The Questor Tapes (6 page)

5

J
erry Robinson had gone to bed after Darro left. He had suddenly felt weary, and not only because it had been a long day. He had been more disappointed than he wanted to admit when the android failed to function. The following conferences, overtures, and accusations had added to his worries; so he took refuge in sleep. Now he dreamed, again and again seeing the android as it strove for life on the assembly pallet—and failed.

The shadow that darkened the grilled window did not disturb him. Subconsciously he heard the faint, reverberating
bing
of metal being bent aside, and thought it was part of his dream. The gentle sound of the window being raised did not disturb him either. He had reached the part of his dream where the android thrashed and strained against the bonds on the assembly pallet. Suddenly, strong fingers clamped across his mouth and nose.

Jerry’s eyes flew open, and he sat up, panicked. The light from the window revealed only a male figure bending over him. The man spoke quietly, in a curiously flat, expressionless voice.

“Mr. Robinson, I mean you no harm. I must speak with you.”

Jerry stared up at the stranger and nodded. He had no other choice: he was almost smothering. The man promptly removed his hand and Jerry took a deep gulp of air. When his breathing steadied a little, he demanded, “Who are you?”

“I am Questor.”

Jerry looked up again, puzzled for a moment. The stranger moved aside slightly, and Jerry caught sight of the iron grillwork that had been wrenched away. Then it sank in. There was only one . . . thing . . . that could have bent those bars so radically and so silently. The stranger—
it
—regarded him calmly. Jerry tried to make a break for the door, but Questor’s arm shot out and firmly held him where he was.

“Please do not call out, Mr. Robinson,” Questor said reasonably. “I am programmed to prevent that if necessary.”

Jerry subsided, again, having no choice. He knew that the android could break his arm twice as easily as it had bent the grillwork. Jerry had
built
the thing, after all. He tried to think, organize a plan, but all he could see was this creature standing over him—a creature that looked, simply, like a man in his early thirties. The hair, the brows, the skin texture, had all been done with great finesse. Studying the android now, Jerry realized that it must have followed the cosmetology instructions to the last detail. He should have recognized Questor immediately, but he had been accustomed to thinking of it as the smooth, hairless piece of machinery he had constructed.

That was it.

“If you know my name, you must understand. I am the human who put you together.”

“I do understand that.”

Jerry scrambled off the bed and backed away from Questor. His voice shook slightly as the android followed him step for step. “You
must
obey my instructions. You hear me? I am ordering you to—”

The door lock clicked abruptly and the guard came in, machine gun in hand. “I thought I heard . . .” His eyes swept the scene: the warped grillwork bars, the stranger confronting an apparently intimidated Robinson. He started to turn the gun on the intruder.

Questor moved faster. He recognized the guard and the gun as dangers as soon as the door opened. He grabbed the barrel of the machine gun with his left hand and squeezed. At the same second, with his right hand he touched a spot just behind the man’s ear. The guard collapsed like a deflated balloon.

Jerry bent over the man as Questor quietly closed the door. He was relieved to find that the guard was only unconscious. The pulse and heartbeat were strong. Jerry looked up as Questor spoke in that curious monotone.

“My university tape programming was most helpful, Mr. Robinson.” He gestured toward the guard. “The human anatomy information allowed me to select a nerve which will keep him unconscious for approximately one hour.”

“Naturally you don’t have that vulnerability,” Jerry said shakily.

“You are well aware of that, Mr. Robinson. As you pointed out, you constructed me.”

Jerry pulled himself together and controlled his voice. “Right. And, as I also pointed out, you have to obey me.
I am ordering you to return to the laboratory!”

“I am grateful for your advice, but I must leave immediately for a metropolitan complex known as London.” His hand descended to Jerry’s shoulder. “And it is essential that you accompany me.”

Jerry felt the tremendous strength of the android’s fingers pressed into his shoulder, though Questor was obviously careful not to hurt him. But all he could do was stare at the machine gun, which had fallen beside the guard. The barrel was flattened and bent into a right angle. And the hand resting on his shoulder had done it.

6

J
erry Robinson drove the freeway’s slowest lane, heading west on the Golden State, merging into the Ventura Freeway, maintaining a speed of fifty. The android seated beside him attentively studied the night-lighted scenery, the traffic flow, the ramp signs, but he did not question Jerry’s operation of the car. Possibly Questor had not absorbed the principles of driving. Jerry’s mind raced over alternatives and plans for escape, but he kept running into barriers. He knew he might be able to engineer a minor accident that would disable the car. But that involved physical risk to himself and possibly to innocent bystanders. Besides, the android’s reflexes were faster than his and he could probably prevent it. He knew Questor was quicker and stronger than he was. Trying to escape on foot would be useless, and combat ridiculous. All he could do for the moment was go the slowest, longest route possible to Los Angeles International Airport and try to dissuade the android with logic. He cleared his throat, and Questor turned his head to look at him.

“You realize this is insane. Don’t you understand you belong back at the lab? There is so much work to be done yet.”

“The work has been done.”

“You’re not capable of making that decision!” Jerry fought down an impulse to keep on shouting. Logic. Calm logic was the only answer. “Look . . . you know I literally put you together. I installed your—your brain. I fed in the program tapes.”

