The Questor Tapes (15 page)

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I
t seemed like the silent darkness went on for an hour, but Jerry realized it was probably only a few minutes. Suddenly an intense white light flashed onto him, instantly adjusting upward to center on his face and reveal his features. Questor’s familiar voice boomed over an intercom system.

“Yes, my friend, Jerry. Please enter.”

A panel in front of Jerry slid up, and he stepped out of the recess into an octagonal room of dark translucent glass. Jerry caught his breath as he looked around. As an engineer, he could appreciate the complexity of the hardware . . . and he could also appreciate the fact that the technology in the room was far beyond the abilities of any country he knew. On sections of the dark glass, rectangles of information readouts appeared—various important activities taking place around the world, scientific information, digital readouts, stock market quotations, views of earth from satellites. In the exact center, Questor was seated inside a circular control-panel station. Directly over his head, a concave dome glowed, pulsating, as if myriad data were being beamed from it directly into him. It was remarkably like a more advanced and sophisticated version of the input dome in the Project Questor lab.

Jerry moved quietly to where Questor’s fingers strayed across the control-panel buttons. The android depressed several keys in rapid succession, and several of the read-out rectangles on the wall faded to black. Then other information began to appear in the same places. Jerry stared at it in awe. It was like a giant organ keyboard on which events and information from the whole world could be played.

“Questor! What is this place?”

The android was concentrating almost totally on the information he was absorbing and analyzing. He did not look at Jerry and flicked him only a fraction of his attention. “One moment, please.” He touched another control and looked toward a portion of the translucent wall. Jerry followed his look.

The rectangle flashed on. Images of boats and other watercraft appeared at an incredible rate of speed—hundreds per minute. Most were unfamiliar to Jerry as the series of pictures began. They were ships from ancient cultures—small, large, commercial, military, pleasure craft. As the designs proceeded down the centuries toward more modern ships, Jerry began to recognize some of the flashing images—sailing ships, submarines, war-ships, tugs, freighters, tankers, passenger liners.

An electronic sound hummed softly from the control panel, and pinpoints of light from overhead flickered on Questor’s face. He shut off the images of boats and concentrated on information obviously being beamed to him from the dome above. That shut off automatically, and Questor finally turned to Jerry.

“In answer to your question, this was Vaslovik’s information center. Judging from this laser-telemetry device”—he waved at the overhead dome—“it seems to have been designed to be used by me. Although for what ultimate purpose, I am still unclear.”

“It’s exactly that purpose which frightens me, Questor! Do you understand what all this implies?” He pointed at one of the picture rectangles on the wall. “That’s the Congress of the United States in session there.” He pointed to another. “And there—that has to be a part of the Soviet Defense Command . . . and Lord knows what those weapons systems and digital readouts mean.”

Questor had turned away to begin keying the control panel again, but Jerry reached in angrily and pushed the android’s hand away from the board. “The boats I understand. You’re looking for Vaslovik. But the rest of this . . .” He shook his head, attempting to find the words to make Questor realize the enormity of the situation. “Questor, try to understand the implications of this. Suppose Vaslovik isn’t a good man. Suppose he isn’t even sane!”

“One’s creator not sane?” He turned to Jerry, his head tilted thoughtfully. “An interesting question. How would you answer that query in your own case, Jerry?”

Jerry’s eye caught a glimpse of another image, which had flickered on. He turned to look at it fully, startled and shocked. A distinguished gentleman sat on the edge of a bed in the early stages of what he apparently hoped would be the seduction of a lovely young woman. The young woman also hoped for the same, if her help in easing off the man’s jacket and shirt was correctly interpreted.

“That’s somebody’s
bedroom!”

Questor nodded expressionlessly, reached out, and touched a control key. The image of the two people grew larger and more intimate. Questor eyed it clinically. “This incident will affect a surplus grain trade agreement tomorrow, which will, in turn, affect the death toll in a famine which will occur soon in Bangladesh unless certain antifungicide studies at the University of Mexico are completed and disseminated in time.” He indicated another rectangle, which flashed out a series of equations and computations. “On the other hand, a current plague outbreak in Malaysia may become epidemic resulting in a sufficient . . . death toll to create a rice surplus which could be shipped to the famine area. An interesting problem, since it appears several hundred thousand humans will die one way or the other.”

“What are you talking about?”

Questor looked at Jerry, mildly surprised. “Vaslovik, of course. Certain developments in either the grain fungicide or plague situation would indicate his presence at that point and I would concentrate my search in that area. Concurrently, I am seeking indications of his other areas of knowledge or interest in other parts of the world. Meanwhile, the inefficient verbalizing to you of these simple processes is delaying that search somewhat.”

Jerry slammed down his fist atop the control panel.
Why
wouldn’t Questor see? He pulled himself together and held out his hands in an. almost pleading gesture. “Questor, I
must
know why Vaslovik built this place! Do you understand what information like this can be sold for? How it can be used? Do you know how Lady Helena makes use of this information?”

“I have not inquired,” Questor said quietly. “However, I have learned something of her background.”

“How?” Jerry asked suspiciously.

“From these records, of course,” Questor pointed toward a rectangle, which began to flash up images of a skinny, wide-eyed teenager who bore a faint resemblance to Lady Helena. “Vaslovik found her in Yorkshire as a fourteen-year-old. He taught her to become what she is—poised, charming, sophisticated. He made her wealthy.”

“Pygmalion,” Jerry muttered wryly.

“You refer to the Greek myth of Galatea and the King of Cyprus?”

“Do you have a reference to George Bernard Shaw?”

