The Questor Tapes (18 page)

Questor’s eyes had not left his. Darro felt faintly uncomfortable under that penetrating stare that seemed to cut through the walls he had built carefully and into the places where he lived alone.

“Or is it, Mr. Darro, that you do not
want
it?”

The corners of Darro’s mouth bent up slightly, a cold imitation of a smile. “Or is there a third reason for this interview?”

Questor nodded. “The most likely one. For some reason of your own, it is important to determine if I feel anger or emotion. I do not.”

“I envy you for lacking them.”

“And I, Mr. Darro, would trade anything to feel . . . to be human.”

“Then Vaslovik’s machine is a fool.” Darro waited for Questor to respond. When the android did not, the project chief turned to Jerry. “I must talk to you, Mr. Robinson.”

Jerry did not like that faint bend of the mouth Darro used for a smile. He flicked a look at Questor, who seemed almost peaceful and at rest. Darro had already turned away and was walking out of the lab, confident that Jerry would follow. Jerry touched Questor’s shoulder lightly, and Questor spoke quietly.

“Go with him, Jerry. There is no danger to me for the moment.”

Jerry nodded and trailed after Darro.

Darro wasted no time in his office. He went directly to a cabinet beside the lab monitor screen and took out a tiny electronic device. He handed it to Jerry.

Jerry flipped it over in his hands, examining it with a frown. “A radio transmitter?”

“To be placed inside the android’s body.”

“Are you asking me to betray him a second time, Darro?”

Darro slammed his hand against the cabinet. “Not ‘him,’ damn you! It is a machine!”

“Either way, Darro, this wasn’t part of our agreement.”

“I’ve reneged on that part of it.”

Jerry nearly dropped the radio transmitter. “
You? You’re
going to renege on a contract? Your whole reputation has been built on the fact that you’ve never broken your word.”

“There’s still a private jet standing by, as you requested,” Darro said, ignoring Jerry’s last statement as if it were a non sequitur. “You’ve got less than five days to button up the android and try to find Vaslovik.”

“With you following our radio signal all the way,” Jerry said bitterly.

“The way I see it, Robinson, we all really want the same thing. Vaslovik. Find him—if you can—and all our problems are solved. Or the jet can dump the android on the atoll we’ve selected. Let it blow itself up.” He tapped the transmitter in Jerry’s hand. “It’s up to you.”

1 5

T
he townhouse was in the east eighties. Jerry admired it as the limousine drove up and stopped in front of it. He had not been to New York since he had started on Project Questor, and if their mission here had not been so grim, he might have enjoyed being back. He glanced at Questor as the chauffeur got out of the car to open the door for them and see to the bags.

“Lady Helena?” Jerry asked.

“A most efficient woman,” Questor said.

Jerry followed him out of the car and up the stairs, wondering about Questor’s seemingly built-in talent for understatement. A butler let them in, and Jerry was startled by the hectic activity inside. In one room on their left, telexes and leased wires ticked and tapped out their messages. In another room, on the right, several computer technicians were busy feeding information to busily working computers. Several people moved by briskly, carrying slips of paper to be coordinated or processed into the information-gathering machines.

The man moving toward them down the long corridor was plump, neat, and looked as though he never perspired. “Mr. Questor?” he said. “I am Forbes. Coordinator.”

“Very good,” Questor said. He waved a hand to indicate Jerry to Forbes. “This is Jerry Robinson. Results?”

Forbes rumpled his forehead slightly and shrugged. “Negative on Vaslovik. Your holdings are . . . doing very well.” He shot a look at Jerry, as though afraid to reveal too much in front of him.

“Mr. Robinson is my friend, Forbes. You may say to him anything you would say to me.”

“Yes, sir. This way, please, gentlemen.”

