The Questor Tapes (5 page)

T
he android, Questor, had opened every locker in the changing room. He had been built to resemble an average-size man, but his search for clothing had revealed the singular scarcity of average-size men in the group of scientists and technicians. He had disregarded underwear, not comprehending any need for it. A technician’s striped sport shirt was tucked into a beltless pair of old chinos Dr. Chen sometimes wore. Dr. Michaels’ locker had yielded a tweed jacket. Questor had found a pair of white socks stuffed into tennis shoes. The sneakers did not fit, but a pair of black shoes from another locker did. Sufficiently garbed, Questor stepped to a mirror. He tilted his head slightly to the right, surveying the image reflected in the glass.

He saw what appeared to be a blond, blue-eyed, fair-complexioned man in his thirties. The face that had been designed for him was attractive, but with enough flaws to be interesting. The clothing fit well enough. He saw no need for a tie and no incongruity in the white wool socks and black shoes. He turned away.

A red light gleamed beside the emergency exit to the security lab. The door was not normally used, but was linked into the alarm system. Questor studied it briefly, then reached out and pressed the glowing red plate. The light went off. The door did not open, and Questor turned his attention to it. The only projection was the doorknob. Questor pulled at it, and the knob came away in his hand. He bent to examine the hole left in the door, using his infrared capability to scan the dark interior. He understood his mistake then and would not make it again.

Questor straightened and scanned the door frame. A steel molding ran around it, preventing the insertion of anything between the frame and the door. Questor reached up, his fingertips carefully gripping the edge of the molding, and pulled it away from the wall. Effortlessly, his expression as untroubled as a statue’s, he stripped the molding from the entire door. Then he slipped his fingers in the half-inch clearance on top and yanked the door from the frame. He neatly set it aside, and left.

The side door was a thick, heavy metal fire-and-security panel with a stout locking bolt. Questor paused as he heard the footsteps of the patrolling guard outside. As soon as the guard was well past, Questor bent aside the thick locking bolt and eased open the door.

His hearing mechanism amplified the guard’s footsteps as the man walked along the front of the building. Questor set off across the grass at an oblique angle, reaching the sidewalk a slight distance from the lab. He noticed the difference in texture as he stepped from the grass to the cement, and paused for a moment to catalog the information. Then he set off in a direction that would take him past the front of the Project Questor laboratory.

The guard posted at the entrance looked at him without curiosity. Questor strode along ramrod straight, but with enough ease to draw a courteous nod from the guard. Questor logged the motion in a split second and nodded back. The guard seemed satisfied and looked away.

Questor angled off the sidewalk as soon as he was out of sight of the laboratory. He stopped under a stand of trees to get his bearings, and became aware of the soft undercurrent of night noises. A cricket chirped, a car purred along one of the dormitory driveways in the distance, the wind gently fluttered leaves overhead. Questor amplified his hearing and picked up the low murmur of two voices, a man’s and a woman’s. His eyes automatically tracked to the source.

A pair of students strolled along a walk some distance from him. They had their arms around each other, and Questor could hear the girl’s low laugh. “What’ll they say if they find me in your room?”

“We can say we’re studying.”

“They won’t believe that.”

“Why do we have to say anything?”

“You
always
have to say something.”

The conversation meant nothing to Questor. He turned away, scanning the campus for the building he wanted, and located it two blocks away. He moved away from the tall trees and found his path blocked by a flower bed. Night-blooming jasmine scented the air, and he traced the fragrance to the flowers. His fingers stroked the delicate blossoms lightly, and he cataloged them.

As he walked around the wide flower bed and emerged on the lawn again, something made him look up. It was of those rare, marvelously clear nights in southern California, and the whole glittering panorama of stars was laid out across the sky. Questor stood for a long moment, I staring up, his eyes sweeping from quadrant to quadrant, studying them all. For the first time a trace of expression moved his face—the faint knitting of his brows, as if something puzzled him. Something he could not catalog. It was not the location of the stars. Their positions as seen from every point on earth had been programmed into him. It was something else, something undefined that had not been programmed but was a part of him anyway.

