The Questor Tapes (7 page)

“. . . then I heard voices,” the guard was saying. “One was Mr. Robinson saying something about it having to obey his orders.”

Darro examined the smashed machine gun. “Describe the android’s appearance, please,” he said impassively.

The guard shrugged. “Well . . . just a guy. Average. But when I went in, I never saw anything move so fast.”

Phillips had moved over to the window and touched the bent grillwork bars. “Mr. Darro, if it should get out there’s something like that loose which can do this . . .” he touched the bars again, then looked back at the weapon, “and that . . .”

“I see no reason to risk a panic by identifying it. I’m not even sure anyone would believe it. Robinson obviously controls it very well.” He turned abruptly to the security guard. “Have my full staff assembled in my office in five minutes.” He waited until the guard left before he spoke to Phillips. “The android is functional, as far as we can tell. It must have a certain amount of mental facility, and it clearly has full physical capacity.”

“Do you really think Robinson controls it?”

Darro considered it, then shook his head doubtfully. “It’s possible, but who can say? The android broke out of the lab by itself and came here. The guard said Robinson seemed to be afraid of the thing. But he didn’t get too good a look before it put him out.”

“Painlessly,” Phillips pointed out. “He didn’t hurt the man.”

“I might point out that that could have been sheer accident.” Darro gestured toward the door with the ruined machine gun. “We’ve got work to do.”

Traffic into Los Angeles International Airport was always heavy, even late on a weekday night. The roar of the jets landing and taking off was almost constant, nerve-tearing if one stood outside too long. It was past midnight, but all the terminals were alive with people departing and arriving. The vast parking areas in the center section were almost full. Jerry pulled his car into a lot opposite the long terminal building housing the international carriers and managed to slide into a space another car had just left.

He sighed, feeling as if he had already completed a wearying journey. Almost as an afterthought, he switched off the ignition and lights. Then he turned to Questor and studied him intently for a long moment. The android silently stared back, waiting for him.

Jerry nodded with ironic satisfaction. “I’ll say this much for you. It’s an engineer’s dream to have something this complex come together so perfectly. I almost wish I could go with you to London, study how you react to different situations.”

“But you are accompanying me to London, Mr. Robinson.”

“Will you try to understand that that’s impossible!” Jerry snapped. Then he stopped, gathered in his flaring temper, and tried to be logical. He had to remember logic with this thing. “There are many reasons why not. For example, it would require six to seven hundred dollars for us to purchase travel to London.” He dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet. Opening it, he thumbed through the money and showed it to Questor. “And I have a total of . . . thirty-three dollars.”

The android took the wallet and examined it for himself. Jerry smiled triumphantly as Questor said, “I understand. Contemporary economic practices were included in my university tape programming.”

Jerry began to feel a warm glow starting. At last! He had gotten through that peculiarly stubborn programmed response and the android could see
his
logic. “Good. We’re finally beginning to communicate. You see, there’s a difference between things we’d
like
to do and things we
can
do.”

Questor had completed his rapid examination of the wallet’s contents and sat listening carefully. He looked up at Jerry and nodded. “Thank you. I comprehend perfectly.”

“Good.
And flying to London is something we can’t do.”

“Incorrect, Mr. Robinson. Since Vaslovik’s records on you included your economic reputation, I was certain we could travel to London using one of your delayed-specie cards.” He lifted several credit cards from the wallet and held them out.

Jerry stared at him, stunned. The android displayed the cards for him as innocently as a child. He
was
innocent in many ways, but Jerry had suddenly had it. Rage churned up in him, shaking his body and his voice. “
You
are planning to use
my
credit cards?”

Questor nodded calmly. “Is it not a quite common way of . . . ?”

Jerry grabbed the wallet and cards out of his hands and stuffed them back into his jacket pocket. “
I have had it!
With Darro . . . with you. Jerry Robinson is finished being pushed around by humans
or
machines!” He slapped his hand on the car-door handle. “Now, I’m going to open this door and leave. You can knock me unconscious, but keep in mind that you can’t get on an airplane carrying me. From now on, you’re on your own!”

