The Questor Tapes (4 page)

“Both of you, get out of here!”

“I’m not sure you have that authority, Mr. Darro,” Smith srid.

“On this project I have any authority I choose to exercise. Read my contract.”

“Robinson is an American citizen.”

“Exactly,” Darro said. “And he is under contract to a supranational scientific authority. Read
his
contract.” He flicked a look at Phyllis. “And, Dr. Bradley, report to the conference room. There’s a meeting in five minutes.”

“I thought we’d had a long, hard day.”

“Doctor, half an hour ago I learned that the French and the Russians both were planning to abduct Mr. Robinson and the android. They feel someone is double-crossing everyone else. Since Robinson is the lead technician and an American, they decided the double-crosser was you. And they may have something there.”

Phyllis turned on him angrily. “That’s possible, but I have another nominee. You saw the test run. The mechanism should function, but it doesn’t.
I
think it was Vaslovik, working through his protégé here.”

“I wasn’t his protégé! I was one of fifty technicians working on his various projects.”

“Be that as it may,” Darro said quickly, “from now on, no one speaks to Mr. Robinson privately, except for me.”

Smith raised his eyebrows suspiciously. “How do we know we can trust you?”

“You take my word for it.” Darro met Smith’s stare and glared him down. “Now get out of here. Oh . . . and if you decide to come visiting again, you’ll find the security guard posted at Mr. Robinson’s door.”

Smith and Dr. Bradley left silently. Jerry glanced after them, then back to Darro. “I’m not sure I like that,” he said. “The guard, I mean.”

“Like it or not, Mr. Robinson,” Darro said, “he stays.”

The android sat before the mirror in the cosmetology section, studying its own smooth, hairless face and body. The table bore an array of dyes, creams, special heat-molding tools. An image flashed briefly in its brain—a picture of what it should look like. Then the image was gone. Gaps . . . too many gaps in information. Program lacking.

The cosmetology computer keyboard was at the left. The android turned to it and activated it. A schematic came on as the screen glowed to life. The android studied it, keyed in a new instruction. Then, faster and faster, it began to go through the entire cosmetology computer bank, until the individual schematics became a blur.

The computer completed the run and stopped. The android was motionless for the space of a minute, analyzing and correlating the information it had absorbed. Then its eyes flicked down to the table, and it picked up a heat-molding tool. It examined the tool briefly and found the activating switch. The android reached down again and located the already cast mouth mold. It fitted the special device onto the basic heat unit and turned the cosmetology mirror toward its face.

This second look at itself, with its new information, triggered a new response. The android blinked its eyelids for the first time. Finding the effect satisfactory, the android activated a program of eyelid movement that corresponded to a natural human pattern.

Then it opened a jar of reddish pigment, applied a thin coating to the interior of the mouth mold, and switched on the tool. When the tool was ready, the android carefully raised it to its lipless mouth and pressed the mold into place. It sizzled, and smoke curled up from the hot mold as it met the plastiskin. The android’s face remained expressionless, except for the regularly blinking eyelids. It removed the mold, revealing human lips, perfectly natural in shape and color. The android tilted its head slightly to the side, studying the final result. Then it reached for the ear mold.

The conference room in the project quarters was sound-proofed and regularly checked by security guards for wire-tap and monitoring devices. Yet the room was intimate enough to encourage a free flow of discussion at the round table that dominated. The five scientists and Darro were seated around the table. Darro’s assistant, Phillips, occupied a chair in one corner of the room, unobtrusively taking notes.

“For the moment, I will table the matter of the conflict of interests various members of this team have indulged in. You are here to make the android operational. I have reason to believe this is not possible,” Darro said.

A chorus of startled exclamations rose and fell around the table. Darro hushed them with a brief wave of his hand. “That does not imply a failure on your part.”

Gorlov leaned forward. The room light bouncing off his glasses made his eyes appear as two sheets of silver foil. “Are you suggesting that someone is preventing the android from functioning?”

