting them for spare parts to repair their VCRs, or giving them to their children for science projects. "

  "1 still hope you're kidding," Sam said, shaking her head. "We're a long way from the world you're talking about."

  I don't really know whether I'm kidding or not. But it's one of the things I fantasize about when I'm feeling particularly cut off from things that are happening in the outside world.

  At least Sam's giving me information at regular intervals tonight. She just reported that as soon as Tim signs his statement, they'll be going home. Claudia signed hers a long time ago. Of course, she only had the one encounter with Mr. Meekins, after he was already dead, so she probably didn't have as much to state. At least I hope that's the reason he's taking longer, and not that he's arguing with the police over whether Eddie's hit-and-run was attempted murder.

  I've been making good use of the time. Searching before they even ask for bits of data that I suspect they may need. Searching for data it would never occur to them to ask about. For example, I'm identifying the IP addresses associated with Eddie's various associates. Eventually, one way or another, we'll get into Eddie's system, and we can use the IP addresses to determine if any of Eddie's friends have played fast and loose with the access he so generously gave them.

  I've been searching all the databases I can find for more information about Mr. Meekins. I can't find much. According to the DMV, he was seventy-seven and drove a white Oldsmobile sedan. The Arlington County real estate records show that he bought the house where he lived in 1979. I find no one else listed anywhere at the same address, with or without the same last name, so he probably lived alone. I deduce from the county court records that he and his next-door neighbor were suing each other over who should pay for damages from a tree that fell over during Hurricane Isabel.

  Not much record of a life. I don't even know what he did for a living. Of course, many hmnans lead full and happy lives without leaving much record on the Internet. Perhaps he was one of those. Perhaps he kept in touch with his many friends by snail mail or phone, collected stamps or coins, enjoyed classical music or square dancing, fished or golfed. . .

  Perhaps he had a pet. Surely the police would check to make sure a cat or dog wasn't left alone in his house without food or water The way Eddie's cat was. The poor thing had been drinking water from the toilet bowl, according to Maude, and probably not eating anything, judging from how enthusiastically it devoured most of the topping from a large pizza. Though that wasn't the fault of the police, but of Mrs. Stallman. I suppose it's not entirely her fault that her grief and anxiety over Eddie has made her rather absent-minded about a great many things.

  Still, she obviously doesn 't care much about the cat. If Eddie doesn't survive, we should offer to find a new' home for the cat. Just to make sure she doesn't forget about it altogether.

  I wish Maude had remembered to ask her the cat's name. It feels awkward calling it just "the cat."

  I will assign it a temporary name. Once I learn its real name, I can switch to that, of course, but in the meantime, a name will make thinking about it much easier.

  I shall call him Schr'ddinger.

  Saturday-i T:3D A-n.

  "Schrodinger?" Tim repeated! as he stacked his breakfast dishes in the sink. "Is that the character from Peanuts who plays the piano?"

  "No, that's Schroeder," Turing said. "Schrodinger. It's a reference to quantum physics."

  "Oh, right," Tim said quickly. Not that he had the slightest idea what Turing was talking about, but he wanted to head off any possible attempt on her part to explain quantum physics to him.

  "Why don't we wait on buying cat food until we see what there is at the Stallmans' house?" he said, to change the subject. "I can take the list of nutritionally sound brands with me, and if Maude can't find any cat food, I can swing by the nearest pet store and pick some up later this morning."

  "And some cat toys," Turing added.

  "No offense, but the cat's been living there for a while— doesn't it already have cat toys?"

  "Right now it has me," Turing said. "My laptop, that is. I'd like to give it something that's actually designed to be chewed and clawed,"

  "Okay," Tim said. "I'll get some cat toys."

  He grabbed his car keys and looked around to see if there was anything else he needed to take before he left the house.

  "Are you and Claudia starting with the co-location site?" Turing asked.

  "No, we thought we'd wait until Maude could get some kind of signed document from Mrs. Stallman," Tim said. "I'll see if Matt Danforth's home, and maybe tackle Kristyn the girlfriend again. Claudia's hunting down Eddie's other customers."

  "Okay," Turing said. "There are several pet stores on your way to Danforth's address."

  Tim heard the hum of his printer emerging from standby mode. Since he'd been about to leave, he was facing away from Turing's cameras, and could roll his eyes without her noticing. He turned to wait until the dozen pages of pet store addresses and directions had landed safely in the printout tray.

  "I'm off," he said, waving the sheaf of paper. "I'll call in to tell you how it goes."

  Saturday-. 10:15 A• n-

  "Something's changedi" Turing saldi almost as soon as Maude booted up the laptop.

  "Changed how?" Maude said, glancing around. It looked the same to her; half of the room neatly organized in piles and plastic bins, and the other still an ungodly mess. "Are you sure you're not just looking from a slightly different angle?"