He opened the car door; but as he started to get out, Questor’s arm shot across his chest. He was pressed gently but firmly back into his seat. Questor’s face remained blank as Jerry glared at him.
Why couldn’t he understand what went on behind those expressionless eyes?

“My imperative will not allow me to release you, Mr. Robinson. Your subsequent actions could prevent me from finding my creator.”

“What are you going to do then? Kill me?”

“Thank you,” Questor said flatly. “That is the logical alternative.”

Jerry felt his heartbeat thundering at a reckless speed, but he remained still, staring steadily at Questor. The android stared back. Then Questor dropped his arm.

“Strange. I find it impossible. I must endeavor to continue alone.”

Jerry promptly got out, slamming the car door after him. He hunched his shoulders against the damp, chilly air that always seemed to hang over the airport at night, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and started to walk away. He took five steps before he hesitated, took another, then stopped. This should be easy. Why couldn’t he just walk away? Darro would find the android, even if it got as far as London, which he doubted it could. But something made him go back to the open car window where Questor sat, unmoving.

Jerry leaned in. “Look, I can almost understand what’s driving you. We humans . . . we spend a lot of our lives sort of seeking our creator, too. But you can’t abduct people, commit immoral acts in doing it.”

The android looked at him innocently. “Humans do not commit immoral actions in seeking their creator?”

Jerry looked away, shaken by the question. How could anyone answer that—honestly? He decided it was safer to divert the android for now and try to figure out a reply later. “Look,
you can’t make it alone!
You’ll give yourself away, there’ll be panic, probably bullets. You’re too valuable to be damaged or destroyed. And innocent people could be hurt.”

“Then it seems most logical to me that you come with me, protect me, guide me in areas of morality. I will accede to any request which does not violate my programmed imperative.”

“I’d like to believe that,” Jerry sighed.

“You forget I am merely an ambulatory computer device, Mr. Robinson. I would find any deception quite difficult.”

Jerry shot a suspicious look at Questor as the android evenly repeated that he was merely an ambulatory computer device. Was he? He was capable of so much more than even Jerry thought he had been programmed for. Could he lie, too? Was he lying now? Questor returned Jerry’s look with his now-familiar calm innocence. Only after they were actually on the plane and airborne did Jerry realize that he had stopped thinking of Questor as “it” and had begun to regard him as a man.

Lydia Parker brought a tray of discarded glasses and empty miniature liquor bottles back to the galley in the waist of the 747. Her fellow stewardess in coach, Jean Klein, glanced around at her as she began to stow the plastic glasses. “Getting along all right?”

Lydia smiled. “So far, my first transatlantic flight is a cinch.”

“Night flights usually are. Light load, and most of the passengers try to sleep.”

Lydia nodded and straightened up. “I’ve got two who look like they’re playing owl. One of them’s reading everything onboard.”

Jean peeked around the galley entrance. “Which?”

“Fifty-nine A and B. Can you see them?”

The long rows of high-backed seats prevented a good view, but Jean could make out the two men seated alone on the port side of the big cruiser. “Maybe they can’t sleep.”

“Well, they certainly do
read.”

Jerry had watched Questor whip through a thick pile of newspapers and magazines. The android read a sheet in a glance, tearing through the publications as fast as pages could be turned. Jerry found that he had suddenly developed a habit of jumping nervously whenever anyone approached. In the meantime, Questor carried on a conversation as he read, apparently at ease doing both.

“Do you know if Vaslovik had any affinity for aquatic vehicles, Mr. Robinson? I was able to ascertain that he did not own one.”

“Sailing, yachting, that kind of thing?”

“I believe so. A fragment from my creator’s tape seems to associate his location with such a vehicle.”

Jerry puzzled over it, trying to remember his casual conversations with the scientist. Vaslovik seldom discussed outside interests. Jerry had had an impression that Vaslovik had very few, at least none he had taked about. “I don’t recall Professor Vaslovik ever mentioning any boat or ship. Look, I’m more interested right now in something called
passports.
In London, they’ll discover they weren’t packed in our luggage.” His voice dropped to a desperate whisper. “We don’t even
have
luggage!”