“I’ve been troubled by a number of puzzles since I came to this project, Doctor. For example, as scientists, just how do you assess the parts of the android you do understand?”

“We’ve all agreed it is a remarkable outpouring of new discoveries and inventions, to say the least.”

Darro noticed that Phyllis Bradley had not looked at him or the others when she spoke. “Too many for one scientist, Dr. Bradley?” he asked.

She did not raise her eyes. “Vaslovik’s genius is well known—Nobel Prizes for his work both in nuclear fusion and in biotics, for example.”

“But if you ask, would a
group
of scientists be more believable . . .” Audret paused, considering it. Then he nodded. “I think, yes.”

“We have discussed this among ourselves, of course,” Gorlov said. Heads bobbed agreement around the table. “Vaslovik has always been something of a mystery to the scientific community.”

Darro pushed back in his chair and rose. “Vaslovik—disappeared or presumed dead. Or is he?” He paced restlessly, almost thinking aloud to himself. “Did he drop out of sight voluntarily? Why was this project left to this five-nation combine? To guarantee that all nations would benefit from it? Or to get the brains and resources necessary to get it constructed? Perhaps for other uses.” He turned back to them as a ripple of agitation went around the table.

Dr. Michaels was frowning, puzzled. “But you do not think we can activate the android. Obviously, you are wondering if Mr. Robinson fits into your premise.”

“Very much so,” Darro said. “I’ve learned from his university records that our pleasant, unassuming micro-engineer has a tested intelligence quotient fifteen points higher than any person in this room.”

The android completed the implantation of eyebrows. It had done the delicate installation of lashes in a tenth of the time it would have taken Chen. The eyebrows required even less time. The android paused again and regarded its image in the large mirror. Perfectly formed ears had been molded from the rough shapes that had adorned the baldhead. The nose had been sculpted into a less-than-perfect line. Whoever had designed its features had decided that the android would not look like a Greek god.

The plastiskin had been treated to produce texture, wrinkles, a mole here and there, even a small fan of lines at the corners of the eyes. Nipples, navel, toenails, and fingernails had been added, along with a small scar under the chin and another on the inner left calf.

The android consulted the material on the cosmetology table and found the coarse blond hair to be implanted in its head. There was another instrument to stitch the sections of hair into the scalp. The android lifted the first section of hair, carefully positioned it, and started the implantation mechanism. As the stitches drilled into the bald scalp, the android followed the progress reflected in the mirror, automatically adjusting for the reversal of the image. All the facial adornments had been added, but the android’s expression had not changed. It was immobile, blank. The lines in it had been impressed into it, not earned. The eyes glittered hard and cold—and inhuman.

Jerry Robinson flicked a look at his watch, surprised, when someone knocked at his door. It was eleven, long past the hour when anyone came to the project building. Even internal visits tapered off around ten because of the rigorous work schedule Darro had established. Jerry opened the door to find the project chief standing there.

“Evening, Robinson.”

Jerry nodded, waiting. Darro raised an eyebrow and stared a hole through him. Jerry stepped back a pace and vaguely gestured inside. “Uh . . . come in . . . again.” Darro moved past him, and Jerry closed the door. “Little late, isn’t it?”

Darro settled himself comfortably in an overstuffed chair. “Your usual routine is to retire at eleven-thirty. Since you’re alone and not working, I assume I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Is there a monitor in this room?”

Darro twitched the corners of his mouth in what passed for a smile. “Not at all. Your habits are regular and seldom vary. Even if the project members
were
monitored—and they are not—your personal life runs along as dependably as a clock.”

“I didn’t think I was that dull,” Jerry said thoughtfully. “But you didn’t drop in to tell me people can set their watches by me.”

Darro nodded briefly. “Quite right. I’ve just come from meeting with the project scientists. After reviewing all of our information and options, we’ve decided that the most practical use of the android will come only if we disassemble it.”

