The Questor Tapes (10 page)

“It is quite all right, Mr. Robinson. Trust me.”

The croupier scooped in the dice and deftly palmed them, substituting another pair taken from a slot in the table directly in front of his belly. The move was smooth, unnoticeable unless one paid extremely close attention. He shoved the dice toward Questor with the long stick.

Questor picked them up and instantly felt the difference in them. The weight and even the shape were not quite what he had handled before. Because of the weight factor, force and angle of bounce would be negated. The only answer was to reshape them and redistribute the weight. Unobtrusively, as he scanned the table, he clenched the two cubes in his hand, exerting immense pressure on them.

“Your term for twelve?” he asked.

“Box cars,” said the croupier.

“Place the entire wager on box cars, please.”

The croupier did so, barely hiding a smug grin. There were no other bets on the table as Questor prepared to roll again.

He threw. The two white cubes tumbled, rolled—and settled, exposing the double sixes.

The crowd roared. The croupier and the casino manager were stunned, but there was nothing to do but pay off. The croupier began to stack large-denomination chips on the table. Jerry paled as he saw the manager nod to two large, broad men who looked very out of place in tuxedos. The gorilla cage at the zoo would have been more appropriate.

He turned to Questor in time to hear the android say, “That will be sufficient. Thank you very much.”

“You’re leaving?”

“I have enjoyed the experiment, but this accumulation of money is enough. Thank you.”

At a signal from the manager, the croupier began to scoop the chips into a container. Two bounced off and rolled under the table. The croupier knelt and reached around under the low-slung mahogany table, but was unable to locate the chips.

“Allow me,” Questor said courteously. He lifted the edge of the massive table with one hand.

The croupier dug out the dropped chips, started to climb to his feet, and stopped, staring. Questor gently lowered the table edge. Hands shaking, the croupier gathered the rest of the chips and gave them to Questor very respectfully.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Thank
you
for a most informative ten minutes, seventeen seconds.”

Questor and Jerry walked toward the door. The crowd had not ceased its confused and amazed chatter. Jerry wondered how they would break the news of his death to his mother. Then he saw the two gorillas respectfully move to one side and let them go to the cashier’s window. The chips were exchanged quickly for pound notes, and no one bothered them as they left.

Jerry stopped five blocks away from the casino, looked back to see if they had been followed, and relaxed, relieved to see no one behind them. He leaned against a lamp post to gulp in refreshing breaths of crisp night air as if he had been holding his breath too long. He had.

Questor watched him, puzzled. “You appear to be suffering some strain, Mr. Robinson.”

“Questor . . . do you realize that run of ‘luck’ you had in there could have gotten us killed? I told you to stop.”

“I would have endangered your life because I changed the structure of the strange pair of dice they gave me on the last wager?”

“Strange pair of—? Questor, they gave you a
different
pair of dice? Heavier than the others?”

“Yes. But I corrected the obvious imbalance.”

Jerry leaned his head back against the lamp post and began to laugh softly. Questor tilted his head slightly to the right, frowning. “This is humorous?”

“Well, yes. You see, those dice were supposed to make you lose. I’ll bet they’re going crazy trying to figure out how you did it.”

“Was it immoral for me to do so?”

Jerry paused, thinking it over. Then he looked at Questor seriously. “No, Questor. Giving you the loaded dice was immoral. And the price they paid was heavy enough.” He straightened up, much more cheerful. “But if we ever get to Vegas, there are some slot machines I want you to meet.”

8

T
hey walked a great deal that night. Jerry had begun to feel the lack of sleep and the effects of tension. Questor, who was tireless, obligingly stopped whenever Jerry’s energy flagged too much, and they sat for a while. They had been too late to even try to book a room in a hotel, so they simply kept moving through London’s dimly lighted streets. No one bothered them, not even the occasional bobby walking his beat. Apparently, not all the Metropolitan Police had gotten the “wanted” sheet on them.

It was almost dawn when they reached the embankment along the Thames. Jerry slumped down on a low cement wall and Questor quietly sat beside him. The slowly brightening sky had become silver gray, casting gleaming sparks of light on the broad river. Questor looked around, interested, unquenchably curious

“Do you know where we are, Mr. Robinson?”

Jerry roused himself to study the surroundings and nodded. “This is the Thames River, London’s principal waterway. The area behind us is called the embankment. It runs all the way up into Chelsea, that way.” He pointed upriver. “Down there . . . those buildings are the houses of Parliament. The prominent tower with the clock is Big Ben.”

“Thank you, Mr. Robinson. However, am I not correct in saying it is the large bell in the clock tower that is named Big Ben?”

Jerry sighed wearily. “Yes.”

“There are other bells in the city with names equally famous, I believe. I have references to Great Peter and—”

“Yes, Questor. That’s right. If you don’t mind, I’m just not up to a lecture on famous bells of the city of London right now.”

“I apologize, Mr. Robinson. I did not take into account your fatigue, which would naturally blunt intellectual curiosity. Would you care to lie down on the grass to rest?”

Jerry wished he could, but practical considerations kept intruding. “We’d probably be arrested as vagrants. We can’t risk that.” He started to get up. “We’d better move on.” He shivered in the damp morning air, suddenly aware of the vast climate difference between southern California and London.

Questor noticed the chattering of Jerry’s teeth. “You are cold. I have no need of this jacket if you would care to use it.”

“No, no. I’m fine.”

Questor put a hand under his elbow, and Jerry sleepily allowed that firm support to propel him along. They walked up toward Chelsea, covering the distance slowly. It was just past seven when Questor turned into a narrow side street lined with Georgian-style buildings. Once they had been private residences. Now they were bed-and-breakfast hotels. Questor guided Jerry toward a woman who was briskly sweeping the steps and sidewalk in front of one of the hotels.