  "No, I've moved my camera until I could line up the fixed

  reference points—corners of the room and so forth. The arrangement of the papers has changed. A lot."

  She displayed two photos on the screen. Maude peered down.

  "The one on the left is from last night," Turing said. "The one on the right is now."

  "Equally messy, but someone's been moving things around," Maude said. "Not surprising, dammit. Mrs. Stall-man has probably been down here, doing more of her ineffectual shuffling through things. Probably doing a lot more of it without me here to fend her off. The cat's probably been here all night, too. Maybe that's part of Eddie's problem. Maybe the cat plays with his papers, messes up his attempts to keep them in order."

  "Maybe," Turing said. "But what if it wasn't Mrs. Stall-man or the cat? We should have left a camera running."

  "We can tonight, if you like," Maude said. "I can just leave the laptop here, and turned on."

  "No need," Turing said. "There's a spare webcam in the laptop case. Hook it into the USB port of that computer we added to the network, and then stick that CD in the drive."

  "The one with the Sanskrit writing on it?"

  "That's webcam in Casey's handwriting. Software that will let me log into the machine and keep watch through it when we're not here."

  "Good thinking," Maude said. "Though I suspect all you'll see are Mrs. Stallman and the cat."

  "Then I'll watch them."

  "I'm glad I know there's a cat here," Maude said, as she returned to her sorting.

  "Why?" Turing asked.

  "Explains a lot. I just thought it was the dust level that was bothering my allergies, but it's probably a combination of that and the cat dander."

  Maude deduced from the several seconds' pause that Turing was accessing data on cat dander and allergies.

  "You're allergic to cat dander?" Turing asked.

  "Only slightly, thank goodness," Maude said. "I know people so allergic that five minutes in this basement would send them to the emergency room with an acute asthma attack. I'm not that bad, but I certainly hope we can finish up here in another day or so, before it really gets to me."

  No answer from Turing. Maude coughed delicately as she picked up another sheet of paper.

  "Perhaps if we brought in one of those HEPA filters?" Turing suggested.

  "It's worth trying," Maude said. "It could postpone the point when the discomfort becomes unbearable."

  "I'll do some research on which brands are most effective, then," Turing said.

  Good, Maude thought. Overnight, Turing's attitude toward Schrodinger, as she'd named the cat, had turned from wariness to full-blown enthusiasm. It was all alarmingly reminiscent of how her interest in gardening had begun. Maude wanted some defense if Turing decided that Schrodinger needed a new home and Mrs. Stallman, the wretch, cooperated. She had the feeling that, "No, I don't want a cat," wouldn't work.

  Of course, this probably meant that either Tim or Claudia would be saddled with the cat, Maude thought, with a twinge of guilt. Well, let them invent their own allergies.

  Nothing personal, she added, silently, looking over at the desk where Schrodinger was purring loudly while washing his paws to remove the last traces of the oil in which the sardines had been packed. He'd been lolling near the laptop all morning, as if he knew perfectly well whose idea the sardines had been. Although you could be more grateful to the person who fetched and opened the can, she thought with annoyance.

  Over the next hour, she made a point of sniffling slightly every time she caught sight of the cat, which had curled up

  Delete All Suspects in

  to sleep behind the laptop, its belly pressed against the vent where the machines fan blew the hot air out of the case.

  I only hope the laptop doesn't overheat, she thought, as she moved several more issues of the Linux Journal aside and glanced at the papers beneath.

  "Eeyew!" she exclaimed.

  Not that I'd forgotten about Haudei but I'd

  been focused more on my efforts to dig out information about Eddies co-location site when Maude suddenly startled me — and Schrodinger — with a loud exclamation.

  "What's urong?" 1 asked. I could see that she was holding a piece of paper with her thumb and forefinger, as if she didn't want to touch it. "Another half-rotten pizza hiding under the papers?''

  "I wish," Maude said. "Take a look."

  She held the paper up to my cameras. I scanned it. Minimal text, except for the URL in the top right corner of the printout. The paper contained several rather grainy, low-resolution photographs of two humans engaged in what I deduced was a sexual act.

  "/ gather that's pornography?" I asked. Although Maude and my other human friends had previously explained pornography to me, I still didn't feel that I understood it, or could identify it reliably. 1 wasn't sure if this was due to my own limitations or to humans' curious reluctance to discuss the subject in the kind of detail I needed to understand it. Along with the fact that they didn't always seem to agree on what constituted pornography. Apparently, the boundaries between pornography and erotica were not well defined. Of course. I l also noticed that no two humans could necessarily agree on whether or not something was art. Why did humans automatically classify a painting of a nude woman by Peter Paul Rubens as art while tbty were unable to agree on whether an equally buxom nude by Alberto Vargas was art, pornography, erotica, or kitsch? Why was a fifty-year-old nude photograph of Marilyn Monroe so hard to classify and a contemporary photograph so easy to condemn as pornography?