The Questor Tapes (9 page)

Questor took it all in, fascinated. Here was a world he had not known existed—the gaps in the tapes had jumped over London’s nightlife. Jerry guided him out of the sidewalk traffic pattern and into a quieter area beside the building.

Questor studied the street corner with great interest. “Curious. Why would that man be examining a printed facsimile of your facial components?”

Jerry jumped nervously and stared around. The uniformed man stood on the corner, holding a police sketch up to the light so that he could read it. “The bobby? You can see what he’s reading from here?”

Questor looked again, his eyes automatically switching to telescopic mode, which brought in the picture and the writing as clearly as if he held the sheet himself. “Under your likeness there is printing which states you are a technician employed on a highly classified project at an American university. You are suspected of stealing a valuable computing device, and you are traveling with a highly dangerous companion. I assume this last refers to me. Several governments are offering extremely high rewards for information leading to our apprehension and arrest.” He turned back to Jerry. “At the proper time, of course, I will explain that you did not steal me.”

“Oh, the courts will love that! A machine testifying for the defense.”

The bobby tucked away the sketch and began to study the passersby with more care. Jerry tapped Questor’s arm and nudged him into a group of tourists on a sightseeing tour of the city at night. They moved past the bobby, concealed by the group. Once beyond the policeman’s sight, Jerry headed down a side street which angled into Leicester Square.

“Mr. Robinson,” Questor said quietly. He nodded toward a corner ahead. Another bobby stood there, and he too had a copy of the sketch. Questor and Jerry ducked into the recessed doorway of a store.

“They want us badly.”

Questor nodded and said, “I think it best, Mr. Robinson, that I proceed alone. I do not wish you harmed.”

Jerry eyed him, gauging him, not understanding. “Why not? If you can’t feel, why should you care?”

Questor hesitated, considering reasons. There was only one reasonable, ethical answer. “We had an agreement, which you have honored. A contract is a perfectly logical arrangement.”

Jerry felt a peculiar emotion choking his throat, making it hard for him to speak. “You know something, Questor? I almost wish it were more.”

Questor nodded. “I, too.” He glanced around the corner of the doorway and saw that the bobby had left. “Goodbye, Mr. Robinson.”

Jerry shook his head firmly. “No. I’m not going. Questor, you won’t understand this because it’s very, very human . . . but this is the first time in my life I’ve built something that said, ‘Jerry Robinson, I need help. It’s not just enough to puzzle me out, put me together. I need more.’ Don’t you see what I mean? There’s more to you than just understanding your parts. There’s a whole
you . .
. though I’m not sure what that whole you really is. I sometimes get nervous when I try to imagine why Vaslovik designed you—” A shrill, high-pitched police whistle interrupted him, and he looked up to see a bobby racing diagonally across the street toward them.

“You there! Hold where you are!”

Jerry and Questor broke into a run, careening down the street and around a corner. More whistles erupted behind them, then were drowned out in the rising and falling wail of a police siren. Jerry darted into a narrow cobbled alley and led the way into a quieter side street.

He scanned left and right and saw a private casino down the street. A uniformed doorman was busy flagging down a cab. The man beside him swayed like a falling top, and only the doorman’s hand kept him from flopping over. Jerry touched Questor’s arm again, and the android followed him toward the casino as a taxi pulled up in answer to the doorman’s signal. While the doorman was diverted putting the drunk into the cab, Jerry and Questor ducked into the club.

“I think we’re safer here than on the street. But stay close to me. Be casual.”

“I will follow your example,” Questor said.

Jerry suddenly felt that their roles should be reversed. Questor was always calm. Jerry was dripping with sweat and slightly annoyed to notice that Questor did not even breathe hard after their crazy dash through the streets. He had to remind himself that the android was not supposed to breathe heavily after exertion—or maybe that
should
have been built into him to make him seem more human. A chilly English voice sliced into his musings.

“Sir? Do you belong to this club?”

Jerry looked around at the tuxedo-clad manager. The man was small, narrow, his triangular face only slightly balanced by a neat moustache. Discreet gold and diamond studs glimmered on his immaculate white shirt.