A rustling in the shrubbery behind him swiftly drew his attention back to his immediate surroundings. A large black and tan animal confronted him; ears laid back, a low growl rumbling in its throat. Questor tilted his head slightly to the right, trying to classify it. Part of his programming was jumbled and contained gaps.

This was one of them. “Good ev-e-ning,” Questor said. His voice was flat, expressionless, the words disjointed.

The Doberman stopped growling and backed up a pace, confused by the android’s strange voice. His nose quivered slightly and he took another step back, beginning to whine.

“Good ev-e-ning,” Questor said again.

The Doberman spun around and sprinted away, his dark form disappearing in the shadows. Questor pulled his brows together again. A most curious response. Surely he had said the properly courteous thing. However, there were important matters he had to attend to immediately. He turned his attention from the animal.

Cal Tech was a stately campus, set like a jewel against the Sierra Madres. Its older buildings had the graceful architecture of a gentler, less frantic world. One of these was the administration building. Questor mounted the short set of stairs to the front doors and stepped into the marbled corridor. A massive set of double doors faced him. A sign beside them identified them as the entrance to the Vaslovik Archives.

Questor crossed to the doors, took both doorknobs in his hands, and twisted carefully. There was resistance, so he twisted harder. The locking mechanism shattered with a metallic scream; Questor entered, leaving the doors slightly ajar behind him.

The Vaslovik Archives were sheltered in one large room crammed with shelves of bound papers and locked filing cabinets. There was also a microtape reading setup. All the material stored in the archives had to do with Project Questor exclusively.

There was no light in the room, but Questor needed none. A slight adjustment of the eye mechanism, done automatically, enabled him to switch to infrared. He went first to the microtape reader. The machine was easy to operate and would provide the most information quickly.

At the far end of the hall, a light shone in a single office. A shadow moved against the opaque glass of the upper door, and then the light went out. Allison Sample emerged, locked the door, and walked quickly toward the main entrance.

When she reached the Vaslovik Archives she noticed the slightly open doors, and frowned. The custodians who tended this building had never been careless enough to leave that room open. She went to shut it, then heard the sound of papers fluttering in the darkened room. She glanced around quickly. There was no one else in the building at this hour. If she went for the campus police, the trespasser might make off with valuable material. But sometimes, she told herself, a bluff worked. She squared her shoulders, pushed open the doors, and snapped on the lights.

Questor looked up at the ceiling fixtures, and his eyes instantly adjusted to the new lighting. He had completed his study of the microtapes and bound papers, and now was busy with the files. The faint sound of someone breathing at a rapid rate shifted his attention to the door where Allison stood, her hand still on the light switch.

Questor studied her curiously. She was tall and slender. Questor automatically calculated her exact height and weight. Her short dark hair framed a fresh and completely open face. The impression of honesty was bolstered by the wide, intelligent blue eyes staring back at him. She was twenty-eight, competent, completely trustworthy—as proven by her top security clearance—and had been Vaslovik’s secretary and administrative assistant. In fact, she still handled all the project paperwork and maintained the archives.

“Good . . . evening,” Questor said. His voice was still flat and expressionless, but he had smoothed out the individual syllables, so the greeting sounded a little more normal.

“What are you doing here?”

Questor tilted his head to the right, quickly absorbing the nuances of Allison’s low voice. “Vocal inflection. Yes . . . interesting.”

Allison felt tension draining away from her. If the intruder meant robbery, surely he would have bolted by now. Yet this pleasant-looking man with the peculiar speech pattern merely stood at the open file, a folder in his hand, studying her.

“I asked, what are you doing here? Who are you?”

Questor began to scan the folder again. But his vocal inflection had improved, giving a touch more naturalness to his extremely formal word selection. “To the first question, I am scanning various minutiae in search of required data input.”

Allison said softly, “Oh.”

