Chapter 40

The test’s going to be run in our conference room, with the tech segregated in a booth that’s normally used on the rare occasions we need to run projection equipment. Irving’s made sure the sound will be off; the tech will be able to see Hugo, but not hear him or Irving.

I’m pretty tense, but it’s still fun to watch Hugo’s reactions as we drive through rush-hour traffic to the office. He’s never been in bumper-to-bumper before, and he doesn’t much like the experience. Most of the other cars are a lot bigger than my little sportster and he’s hanging on pretty tight.

When we get to the elevator I can see he’s puzzled, but he gets in with me in the same accepting way I’ve seen him handle just about everything. Then he feels the jolt as the car starts up and looks around quickly, but when he sees everyone else calm he settles back down. The car makes a couple of stops before we get to the 20th floor, where the office is, but he waits until I start to get off.

“A room that moves,” he says to me after we do. “I think we must walk on steps, but this is much easier. So many things do you have to make easy for yourselves.” I grin at him and reach out to squeeze his hand.

Irving’s set it up so that we go in through his private office rather than the reception area. It was considerate of him; I would have felt awkward as hell going right past Janet and everybody else, and introducing Hugo around would have made it worse.

“You can wait here, Linda,” he says once we’re in. “I’ll take Hugo along to the conference room. Still no second thoughts about changing your story?”

“Ask me that again when you’ve finished,” I tell him confidently. Well, I hope I sound confident, actually I’m as jumpy as a cricket with bottled-up nerves.

It’s most of an hour before they come back. I try to sit down and read something, but I can’t concentrate at all and I keep getting up and pacing around and then sitting back down and then getting up and ... It’s a long hour.

Irving’s face is unreadable when he brings Hugo back. Before I can ask how it went he looks at me. “All right, girl, your turn,” he says. “Come on.”

“Me? That wasn’t what we agreed—”

“It’s what we’re agreeing right now, Linda.” He’s brusque. “Let’s go.”

Not much choice, I guess. First I go over to kiss Hugo, I’m not jumping to Irving’s commands quite that fast. But then I go with him.

The hookup’s a little awkward; the tech’s a man, and he makes a big production about being careful with his hands. But finally he gets me wired and goes off to his booth. Irving takes me through the set-up, telling me when to answer straight and when to lie, and we’re ready.

“Linda, did you find Hugo in a snowdrift by your cabin?”

“Yes.”

“Had you ever seen him before?”

“No.”

“Was he wearing and carrying the things you showed me then?”

“Yes.”

And on and on, back and forth through the story I told him two nights ago, changing direction unexpectedly, shifting back and forth from unrelated questions to salient ones, asking the same questions in different ways. We’re at it for a good while before he finishes, and he leaves me to unhook myself while he goes to talk to the tech.

“Well?” I ask when he comes back.

“Come on,” is all he says, and we go back to his office where Hugo’s been waiting. He shuts the door.

“Goddammit,” he says, turning back to us. “God dammit!”

I’m suddenly grinning as big as I ever have in my life. “Told you so,” I say smugly.

“All right, you passed,” he says. “Flying fucking colors, both of you. The tech said the needles never even wiggled. But dammit, lie-detectors aren’t perfect, they can be beat.”

“By pathological liars,” I remind him. “Or by head cases who are so delusional they don’t even know they’re lying. Which category do we fit?”

“There are stories about people who practice at it, who have yoga training—”

“Oh, come on, Irving,” I cut him off.

“But the whole thing’s impossible!” he explodes. “It can’t be true.”

“Why?” I demand. “Because nobody’s documented it before? Because maybe it never happened before? This is life, Irving, not the law; not everything has a precedent.”

“Everything in my life has until now,” he mutters. “Anyhow, I hate cases of first impression, too much damn uncertainty. But that machine says you’re both telling the unvarnished truth.”

Hugo’s been silent, but now he speaks up.

“This test today, it was to know if we spoke truth?” he asks. “You have machine to tell you this? This lie detector—to detect lies?”

“That’s it, Hugo,” says Irving. “Lie detector. And it said you weren’t lying.”

“Do you not have person can tell you this without all wires and yes-no answers?”

Irving stares at him at moment. “We— The machine—” He’s flustered for once, and then the point sinks home. “Do you mean that your people could always tell if someone was lying?”

“Not all,” says Hugo. “Some can do, though, those who watch and listen closely.”

“Can you do it?”

“Yes,” Hugo says simply. I’m staggered, it’s the first I’ve heard of this.