“Ah . . . no. You see, we’re American.” Jerry floundered, but then got better at fabrication as he went on. “What I mean is, we were told about the place by some friends who’d been here. Friends of
members.
And they said there was no problem about visitors . . . one time. Lend lease—something like that—you know?”

“The members’ names?”

“Ah, Smith.”

The manager frowned, dubious; but he finally nodded toward the main room. “Very well. One visit is permitted. Enjoy yourselves, gentlemen.” He turned away and Jerry sighed in relief.

“Come on, Questor.”

The casino foyer was richly decorated, but the main salon was opulent. Delicate chandeliers presided over a room whose walls were covered with flocked fabric—the windows draped in velvet. The deep carpet pile felt six inches thick. Gaming tables were heavy antique mahogany. Even to Jerry’s amateur eye, the paintings on the walls were a tasteful selection of works by master artists.

The decorations of the people in the casino were equally opulent. The women leaned toward designer gowns and a variety of gem stones in their jewelry. The men wore tuxedos and favored gold cufflinks, studs, and rings. Lovely young cocktail waitresses moved among the crowd, serving drinks. Their costumes were just barely lawful.

Questor’s eyes scanned the entire room, analyzing and cataloging. People gathered around various tables playing blackjack, roulette, craps,
chemin de fer,
baccarat. The money and chips passing across the tables were high denominations. Most of it seemed to be going to the dealers.

Questor turned to Jerry with the inquisitive tilt of his head that had become a habit. “Curious. These humans proffer specie and receive nothing in return.”

“They are gambling, a form of recreation.” Jerry was nervous, aware of the way they stood out in the well-dressed crowd. He was not sure the casino manager believed their story, and he was afraid he would hear the shrill tweet of a police whistle at any moment

Questor scanned around again. “Gambling . . . yes, the enjoyment of random chance.” He watched a man run his fingers down the spine of his female companion, who wore a backless gown. Another man accepted a drink from the tray of a scantily clad waitress and patted her rear as she moved away. Questor frowned. “This puzzles me, too. The human males intent upon the epidermal portions of the females.”

“Look, this is going to be very hard to explain to a machine . . .”

“It is the biological continuity between male and female?”

Jerry shifted his weight uncomfortably and avoided Questor’s bright, inquiring eyes. That was one way to put it, but Jerry chose to try to elucidate further. “Well . . . sort of a combination of biology and booze.”

“Interesting,” Questor said. “Will we observe humans mating here?”

Jerry grabbed his arm and guided him away from a couple who had heard the last question and turned to eye them curiously. “No, not here. I mean, the people here aren’t involved quite that way with each other. Well, maybe they’re kind of involved.” He saw he had entangled himself too deeply to get out and ended lamely, “The whole thing is rather . . . involved.”

Questor stared at him, and Jerry had the uneasy feeling that he was being cataloged as an idiot. But the android said nothing, instead beginning a study of the various gaming tables they passed as they toured the room. He stopped briefly at each table, following the game for a hand or a spin of the wheel, a toss of the dice.

“If there’s any of this you’d like to know about . . .” Jerry began.

“I am still analyzing your last explanation, Mr. Robinson.” Questor nodded toward the gaming tables. “This appears to be much simpler. Elementary mathematics.” They passed a blackjack table, then Questor stopped to watch several passes at a crap table. He looked at Jerry. “As you said, we require specie—” He interrupted himself. “We need money. More colloquial?”

Jerry smiled. “Better. But I’ve only got twenty-six dollars left, Questor, a little over ten pounds British money. If we lose that, we’re broke. I can’t use my credit cards without being identified.”

“If you have doubts, I have calculated the variables and will simply measure shape, weight, direction, and energy required to expose the cube faces we desire.”

“Are you saying you can throw any number you want?”

“Can I expose any combination of cube faces?” He nodded and displayed his fingers. “Quite easily, by calculating the friction of the tabletop plus the angle and energy imparted to the cubes.” A thought occurred to him as he studied Jerry’s startled face. “Or is it immoral to use my sensory apparatus in this fashion?”