“I am quite aware of that, Mr. Robinson. I have intended to ask you why your programming was so incomplete in one area and so redundant in another.”

Jerry wriggled his shoulders uncomfortably, and his friendly face twisted into a scowl. “That wasn’t my idea. The scientists tried to decipher the Vaslovik tape, but all they did was destroy—” He switched suddenly to indignation, annoyed at himself for forgetting what Questor was. “I don’t have to answer questions from you. You are supposed to do what I tell you. Respect and obedience . . . respect and obedience.”

“But I do respect you, Mr. Robinson, and I shall cooperate in all logical ways. Why are you not prepared to do the same in return?”

“Because you are a machine!”

A car cut into the lane ahead, just missing Jerry’s front fender. He braked and snarled an obscene comment about the driver’s birth and misbegotten lineage. Then, remembering, he glanced over at Questor. The android watched him quietly, apparently unfazed by the near miss.

“
Cogito, ergo sum,
” Questor said.

“What?”

“A rather important philosophical aphorism, first enunciated by the French philosopher Descartes.”

Jerry nodded and automatically guided the car into the cloverleaf ramp that would take them onto the San Diego Freeway heading south. “I think, therefore I am. What makes you think you think?”

“Quite perceptive, Mr. Robinson. That question has been troubling me as well.
Cogito, ergo sum. Am
I?”

Jerry kicked himself mentally, realizing what he had done. He could have continued on the Ventura Freeway, not turned south onto the very road past the airport! Maybe, if he was careful, he could ease onto the Santa Monica or Long Beach Freeway, both of which crossed this one. That would divert them long enough . . . long enough . . . for what?

“Am I?” Questor asked again.

“Just thinking doesn’t mean you’re alive,” Jerry said distractedly.

“Since I function—crudely at times, I admit, but I feel I shall improve, with your help—your statement does not seem totally relevant.”

“If you’re so damned perfect, why do you need me?”

Now it was Questor’s turn to pause and think about his reply. He frowned slightly, but Jerry was too busy driving to notice it. “Because,” Questor said slowly, “my instructions are incomplete.”

“You are simply an
ambulatory computer device.
Do you accept that much?”

“Completely.”

Jerry allowed himself a small sigh. “Good. Now, as a human being with years of experience in this human world, I’m telling you
we can’t go to London.”

This time he saw Questor tilt his head slightly to the right. It was an inquisitive, puzzled gesture, and very human. Where had the android gotten that?

“I have no choice but to try, Mr. Robinson. My creator’s programming tape included that I go to him. As quickly as possible.”

“Do you know that he’s in London?”

“No.”

“Do you know if he’s even alive?”

“No. Yet I cannot disregard that command. I must find him. London is a beginning.”

“That tape was damaged, partially erased! So whatever instructions Vaslovik left you could be garbled, twisted . . .”

“Incorrect,” Questor said patiently. “The imperative to find Vaslovik was perfectly clear. It is his location which was erased and fragmented. Do human minds contain such specific imperatives—or are they all as random and disorganized as yours seem to be?”

Jerry snapped his head around toward Questor. “Listen, it was a human mind which conceived of you . . . humans who put you together . . .”

“Please attend to the operation of the vehicle, Mr. Robinson.”

Jerry looked back at the freeway in time to avoid running up the rear of a big double rig. Questor’s voice went on levelly. “I have no desire to appear hypocritical, but I find it astonishing that precise and voluminous knowledge of the various sciences helps so little in the understanding of human behavior.”

“We get along.”

“I am not entirely convinced of that,” Questor said.

“This is ridiculous.
I will not argue with a machine.”
Jerry leaned back in the seat, fuming, clenching the wheel with white-knuckled hands. Then he noticed the image of the police car in his rear-view mirror. It was a California Highway Patrol black-and-white, routinely patrolling. Jerry casually slid his left hand off the wheel and turned off the headlights.

“Resume nocturnal illumination, please.”

Jerry winced and reluctantly turned on the lights. Questor turned to study the other cars moving around them. “It seems only logical that we emulate the practices of the other vehicles.”

“Right,” Jerry said wearily. He saw the police car going off the last exit ramp they passed. No help there. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Questor said promptly.

“Good. This is not the way to the airport.”

“Incorrect. We are now precisely 11.24 miles from the air-vehicle terminal. This roadway will deliver us to a lesser artery leading directly to the terminal complex.”

“There’s no possible way you can know that,” Jerry snapped incredulously.

“I glanced at a metropolitan diagram in the Vaslovik Archives.”

“You took
one
look at the city map?”

Questor nodded calmly. “You installed my vision components quite well, Mr. Robinson. It is because of my flaws in other areas that I vitally need your assistance. More than my creator’s location was erased from his tape. I seem to have no . . . explanation of myself. Can you inform me why I must find my creator?”

Jerry frowned and held the wheel tighter. “I’m beginning to worry about that, too. A lot.”

The guard had come to precisely an hour after Questor had dropped him. It took him ten minutes to get to Darro’s room, wake the project chief, and explain. Five minutes after that, Darro was dressed and standing in Jerry’s quarters, surveying the damage. The guard sheepishly rubbed his neck, still embarrassed. Darro’s assistant, Walter Phillips, picked up the machine gun and handed it to his boss. As he did, he tapped the impossibly flattened and bent barrel.