Questor tilted his head slightly to the right, apparently running some data through his information banks. Then he looked at Jerry. “Ah, yes, I see the connection in the literary sense. However, there is no indication Vaslovik fell in love with his creation. Helena met Lord Trimble when she was twenty-one. He was forty. They were married three months later and had a very happy marriage until Lord Trimble’s death some six years later. Vaslovik was a frequent house guest, and there is every indication that Lord Trimble was at least aware of this information center and his wife’s activities.”

“And he didn’t interfere?”

“It would seem not. Lady Trimble continued to move among the top financial, political, and social circles of the world. Through an organization she put together under Vaslovik’s supervision, she gathers information . . . of all kinds . . . and for years has had it passed on to Vaslovik.”

Jerry’s heart sank. Helena had asked him to trust her. “She’s a spy?”

“A clearing house of information, covering a strangely catholic group of areas. Gossip, scandal, political developments, military preparations. This room reflects that information.” Questor turned back to the control panel and became lost again in the information input and computations as the pinpoints of laser telemetry increased from the overhead dome.

Jerry watched him, concern growing in him like a cancer. His fears about Vaslovik and Questor had forced him close to a decision, but there was one question he still had to ask. “Questor, if Darro’s checking everything, and I think he will be, won’t he get a report of unusual radio-wave concentration in this area?”

“This system does not employ radio-wave transmission as you understand it, my friend. We are quite safe here.” Questor did not look around again. He was absorbed in seeking, rejecting, analyzing information.

Jerry turned away. There was no place to sit down—no place for anyone in this room, except Questor. Jerry moved back toward the entrance and made his way out of the information center.

Lady Helena was already seated at the breakfast table on the terrace. There were places for two. As soon as Jerry appeared in the doorway, Helena poured a fresh cup of coffee and added cream and sugar exactly the way he had had it the night before. She handed him the cup and saucer as he sat down opposite her.

“Randolph will have your bacon and eggs in a moment,” she said.

“How did he know what I would have asked for?”

She smiled gently. “Mr. Questor left instructions—”

“For the care and feeding of one engineer, male, human, 1945 model,” Jerry concluded sourly.

“If the food isn’t satisfactory, you can ask for something else, Jerry. My kitchen pantry can stand the strain.”

“It’s not that, Helena.
I’m
not a project he can program—”

Questor’s voice behind him startled him. The android had approached without a sound. “You are most adept at understatement, my friend Jerry. But you are right. You are not . . . a project.”

He settled in a chair between them as Helena leaned forward, all business. “Your passports will be here by tomorrow morning. The other matter you mentioned is being arranged.”

“What’s this about passports?”

Questor tilted his head to the right and regarded Jerry curiously. “You insist they are necessary. I have persuaded Lady Helena to provide us with the essential documentation.”

“Forgeries?”

Helena smiled cheerfully. “Prove it if you can.”

Jerry decided not to try to answer. Instead, he dug into the plate of scrambled eggs and bacon Randolph discreetly set before him. Questor handed Lady Helena a thick file of papers.

“I think you will find no difficulty in executing these. One further thing—I have in my mind an extremely indistinct image of an aquatic vehicle; would such a thing relate in any way to Vaslovik?”

“Not that I know of,” Helena said. “He showed no interest in sailing. In the last few years I knew him, in fact, he showed little interest in anything except some project he wouldn’t talk about. The poor man . . . he was failing right before my eyes.”

“When did you last see him?” Jerry asked quickly.

“Three years ago,” Helena said. She looked away sadly. “I’ve missed him.”

Jerry realized that Helena meant it, and he decided to skirt that subject for the moment. But there was something else. He turned to Questor, frowning. “What ‘other matter’ did you have arranged?”

“A private jet,” Questor said calmly.

“A private . . .
jet?
”

“It seemed most expeditious.”

“Oh, I’m sure. But chartering one of those things must cost a fortune.”

Questor nodded. “Perhaps. But I did not charter it. I bought it.”

“I suppose that was most expeditious, too.”

“Yes. Do not concern yourself as to the cost. The money Mr. Campbell’s office is investing on our behalf is a continuing process. Most convenient.”

Helena stood up abruptly, excusing herself. She had begun to sense Jerry’s feelings of concern and agitation and decided to let the two talk it out between themselves. Jerry waited until she was out of earshot, then turned back to Questor. “You said Campbell is investing the money on
our
behalf . . .”

“That is correct. Had you not given me the money to make the initial gambling venture, we would not have had money to invest in stocks and bonds which are now accruing both profit and interest. Half the proceeds are in your name.” He studied Jerry’s face and frowned slightly. “You are troubled, my friend Jerry. Why?”

“Sometimes it’s very hard to know the right course to take.”

Questor leaned back in his chair with an expression that could almost be interpreted as relief. “I see. I am gratified to learn this. I feared the phenomenon was peculiar to myself.”

“But you still intend to use that information down there? You still intend to follow your programmed imperative?”

“I had thought that point was clear. I must. Something in here”—Questor tapped his chest—“tells me I must find Vaslovik.”

“No matter what?”

Questor hesitated, thinking it over. Then he looked up at Jerry with those bright, clear, candid eyes. “Yes. Nothing must prevent me from accomplishing that mission.”

Jerry sat for a long time in the sitting room of the guest suite, staring at the phone on the desk. He had been over and over every moment since the afternoon when Questor had been activated. Knowing what he did about the information center in the subbasement, knowing Questor would not stop nor be stopped until he accomplished whatever it was Vaslovik had programmed him to do. Jerry had only one choice. He choked back a wave of regret and went to the phone to dial the long distance operator.