Jerry’s principles shook—and succumbed. “Uh . . . no. They
do
call these ‘games of skill.’ ” He dug out his wallet and gave Questor his money.

They angled their way into a place at the crap table. The player rolling the dice crapped out, and the croupier collected the dice. Questor leaned in slightly. “May I participate?”

The croupier pushed the dice toward him with the stick. Questor extended the pound notes. The croupier looked at him scornfully and handed him two low-denomination chips. Questor ignored the sarcastic ripple of amusement that went around the table and put the two chips on the line. Jerry covertly nodded that this was correct.

Questor picked up the dice. His fingertip sensors transmitted the information on their weight and measurements while his eyes surveyed the table, calculating length and breadth, the friction effect of the green baize surface, the exact force of the throw required. As soon as the information computed, he positioned the dice in his right hand and tossed them out awkwardly.

The dice bounced and rolled and came up a four and a three. “Seven,” said the croupier tonelessly. “Pay the line.” He pushed two more chips toward Questor.

Questor examined the odds marked in the boxes on the field and nodded. “I will wager next on each cube with two dots.”

“Four the hard way,” the croupier said. He placed the chips on the table so the bet was correct.

Questor picked up the dice, again swiftly calculating the force, angle, and bounce needed. Then he rolled. The dice stopped with each face exposing two spots.

“Four . . . the hard way,” the croupier said blandly. He had known it to happen. He began to push the chips toward Questor.

“Permit it to accumulate, please,” Questor said.

“What’s that?”

Jerry stepped in, smiling as appealingly as he knew how. “He means let it ride.”

The croupier shrugged and began to stack the chips on the table. Questor started to position the dice in his fingers again.

Jerry nudged him discreetly and whispered, “I think you should throw something else.”

Questor thought about it briefly and realized that Jerry was correct. The mathematical odds of his rolling the same number the same way twice were quite large, therefore unbelievable to the average human. Besides, there were better odds on the table. He addressed the croupier. “May I wager it all within the rectangle labeled ‘craps—eight to one’?”

The croupier stared at him, nonplussed. “Within the craps rectangle?”

Questor nodded blandly. “This is my first gambling. I find it quite interesting.”

The croupier suspiciously studied Questor but finally began to put down the bet. He had decided, as had the manager, that these two were American tourists and as such were entitled to more tolerance for their madness than would normally be given.

“The gentleman says any craps.”

Questor carefully positioned the dice, calculated the required measurements, and tossed the cubes. They bounced, hit the end of the table, fell back, and came up with one spot on each exposed surface.

The croupier’s voice was decidedly weak. “Snake eyes.”

Questor busily scanned the board. “I perceive I have made an error. I will expose the same faces for the fifteen-to-one odds.”

The croupier’s eyes narrowed into suspicious slits, but he moved the chips to the proper square. Jerry nervously glanced around and was horrified to see almost everyone in the casino moving toward the table to watch—including the casino manager. But before he could speak to Questor, the android had made his swift calculations and thrown the dice again.

There was a gasp from the onlookers as the dice bounced up snake eyes again. The croupier placed another large stack of chips beside the ones on the table. The denominations had grown larger.

Jerry anxiously tugged at Questor’s sleeve. “That’s enough. Come on.”

Questor looked at him blandly. “The specie amount—” He corrected himself. “The money we have isn’t enough yet.” He turned back to the croupier politely. “Wager it on the . . . snake eyes again, please.”

There was a mad flurry of hands reaching in to scoop their chips off the table. Luck is one thing. Tempting fate is another. Questor had the calculations down pat now and threw the dice with no hesitation. They danced across the green surface of the table and came to rest in front of the manager. Snake eyes.

The croupier and the casino manager exchanged glances in the confusion and babble of astonished chatter that went up around the table. The manager nodded almost imperceptibly.

Jerry saw it, too, and before him rose visions of muggings, of their bullet-riddled bodies found on the moors. He gripped Questor’s elbow frantically. “Questor,
please
. . .”