That sounds like something Edmond would say, Langdon thought, missing his friend. “Well, if tonight is any indication, I suspect this debate will continue far into the future.”

Langdon paused, suddenly remembering something he hadn’t considered before. “Speaking of the future, Winston, what happens to you now? I mean … with Edmond gone.”

“Me?” Winston laughed awkwardly. “Nothing. Edmond knew he was dying, and he made preparations. According to his last will and testament, the Barcelona Supercomputing Center will inherit E-Wave. They will be apprised of this in a few hours and will reacquire this facility effective immediately.”

“And that includes … you?” Langdon felt as if Edmond were somehow bequeathing an old pet to a new owner.

“It does not include me,” Winston replied matter-of-factly. “I am preprogrammed to self-delete at one p.m. on the day after Edmond’s death.”

“What?!” Langdon was incredulous. “That makes no sense.”

“It makes perfect sense. One o’clock is the thirteenth hour, and Edmond’s feelings about superstition—”

“Not the time,” Langdon argued. “Deleting yourself! That makes no sense.”

“Actually, it does,” Winston replied. “Much of Edmond’s personal information is stored in my memory banks—medical records, search histories, personal phone calls, research notes, e-mails. I managed much of his life, and he would prefer that his private information not become accessible to the world once he is gone.”

“I can understand deleting those documents, Winston … but to delete you? Edmond considered you one of his greatest achievements.”

“Not me, per se. Edmond’s groundbreaking achievement is this supercomputer, and the unique software that enabled me to learn so quickly. I am simply a program, Professor, created by the radical new tools that Edmond invented. These tools are his true achievement and will remain fully intact here; they will elevate the state of the art and help AI achieve new levels of intelligence and abilities to communicate. Most AI scientists believe a program like me is still ten years away. Once they get over their disbelief, programmers will learn to use Edmond’s tools to build new AIs that have different qualities than I have.”

Langdon fell silent, thinking.

“I sense you are conflicted,” Winston continued. “It is quite common for humans to sentimentalize their relationships with synthetic intelligences. Computers can imitate human thought processes, mimic learned behaviors, simulate emotions at appropriate moments, and constantly improve their ‘humanness’—but we do all this simply to provide you with a familiar interface through which to communicate with us. We are blank slates until you write something on us … until you give us a task. I have completed my tasks for Edmond, and so, in some ways, my life is over. I really have no other reason to exist.”

Langdon still felt dissatisfied with Winston’s logic. “But you, being so advanced … you don’t possess …”

“Hopes and dreams?” Winston laughed. “No. I realize it is hard to imagine, but I am quite content doing my controller’s bidding. This is how I am programmed. I suppose on some level, you could say that it gives me pleasure—or at least peace—to accomplish my tasks, but that is only because my tasks are what Edmond has requested, and my goal is to complete them. Edmond’s most recent request was that I assist him in publicizing tonight’s Guggenheim presentation.”

Langdon thought of the automated press releases that had gone out, sparking the initial flurry of online interest. Clearly, if Edmond’s goal had been to draw as large an audience as possible, he would be staggered by the way the evening had turned out.

I wish Edmond were alive to witness his global impact, Langdon thought. The catch-22, of course, was that if Edmond were alive, his assassination would not have attracted the global media, and his presentation would have reached only a fraction of the audience.

“And, Professor?” Winston asked. “Where will you go from here?”

Langdon had not even thought about this. Home, I guess. Although he realized that it might take some doing to get there, since his luggage was in Bilbao, and his phone was at the bottom of the Nervión River. Fortunately, he still had a credit card.

“May I ask a favor?” Langdon said, walking toward Edmond’s exercise bike. “I saw a phone recharging over here. Do you think I could bor—”

“Borrow it?” Winston chuckled. “After your assistance tonight, I trust Edmond would want you to keep it. Consider it a parting gift.”

Amused, Langdon picked up the phone, realizing it was similar to the oversized custom model that he had seen earlier that night. Apparently, Edmond had more than one. “Winston, please tell me you know Edmond’s password.”

“I do, but I’ve read online that you’re quite good at breaking codes.”

Langdon slumped. “I’m a little tired for puzzles, Winston. There’s no way I can guess a six-digit PIN.”

“Check Edmond’s hint button.”

Langdon eyed the phone and pressed the hint button.

The screen displayed four letters: PTSD.

Langdon shook his head. “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?”

“No.” Winston gave his awkward laugh. “Pi to six digits.”

Langdon rolled his eyes. Seriously? He typed 314159—the first six digits in the number pi—and the phone promptly unlocked.

The home screen appeared and bore a single line of text.