“Disassemble it? But . . . you
can’t
order that!”

Jerry was aware Darro watched him critically, but he couldn’t contain the surprise, the anguish that burst from him. There was too much of his life bound up in the building of the android. The successful completion of the Questor Project was as important to him as breathing. He tried a new tack. “You pulled those scientists off me only two hours ago. Now you’re saying you’ve approved the destruction of the entire project.”

“I pulled them off you, as you put it, because I will not have that kind of double dealing in any operation I head. Disassembling the android does not destroy the project, Robinson. The participating nations will still get a rich return on their investment, won’t they? Its so-called stomach, for example—a nuclear furnace that was believed impossible. But it works, and I represent five nations that are very anxious to take it apart and find out
how
it works. And other parts of it, too . . . turbine pumps the size of match heads, electrical circuitry using gas vapor—”

Jerry interrupted desperately, “But a
functioning
android, Darro. It could change the shape of this whole world! The space program, undersea exploration. It could change industry, agriculture . . .”

“An excellent summary of its socioeconomic implications, Robinson. Especially from a man who calls himself ‘simply a gifted mechanic.’ ”

“That’s what I am.”

Darro pushed out of the chair quickly, impatiently. “We have a full dossier on you. Every IQ test you’ve taken since you were in high school indicates the same thing—genius-level intelligence.”

Jerry sat down automatically, staring at Darro. The project chief turned away from him and opened the window. The action seemed meaningless until Jerry realized that Darro was studying the ornate grillwork on the window—the bars of his prison. “Hey, look . . .” Jerry started.

“That
is
true, isn’t it? Or are you labeling all those tests a lie?”

The young engineer relaxed in the chair and found a laugh. “
Me,
a genius? Sorry. Darro, that was just a fluke. I do well on IQ tests because I’m a puzzle solver.” He tapped his head. “Some twist up here gets a kick out of intricate things.”

“Like androids which should work, but don’t.”

“You sound like you think someone’s going to the lab tonight, push some button on it and say, ‘Follow me.’ ” He shook his head, chuckling at the ridiculous image. Darro slammed the window, and Jerry’s smile faded when Darro turned, his face grim and set.

“Not entirely impossible, Mr. Robinson. Is it?”

“Even if it was, why would I want it?” Jerry got to his feet angrily, pushing in at the unmoving project chief. “To play chess with? To hold for ransom? Follow me
where?”

“Perhaps to a man who has been presumed dead even though a body has never been found.”

Jerry stared at him, his mouth open. Finally he managed to pull himself together from the shock of the suggestion. “Vaslovik?”

“He may have found a five-nation combine an attractive idea. Ample funds and the world’s top scientists doing the job his own organization couldn’t complete.”

“His organization? Darro, Vaslovik was a scientist of the highest caliber—but his ‘organization’ consisted of about fifty people who built from his designs. Research and development was done by him . . . only him.”

“My point exactly,” Darro said. “You don’t know where he is?”

“Darro, if
you
don’t, I certainly don’t.”

The project chief studied Jerry, the hard blue eyes cutting him into little sections and examining each one. Finally he twitched his mouth in that odd half smile. “You’re one of two things, Robinson—either a remarkably shrewd, able man acting a part, or a very foolish man who doesn’t recognize his own potential.” He stepped to the door and opened it. Jerry could see the armed security guard still standing there. “Mr. Robinson is not to have visitors or leave his quarters except at my orders.”

“Yes, sir.” The guard did not question the change in Jerry’s status. No one questioned Darro.

Darro glanced back at Jerry. “Good night, Mr. Robinson.”

Jerry nodded weakly and watched Darro leave the room. The security guard reached in and pulled the door closed. The lock clicked from outside. Jerry slumped into a chair, head in his hands, wondering exactly what had happened. He was under guard and under suspicion of being some kind of saboteur, or at least potentially one. If only Vaslovik were alive. If only the android had functioned . . .

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