“I have a plan,” Questor said calmly. “My programming included detailed information on international law and procedure.”

Jerry stared at him, startled. “That
wasn’t
part of the university programming.”

“I referred to my creator’s tape. It is puzzling why he would consider this necessary. Also, my compulsion to acquire information on your world. It must be satisfying to be human and know the reason for one’s existence.”

Fleetingly, Jerry wondered if Questor was teasing him, but decided he couldn’t be. Nothing the android had said even hinted at a sense of humor. Questor was absolutely serious, of course. “Maybe we’re not so different,” Jerry said. “Not in that way, at least.”

“At least you know you are alive, part of a world of living things. In my case . . .” Questor paused, bemused. “Strange, I almost stated that I
feel
loneliness. Is it possible I was meant to feel and that this was among the things erased from my creator’s tape?” He resumed reading.

Jerry studied him for a long moment before he answered. “I’ve no way of knowing what he did intend for you. I’m sorry, Questor.”

The android’s bright blue eyes came up and rested on him. The head tilted slightly to the right, quizzically. “ ‘Questor.’ The first time you have spoken to me by name, Mr. Robinson. Thank you.” He dropped his attention back to the magazine.

“Slower,” Jerry hissed suddenly. “No one can read that fast!”

Jean Klein came down the aisle with a fresh stack of magazines, wanting to get a closer look at them. Questor reduced his reading speed, but it was equal to riffling the pages. Jerry jammed an elbow into Questor’s ribs, and he looked up to see the stewardess staring at him, bewildered. Questor carefully turned a page and concentrated on it. Jerry gave the young woman his brightest, most charming smile. She relaxed, smiled back, and put down the new stack of material.

“My, we do read a lot, don’t we?” she said conversationally.

Questor looked up, eager to open a new subject. “I am delighted we share that predilection, madam. However, I find printed information most inefficient compared to computer data readout when used—”

Jerry interrupted, handing the stewardess the pile of discarded publications. “Miss, could I have a martini, please? As large as regulations permit.” He flashed his most dazzling smile again.

Jean decided she had been right. They were both nervous fliers, trying to cover it. She nodded pleasantly to Jerry and turned to Questor. “And you, sir?”

Questor had resumed his reading. “No, madam. Although I am capable of simulating imbibing and ingesting, there seems little reason at this time to—”

“My friend doesn’t want a drink, miss. That’s what he means.”

Questor recognized the desperate warning tone in Jerry’s voice and glanced at the stewardess. She looked puzzled and on the verge of asking embarrassing questions. He understood instantly and nodded his agreement with Jerry’s interpretation. “I do not wish a drink.”

Jean studied them both for a second longer. “Are you feeling all right, sir?” she asked Questor.

He had gone back to reading. “Functioning perfectly, thank you.”

She nodded skeptically and left. Jerry breathed a sigh of relief and reflected that this was getting to be a habit, too. “Questor . . . until you get the hang of things, why don’t you let me do the talking?”

“I thought I performed quite well. Was the form of address correct?”

“Yes, but—”

“Were sentence structure and grammar correct?”

“Well . . . yes. Formal, but—”

“Then we are ‘in,’ as you would say.”

In defeat, Jerry slouched down in his seat and folded his arms.
“I
wouldn’t say that.”

Darro’s office at Cal Tech had been transformed into a communications center. When Phillips walked in, he was reminded of the battle operations station of the aircraft carrier he had served on. Hastily installed phones were manned by project secretaries and assistants. They were going down long lists of numbers, systematically placing calls, asking questions, giving orders. As Phillips made his way toward Darro’s desk, he heard snatches of the conversations.

“. . . first name Jerome, or Jerry. His photo is on the wires now. Six foot three, one eight-five pounds, dark brown hair . . .”

“. . . on your international hookups, too. Include the Far East, every major travel terminal. The second man is to be considered potentially dangerous.”

“. . . no description other than a blue-eyed male of average appearance, six feet, about one hundred seventy-five pounds. Probably dressed in items stolen from our laboratory clothing lockers. The missing apparel . . .”