Questor glanced up at her, noting her raised eyebrows, her expression of puzzled surprise. Obviously facial features, as well as voice inflection, altered as mood and incident required. He would have to practice that. As he returned to his scan of the file papers, he said, “As to the second question . . . I am part of Project Questor.”

Allison frowned thoughtfully. “I’ve never seen you around that building.”

“Around?” He was lost for a second, as the word failed to compute in the contexts he knew. Then data slid into place, and he recognized the reference. “As a colloquial phrase, meaning ‘in the vicinity.’ ”

Allison eyed him nervously, but her curiosity was piqued and she was determined to get an explanation. “Who
are
you?” she asked again.

Questor finished scanning the file in his hand, replaced it, and dug out another. “If this is to be an information exchange, then the next interrogative is logically mine. Who are you?”

“I’m Allison Sample.”

Questor paused and looked up. “Allison Sample is Professor Vaslovik’s media intermediary.”

“Uh . . . yes, his secretary.” She smiled for the first time. “That helps. A complete outsider wouldn’t know that.”

Questor took note of the smile and flexed his facial muscles in an imitative response. It wasn’t a very good smile, but it apparently was done well enough to convince Allison while he tangled with another colloquialism. “Outsider . . . to mean a stranger, a possible threat.” He went back to flipping through the file. “To relieve apprehension, I can supply other information, Miss Sample. Jerry Robinson is the assembly engineer on Project Questor. He was employed by Vaslovik four years ago to—”

Allison interrupted eagerly, “Do you know Jerry well?”

Questor pondered the question, then replied honestly. “He has been closer to me than any other human.”

“I like him, too,” Allison confided. “Say, where are you from? It’s a most unusual accent.”

“It is my speech pattern. I must make it more colloquial. How much do you know of the Questor Project, madam?”

Allison’s eyebrows lifted again. “I prefer ‘Miss Sample.’ But I really must know what you’re doing here. These archives are not generally open.”

“There is little I do not know about the project . . . Miss Sample.”

“You make me sound a million years old.”

“That does not seem entirely logical, since you obviously—”

“You know you sound like Professor Vaslovik?”

He ignored the half question. “Project Questor has reached a stage that absolutely requires that Professor Vaslovik be located. If you can be of any help . . . ?”

Allison shook her head, troubled. “I only know he seemed to be quite ill . . . then he disappeared, leaving behind this five-nation arrangement to carry on the project.”

Questor sensed that she was upset and concerned for the missing scientist. The emotion was something he could catalog but could not understand. He changed the subject, more to gain information than to calm her. “Was he known to enjoy aquatic vehicles? I have a . . . fragment of memory associating him with such a thing.”

“If by aquatic vehicles you mean boats, no. You
are
the strangest man.”

He replaced the last of the files and looked at Allison again. “I have spent most of my life in the laboratory, thus I no doubt lack social graces.”

Allison ducked her head, hiding a smile. She could not know that Questor would not understand why she found his flat statement so amusing. “It . . . does show a little, to be perfectly honest.”

“This concerns me,” Questor said, “since I am about to leave on a journey which may require them.”

He brushed past her and through the open doors into the marbled corridor. She followed, startled by his abrupt exit. A small sound of protest started in her throat and died as he stopped and turned back again.

“Farewell, madam.” He paused, realizing something more should follow. “Parting is such sweet sorrow.”

Allison stared at him, unable to summon a syllable to cover her surprise. Then she found herself smiling at him, charmed and amused by his solemn, terribly formal manner. “I do hope you’re going with someone on this trip?”

“Yes,” Questor said somberly. “I see it is quite necessary. Thank you.”

He moved again to leave, and she involuntarily reached out after him. “You do have a name, don’t you?”

Questor stopped, half turned to her, and hesitated. He searched his mind for an answer and found the only one that fit. “Yes, Miss Sample. My name is . . . Questor.”

He left as quickly and quietly as he had come. Allison made no move to stop him. She was paralyzed by the impact of what he had said.
Questor? There is no one on the project named Questor. There is only—the project.