Then it’s back out to the lobby, followed again by the proctor. You’re allowed to use the elevators on your way to the polygraph room, so you won’t be out of breath and sweaty when you get there.
It used to be just a plain office with a chair and some instruments on a table. Then they got the new, fancy polygraph system. Now it’s like going in for some kind of high-tech medical scan. The room is completely rebuilt, no vestige of its original function, the window covered over, everything smooth and beige and smelling like a hospital. There’s only one chair, in the middle. Y.T.’s mom goes and sits down in it, puts her arms on the arms of the chair, nestles her fingertips and palms into the little depressions that await. The neoprene fist of the blood-pressure cuff gropes blindly, finds her arm, and seizes it. Meanwhile, the room lights are dimming, the door is closing, she’s all alone. The crown of thorns closes over her head, she feels the pricks of the electrodes through her scalp, senses the cool air flowing down over her shoulders from the superconducting quantum-interference devices that serve as radar into her brain. Somewhere on the other side of the wall, she knows, half a dozen personnel techs are sitting in a control room, looking at a big-screen blow-up of her pupils.
Then she feels a burning prick in her forearm and knows she’s been injected with something. Which means it’s not a normal polygraph exam. Today she’s in for something special. The burning spreads throughout her body, her heart thumps, eyes water. She’s been shot up with caffeine to make her hyper, make her talkative.
So much for getting any work done today. Sometimes these things go for twelve hours.
“What is your name?” a voice says. It’s an unnaturally calm and liquid voice. Computer generated. That way, everything it says to her is impartial, stripped of emotional content, she has no way to pick up any cues as to how the interrogation is going.
The caffeine, and the other things that they inject her with, screw up her sense of time also.
She hates these things, but it happens to everyone from time to time, and when you go to work for the Feds, you sign on the dotted line and give permission for it. In a way, it’s a mark of pride and honor. Everyone who works for the Feds has their heart in it. Because if they didn’t, it would come out plain as day when it is their turn to sit in this chair.
The questions go on and on. Mostly nonsense questions. “Have you ever been to Scotland? Is white bread more expensive than wheat bread?” This is just to get her settled down, get all systems running smoothly. They throw out all the stuff they get from the first hour of the interrogation, because it’s lost in the noise.
She can feel herself relaxing into it. They say that after a few polygraphs, you learn to relax, the whole thing goes quicker. The chair holds her in place, the caffeine keeps her from getting drowsy, the sensory deprivation clears out her mind.
“What is your daughter’s nickname?”
“Y.T.”
“How do you refer to your daughter?”
“I call her by her nickname. Y.T. She kind of insists on it.”
“Does Y.T. have a job?”
“Yes. She works as Kourier. She works for RadiKS.”
“How much money does Y.T. make as a Kourier?”
“I don’t know. A few bucks here and there.”
“How often does she purchase new equipment for her job?”
“I’m not aware. I don’t really keep track of that.”
“Has Y.T. done anything unusual lately?”
“That depends on what you mean.” She knows she’s equivocating. “She’s always doing things that some people might label as unusual.” That doesn’t sound too good, sounds like an endorsement of nonconformity. “I guess what I’m saying is, she’s always doing unusual things.”
“Has Y.T. broken anything in the house recently?”
“Yes.” She gives up. The Feds already know this, her house is bugged and tapped, it’s a wonder it doesn’t short out the electrical grid, all the extra stuff wired into it. “She broke my computer.”
“Did she give an explanation for why she broke the computer?”
“Yes. Sort of. I mean, if nonsense counts as an explanation.”
“What was her explanation?”
“She was afraid—this is so ridiculous—she was afraid I was going to catch a virus from it.”
“Was Y.T. also afraid of catching this virus?”
“No. She said that only programmers could catch it.”
Why are they asking her all of these questions? They have all of this stuff on tape.
“Did you believe Y.T.’s explanation of why she broke the computer?”
That’s it.
That’s what they’re after.
They want to know the only thing they can’t directly tap—what’s going on in her mind. They want to know whether she believes Y.T.’s virus story.
And she knows she’s making a mistake just thinking these thoughts. Because those supercooled SQUIDs around her head are picking it up. They can’t tell what she’s thinking. But they can tell that something’s going on in her brain, that she’s using parts of her brain right now that she didn’t use when they were asking the nonsense questions.
In other words, they can tell that she is analyzing the situation, trying to figure them out. And she wouldn’t be doing that unless she wanted to hide something.
“What is it you want to know?” she says. “Why don’t you just come out and ask me directly? Let’s talk about this face to face. Just sit down together in a room like adults and talk about it.”
She feels another sharp prick in her arm, feels numbness and coldness spreading all across her body over an interval of a couple of seconds as the drug mixes with her bloodstream. It’s getting harder to follow the conversation.
“What is your name?” the voice says.
Chapter Thirty-Nine