Forbes led the way down the corridor to a large, sunlit room decorated in soft tones of beige and brown and brightened with touches of orange and yellow. It had been set up as an office—clearly Questor’s. The furniture was efficient and spartan, minimally designed for comfort. Once again, Jerry wondered at Lady Helena’s ability to get exactly the right things done whenever necessary. He sat down on one of the couches while Questor sat down at the desk and quickly scanned through several reports left there for him.

The door opened, and a stately, black-haired woman entered. She was perhaps forty, but her face was unlined, and the grace of her movements suggested a far younger woman. She carried another report, which she held out to Questor.

“Mrs. Eleanor Chavez, sir. Formerly chief of research for Security Council,” Forbes said.

Questor extended his hand to shake hers, rather than to take the report. “I have heard of you, Mrs. Chavez. If you can give me the details of what you have found . . . just in summary . . .”

She recited the facts in a lightly accented voice that made English sing. Jerry noticed Questor look up at her sharply as she began to speak, and he had a distinct impression that the android actually
enjoyed
simply listening to the sound of her voice.

“Vaslovik, Emile . . . date and place of birth unknown. Doctorate of physics, the Sorbonne, 1923 . . . parenthetically, middle-aged at the time. Academic posts: full professor Nuremberg, 1926-29. Sorbonne, 1929-37. University of Ankara, Columbia . . . the dates are—”

“The dates are known,” Questor interrupted gently. “I prefer information prior to his matriculation.”

“Unobtainable, sir.”

Questor paused for a moment, digesting that fact. “I see. Continue your work, please, Mrs. Chavez.”

She left quickly, and Questor leafed through the rest of the reports on the desk. “Holdings report?” Forbes pressed one of the buttons on the desktop, and Questor nodded, having cataloged its location. He glanced over at Jerry. “This push-button world. It seems appropriate, does it not, Jerry?”

Jerry grinned and ducked his head to hide a chuckle. Forbes did not understand the joke, and he was too polite to inquire. The door opened again, and a middle-aged, scholarly-looking man entered, also carrying a sheaf of accounting reports.

“Isaac Schoenberg,” Forbes said. “Formerly securities analyst, Swiss Credit, Geneva.”

“Mr. Schoenberg,” Questor said. “By now you should have adequate information from Mr. Campbell in London as to the standings of the various investments he has made on my order.”

“I . . . I hardly know where to start. This is so remarkable.”

Questor held out his hand for the accounts. “May I, please?”

As Questor scanned them briefly, Schoenberg lifted his shoulders in a confused shrug. “I do not know how it was accomplished, but you . . . have nothing to worry about.”

Jerry rose and came to Questor’s side to look over his shoulder at the accounting sheets. His eyes opened wide, and he involuntarily caught his breath. “I’ll say! Questor, from that . . . ah . . . original investment?”

“Yes. I regret concentrating so much at one time, but it is necessary.”

“I haven’t anything against a few dozen million dollars—but why, Questor?”

Questor looked up at him, tilting his head slightly to the right in his quizzical manner. “You have forgotten, Jerry. I have but three days left. The imperative is stronger.”

Jerry straightened; he
had
forgotten. Silently he turned away from Questor and went back to sit on the couch. Questor went about his business, leaving Jerry to slump miserably in the corner. Questor gave further instructions to Schoenberg, and Jerry reflected on whether he would have been so open about them if he’d known that this entire place was bugged. He glanced around the room, though he knew the bugs would have been planted so not even the best investigators could find them. Darro would have seen to that. Jerry felt his stomach start to knot in pain. To take his mind off the ache, he concentrated on what Questor was saying to Forbes.

“Every conceivable effort must be made to trace the life of Vaslovik back to the day he was born. Where? When? Who were his parents? I find it inconceivable that such information, regarding one of the greatest humans of the age, is unobtainable. And you will continue the search for that ship, or boat.”

“Yes, sir. Immediately,” Forbes said.

Jerry paced irritably, taking in the sophisticated recording equipment, the “rifle bug” that could be aimed out the window and bring in a conversation across the street. In fact, this room
was
directly across the street from the townhouse. Several tape recorders decorated the table near the window. One spun slowly, playing back Questor’s distinctive voice.

