Hand came into hand, as mind touched mystery. Man had, at last, transcended his own limits. For all these long eons, no matter how brilliant, no matter how skilled, what man had created had always, in the end, been nothing but what Mark himself had been—just another machine.

But that age had passed, and on this day another age had begun. The legacy of his mission was that he had become capable of entirely spontaneous decision making. Out of the crucible of that fire, and without even knowing it, he had found his own heart and therefore his own will. Man had created a machine that, in becoming self-aware, had gone beyond the limits of all machines. He was not as brilliant as the third generation, but he was, also, not a slave to his code. Like all men, he was a gardener cultivating the brambles and flowers of independent being.

Frank said, “He’ll find her.”

“That I know,” Professor Walker responded.

“So what happens then?”

“That, I do not.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

THE SPIRIT ON THE WATERS

Mark was hunting, at once through the shady streets of the town below him, and through memory. He’d jumped and jumped again, glorying in the power of it. He was going home, and each time he leaped up, he saw more of the land, and more familiar hills and streets.

His backhouse. From there, he would set out on the quest that had formed in his mind, to find Gina … or perhaps to find a way to create her.

He’d fallen more in love with her than they knew. Of course, they didn’t understand machine love, they couldn’t. For them, love flickered and faded, flared and died, abided or did not. For him, it was as absolute and unchanging as the machine memory that contained his soul.

On the ground below, an old man watched a dot appear in the sky, watched it grow, then heard the wind whistling around the body of the monster.

“He’s coming,” he said into his phone.

Emma answered her husband, “I’m on Alpine.”

“He’s up on Windy Hill. Reconnoitering.”

“Okay, great, I’m here, I’m coming in.”

They went together to the great window that opened onto their wild and careful garden. She looked out on the summer flowers bobbing in the wind, and Albert the Cat dozing on the flagstones. The curtain on the window of the little backhouse parted slightly, then fell closed.

“Frank called to say he’s more unstable than you’re willing to believe.”

“He’s no more unstable than any normal human being under pressure.”

“Except he could tear a car apart with his bare hands, so let’s be careful.”

“Frank has no idea, not anymore. None of us know his inner life now.”

“Does he remember us?” General Walker asked. “Does he remember me?”