“Pardon me,” Questor said.

The woman turned and eyed the two men. The one who had spoken was dressed in an odd assortment of clothing, but he appeared to be bright eyed, fresh, and alert. The taller man was considerably rumpled, puffy eyed, and he had a tendency to sway to the right if his companion did not hold him up.

“Can I help you?”

“I believe you can,” Questor said. He pointed to a sign in the front window. “Do you have a room we could rent?”

“How long would you be staying?”

“I believe one day should be long enough. You see,” Questor went on, “we arrived from the United States late last night, and our luggage was lost. We require a place to stay until the airline can return it to us. They’ve promised it will not be more than a day.”

“Well, I suppose that would be all right. Come along, I’ll show you the room. It’s two pounds the night.”

“Am I correct in assuming that includes breakfast?”

“Yes. Did you want something now?”

“I believe Mr. Robinson will appreciate some food. Scrambled eggs, toast, butter and jam, bacon, and coffee if you have it.”

“Yes, sir.” The woman led them into the house and directed them to a sunny dining room where tables were set and waiting. Two early risers had taken seats, and Questor chose a table near the window and away from the others.

Jerry slumped into a chair and stretched his long legs. “Questor, you’re getting too good at lying.”

“The fabrication of a harmless story is not immoral. You have done it, so it cannot be.”

Jerry thought about if and bobbed his head. “All right, I’ll concede the point. But it has to be a
harmless
story.”

“Agreed.”

The woman brought in a tray and set down two plates of eggs and bacon. Questor looked at the food, then at Jerry, who had begun to eat immediately. He copied the way Jerry used fork and knife, putting the food in his mouth, chewing, swallowing. His system did not require it for fuel, of course, but it was absorbed and utilized without waste.

Someone had left the
London Times
on a nearby table, and Questor picked it up and began to scan it. Jerry continued to attack the food on his plate. Questor turned to the financial section and studied the columns. Jerry paused in the middle of the eggs and toast and stared at the android.

“How did you know what to order?”

“I do not understand.”

“Scrambled eggs, bacon, all this. How did you know it’s my favorite breakfast?”

Questor frowned, running back over data to locate the information. “This was in my creator’s programming. It is not directly linked to you, but rather is indicated as a completely acceptable standard meal to order.”

Jerry pushed aside his cleaned plate and leaned back tiredly. “Questor, I’ve got to get some sleep.”

“We have a room here. I’m sure it will be sufficient.”

The room at the top of a narrow, steep stairway was plain, but clean and comfortable. A draped window looked out over a row of other high roofs. One wall was dominated by a large fireplace that housed a gas heater controlled by a coin meter. The double bed had an ornate brass headboard, plump pillows, and a bright yellow coverlet. Jerry paid no attention to the old-fashioned wallpaper, the big mahogany wardrobe, and the fluted glass shades on the two small bedside lamps. He flopped down on the bed and heaved a sigh of relief and pleasure.

“Heaven,” he said.

“I trust two hours will be sufficient?”

Jerry peered at him through red-veined eyes. “Surely you jest.” He paused and shook his head. “No, I suppose you don’t. Questor, human beings need more rest than that.”

“I understand, but this creates a difficulty.”

“If I don’t get some sleep, it’s going to create death.”

“I have certain tasks to perform.” Questor paced away and stood staring out the window, his back to Jerry.

“Questor?” Jerry said drowsily, “Something I’ve been wondering about . . .”

“Yes?”

“How’d you get past the airport metal detectors? Your whole skeleton . . .”

Questor did not look around. “There is a shield built into the subcutaneous skin layer. My creator anticipated the problem of such modern devices. I find Vaslovik anticipated many things. These tasks I must perform are somehow related to my locating him. One seems to lead inexorably to the next. It is almost as if he left a map for me in the programming. But, of course, certain portions of it have been obliterated.” He turned to find Jerry sound asleep. “Mr. Robinson?”

Jerry did not move. His breathing was steady and quite natural for a man deep in sleep. Questor considered the situation for a moment, then moved to the bed. He bent one of the thin decorative strips from the headboard down and around Jerry’s left wrist. It formed an effective manacle, not uncomfortable, but unbreakable. Jerry would not be able to go far, even if he woke from his exhausted sleep. Questor took the afghan throw folded at the foot of the bed and placed it over Jerry. The young engineer did not stir. Questor left quietly, locking the door behind him.

The London Stock Exchange had all the turmoil and din of any place dealing in the turnover of enormous amounts of money, paper, and other negotiables. The fact that the figures were called out in well-modulated British accents made no difference in the frantic pace. Questor watched the activity on the board from the gallery, and his hypersensitive ears picked up the bids, isolating them and the effect they had on the listed stocks. He made brief notes, jotting figures on a pad. He did not need the references himself, but they would be necessary to the broker he had chosen to handle the transactions he had in mind.

Francis Scott Campbell had a reputation in brokerage for scrupulous honesty and the ability to handle complex transactions efficiently. He was the epitome of conservative dress and demeanor as he sat behind a desk that held an orderly clutter of papers and files. He waited for the strangely attired young man opposite him to state his business. Campbell fully expected it would take less than five minutes to hear him out and then tell him it was impossible for him to handle small, odd-lot transactions.

Questor leaned across the desk to hand Campbell the detailed list he had written out. “You will, if you please, follow the directions outlined there—buying and selling at the exact moments indicated.” He reached into an accordion folder he had purchased and drew out several flat sheaves of large-denomination bills. “Eighteen hundred fifty British pounds. That should be sufficient for the initial investment.”