“. . . I find it almost inconceivable that such information, regarding one of the greatest humans of the age, is unobtainable. And you will continue the search for that ship, or boat.”

Darro flicked off the tape recorder. “They haven’t found it yet . . . nor Vaslovik.”

“You don’t need me to tell you that. With all this slick junk of yours, you hear every word that goes on in that house.”

Darro turned up the corners of his mouth. “Indeed I do. And I have heard a few things our scientist friends from the project would give an arm and a leg to know.”

“I’ll bet,” Jerry snapped. He swung around on Darro. “How’d you get them off our backs, anyway?”

“I told them I arranged Questor’s escape—that I, and I alone, would know where he is at all times—and if he was interfered with, I would destroy him.”

“Well, in a few days it becomes an academic question, doesn’t it?”

Darro lifted his hands in a helpless gesture, something that did not happen often with him. “Vaslovik’s machine. The funny thing is, Questor is not the mystery. Vaslovik is. I have had placed at my disposal the full informational and intelligence sources of the United States, Great Britain, France, the Soviet Union, and China . . . and can’t find out a damned thing about this Vaslovik! The most brilliant scientist of our times—but as far as I can find out, he was never even born!”

Jerry looked up, confused, groping for words. “But that can’t be. I mean—Einstein, Planck, Galileo, Leeuwenhoek—the basic facts of their lives are known. Surely—”

“Nothing!” Darro exploded. “Not a damned word. Not a fact. Not a birth record . . . a death record . . . no passport, no naturalization certificate. Nothing!”

“That’s impossible. No one exists in this world without papers—not in Vaslovik’s kind of world, anyway.”

“Yes. That’s impossible,” Darro said. He stared at Jerry grimly. “But it’s true.”

Questor found Jerry in the sitting room, buried in the depths of a massive chair. A bottle and some glasses stood next to him on a side table, but they were untouched. Jerry sat unmoving, his head in his hands, shrouded in misery.

“Jerry?” Questor said quietly. He frowned as Jerry lifted his head to reveal his drawn, haggard face. “It disturbs me to see you like this.”

“Two days, Questor. Just two more days.”

“I have selected an area in the mid-Sahara for the detonation. I had thought of the Marianas Trench, but damage to aquatic life would be—”

Jerry jumped to his feet, angry, shouting, “Is that all that’s worrying you? Finding a place where you can blow up without hurting anything?”

“It seems to me a matter of valid concern,” Questor said gently.

“You’re going to die. Don’t you understand that?”

Questor shook his head and said softly, “Jerry, we have spoken of this before. It will be nothing more than a machine performing another programmed function.”

“That’s a lie!” Tears suddenly running down his cheeks, Jerry grabbed Questor by the shoulders and tried to shake him violently. Of course, Questor did not shake—but Jerry did. “Don’t you understand? You’re a human being!”

Questor took Jerry’s hands and held them still. “You will harm yourself, my friend. You built me well.” Jerry started to interrupt, but Questor continued. “I am not a human being, Jerry. I am a machine. I think, yes, and therefore I am. But
what
am I? I do not know the answer. I feel I never shall.”

“Then the ship,” Jerry said desperately. “The ship is the answer. The
Golden Hind?
The
Queen Mary?
The
Nautilus?
The
Constitution?
The
Nina
or the
Pinta
or the
Santa Maria?
Questor, in the name of God . . .”

Questor stared at him, and Jerry stopped. For a moment there seemed to be a light of recognition in Questor’s eyes. Then it failed. “I thought . . .” Questor began, then he let the thought trail away. He turned and walked from the room, leaving Jerry to stare dully after him.

Darro was engaged in conversation on a special red phone. Jerry sat across from him, nursing what he expected was the beginning of an ulcer. It gave him only mild satisfaction to hear Darro’s end of the conversation and to imagine the other side of it.