FLICKER RATE
Luongo led Anita Halleck down a dismal corridor and into one of the single-room cells that served as living quarters at Farside. Carter McClintock was sitting on the sofa.
Rising to his feet, McClintock forced a smile. “Hello again, Anita. I’m sorry we had to make you return—”
“You don’t look sorry, Carter,” she snapped.
Grant Simpson was at the desk, fiddling with the computer there. He too stood up. He looked weary, overburdened, his shoulders slumped, his eyes melancholy.
“Mr. Simpson,” Anita murmured. He nodded glumly by way of greeting.
This is Carter’s living quarters, Halleck recognized as she went to the recliner and sat primly on it. Simpson joined McClintock on the sofa while Luongo took the easy chair at the other end of the coffee table, facing the desktop computer.
“So?” Halleck asked. “Why have you made me come here?”
Luongo slipped on her eyeglasses before replying, “Analysis of the lobber’s wreckage shows that its explosion was caused by nanomachines.”
“As was the death of one of our technicians,” Simpson added.
With raised eyebrows, Halleck asked, “What has that to do with me?”
“You could have access to nanomachines,” Simpson said. Flatly. Not accusative. It was simply a statement of fact.
Halleck eyed the man. He looked haunted, she thought. Guilty.
As innocently as she could manage, she replied, “How could I have access to nanomachines? They’re banned everywhere on Earth. The only nanolab in existence is at Selene, isn’t it?”
McClintock nodded, but said, “The only nanolab that we know of.”
“Carter, surely you’re not accusing me of causing these accidents.”
“Somebody did,” Simpson said.
Before Halleck could reply, Luongo asked, “Have you been exposed to nanomachines, Mrs. Halleck? Anywhere, at any time? The exposure might have been accidental.”
“I most certainly have not,” Halleck said. Firmly.
“You’re certain?”
“Positive.” Then she added, “Oh … Douglas Stavenger. He’s filled with nanos, isn’t he?”
“Therapeutic nanomachines,” said Luongo. “We know about that.”
McClintock raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “This is getting us nowhere.” Turning to Luongo, he went on, “I told you that it was senseless to interrogate her. Anita isn’t a saboteur, a murderess.”
Luongo removed her glasses and closed her eyes for a moment. Then, “Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Halleck.”
Surprised, Halleck said, “That’s it? You dragged me all the way back here to ask me one question? We could have done this by phone.”
“Perhaps,” Luongo conceded. “I thought it would be better if we spoke face-to-face.”
Getting to her feet, Halleck said, “At least I’ll be able to call the lobber that brought me here and tell them to wait long enough to take me back to Selene.”
McClintock began to apologize, but Luongo interrupted him with, “I’m sorry if we inconvenienced you.”
Anita Halleck decided to be gracious. “I’m happy I was able to be of help to you.” If any of them detected the scorn in her tone, none of them showed it.
As she headed for the door, with the three of them watching mutely, Halleck remembered a dictum from some historic figure: If you’re going to kill a man it costs you nothing to be polite about it.
* * *
Grant watched Mrs. Halleck sweep grandly out of McClintock’s sitting room, her pocketphone to her ear.
Turning to Luongo, he asked, “Was that enough?”
“We shall see,” said the investigator. She got up from her chair and went to the computer on the desk.
McClintock looked disgusted. “It was a waste of time. We’ve ticked her off, for nothing.”
“Perhaps not,” Luongo said, tapping at the computer’s touchscreen. “Ahh … look here.”
Grant got up and went to the desk. Leaning over Luongo’s shoulder, he saw that the screen was filled with jagged curves in various colors: bright blue, cool green, bloodred.
Still seated on the sofa, McClintock said, “It looks like a child’s drawing of the Alps.”
“Hardly that,” Luongo murmured. Tracing the sawtoothed red curve with a lacquered fingernail, she said, “She was lying. It’s obvious.”
“Are you certain?” Grant asked. To him, the curves looked meaningless.
Leaning closer to the screen, Luongo commanded, “Display readout of Dr. Cardenas.”
A new set of curves appeared. Grant saw that they were clearly smoother.
“Flicker rate is a very reliable measure of truthfulness, much more reliable than polygraph or syntactical analysis,” said Luongo. To the computer she ordered, “Compare Dr. Cardenas’s responses to Mrs. Halleck’s.”
The display split in two. McClintock got up from the sofa and came over to the desk.
“This is from the sensors in those eyeglasses of yours?” he asked.
“Indeed,” said Luongo. “The sensors measure eyelid flicker rate, voice tremors, a dozen nonverbal signals that we unconsciously give out when we speak.”
“And this can tell you if she’s lying?” Grant asked.
Luongo said, “A person may be trained to control his or her breathing, even the pulse rate. But the rate that the eye blinks and the voice quivers is beyond conscious control.”
So far, Grant thought.
Frowning at the display, McClintock muttered, “So this shows that Kris Cardenas was telling us the truth?”
“It does,” said Luongo.
“And this,” Grant said, pointing at the other half of the screen, “tells us that Mrs. Halleck was lying through her teeth when she said she hasn’t had access to nanomachines.”
“She lied?” McClintock clearly was unconvinced.
“Like a trooper,” said Luongo.
“Like a criminal,” Grant amended.