The Questor Tapes (11 page)

Campbell studied the list, and his eyebrows arched up in surprise. He struggled to recover his composure, but failed completely. “Sir, if you insist on throwing away your money, why not just hand it out to the deserving poor? This list is . . . well, sir, I know our markets, and I am afraid—”

Questor interrupted quietly. “If you will follow those directions to the letter, please? I will return this afternoon.”

Campbell sighed and lifted his hand in a gesture of surrender. “Very well, sir. It
is
your money . . . for the next few minutes.”

Questor calculated the time required to complete the transactions he had laid out and decided he could allow himself the luxury of an exploratory walk alone. He did not consider the possibility of police discovery imminent, especially if he were not accompanied by Robinson.

He walked at a steady pace that allowed him to blend with the passersby and yet take in everything around him. He cataloged them all—the traffic, the merchants, the pretty women, the predatory men, the masses of humanity—rude, jostling, bound up in their own lives and problems, all fascinating. Tiring of crowds, he turned off the main thoroughfare into the quieter side streets. He noticed a sign that read Soho, but it meant nothing in particular to him.

Several young women lounged along the street, apparently with no destination, for he noticed they wandered only a block or two and then turned back again. One of them looked him over as he approached and stepped out into his path.

“Pardon me,” he said and started to go around her.

“Hello there, handsome,” she said.

He stopped and studied her quizzically. No one had yet addressed him as handsome. In fact, he did not consider himself in those terms. The woman was dressed in a style that was youthful, if one believed the fashion ads. Questor noted that she was no longer truly youthful, but she did have a supremely well-endowed figure. Questor also noticed that her face makeup was a bit too heavy, a touch too gaudy, and decided her cosmetologist had not advised her well. Still, that was no reason to be impolite.

He nodded courteously. “Good afternoon, madam.”

“Is that some kind of a joke?”

“I beg your pardon?”

She laughed brightly, with only a touch of a false note, and touched his arm playfully. “Oh, you Americans! Always the ones with the little jokes. Say, you want to have a good time?”

Questor considered the time element and realized he had an hour and forty minutes before he was due back at Campbell’s office. “I see no objection to a pleasant interlude. When shall we begin?”

The woman stared at him, her dark eyebrows arching up toward her dyed black hairline. He couldn’t be that dumb—could he? Even if he were, something was intensely intriguing in the steady blue eyes leveled on her, something fascinating in the impression of quiet power within him.

“I don’t think you get it. You give me fifteen pounds . . . and I’ll make you happy.”

Questor tilted his head to the right, puzzled. “Please explain why I should become happy if I give you fifteen pounds.”

“Hey, are you kidding?”

“It would, perhaps, gratify my charitable impulses—but at the moment, I am aware of none.”

“Ten pounds.”

“Madam, I have no wish to disappoint you, and I appreciate your desire to make me happy, but I do not understand the price scale.”

She sighed. “All right. Seven pounds. But only because it’s a slow day.”

“But surely seven pounds would not cause the day to pass any faster.”

She rolled her eyes up to heaven. Why? Why did this kind have to wander down her side of the street? Maybe if she explained. She beckoned him closer and reached up on tiptoes to whisper in his ear. Then she stepped back and smiled winningly. “You have to admit I’m pretty good-looking.”

“My standards of comparison are limited, madam, but you seem quite handsome. However—”

She interrupted flatly. “Five pounds. That’s as far as I can go.”

“I am sure you must be correct, but as for your suggestion, I suspect there might be some technical difficulties. Still, our conversation has been most illuminating. Good day.” He politely inclined his head and walked on.

The woman stared at him, her mouth starting to sag open. Then she cast a quick scan over herself in a store-front mirror. Her makeup was perfect, her hair was combed, the clothes did all the right things for her figure—or vice versa. What was
wrong
with him? “Americans,” she sniffed, but she looked after his retreating back wistfully and wondered what would have happened if she’d had no price on her.

Francis Scott Campbell had seldom been surprised in his career. Events followed perfectly predictable and totally reasonable patterns, and he preferred it that way. His absolute calm had not been shaken even by the retreat from Dunkirk or the collapse of a house around him in the blitz. But the strangely dressed American he saw approaching his office for the second time that day had rattled him to his core. He struggled to his feet as Questor entered. “Mr. Questor . . . I . . .”

“Do you have it?”

Campbell turned to a wall safe behind his desk and worked the combination with trembling fingers. “You understand this is quite unprecedented in the annals of our stock exchange.”

“Precedents are interesting, but not of immediate importance, Mr. Campbell,” Questor said. “You have the entire amount in cash?”

“As requested.” Campbell opened the safe and drew out a long, slim metal box. He set it on his desk and opened it to reveal neat packets of pound notes. “Three hundred thousand pounds.”

“Plus seven hundred fifty-two, I believe,” Questor said.

Campbell paused in taking the sheaves of notes from the box and stared at him. “Yes, precisely. Would you mind telling me—?”

“Fascinating hobby, mathematics,” Questor said quickly. “I will take fifty thousand with me. It will be necessary for other business I must transact.” He reached into his breast pocket and drew out another carefully printed list. “You will retain the balance and reinvest it according to these instructions. You will conduct each transaction at the exact hour and day prescribed.”

Campbell took the proffered list and glanced over it. He had never seen such an assortment of proposed transactions, obscure stocks and well-known ones. There did not seem to be a system. “Mr. Questor, would you mind telling me how you . . . how you . . .”

“I thought about it,” Questor answered vaguely.

Campbell sat down heavily behind his desk. Forty years in this business had not given him the incredible insight this strange American had. It was uncanny—and illogical—but it worked.

Questor gathered up his fifty thousand pounds and placed the rest of the money in Campbell’s box. “I trust your fee in these transactions is recompense enough for the trouble of being so extremely correct and careful?”

“Oh, the commission is most equitable, sir.”

“Good.” Questor nodded. “You will continue as instructed until you hear from me.” He tucked the money in his pocket, shook hands with Campbell, and left. Francis Scott Campbell was sure he would never have a more naive client—nor a more successful one.

Jerry Robinson woke from his deep sleep and tried to roll over. It was impossible; something held his left arm securely. He peered at his wrist and made out the handcuff Questor had devised. “Questor!” he shouted. He tried to wriggle around on the bed to get into a position to free himself, but this, too, was impossible. “
Questor!”

The door opened with a rattle of the key, and the android stepped inside. “A little less noise, please, Mr. Robinson. We do not wish to draw attention to ourselves.”

“Let me out of this . . . thing.”

“Of course.” Questor moved to the side of the bed and effortlessly bent back the piece of metal, freeing Jerry’s wrist. Jerry rubbed his arm briskly, trying to restore circulation, as Questor straightened the metal and pushed it into its former position. “I am truly sorry if I caused you any discomfort. I trust you understand my position.”

“Your position! What about the one you left me in? I may never use my arm again.” He stood up, angry and annoyed, moving his arm around to work out the stiffness. “Where have you been?”

“I had a commercial transaction to complete—and I took several hours to study the rather peculiar ways of the human species.”

“Did it ever occur to you that you might be considered pretty peculiar yourself?”

“That would depend upon the standard of comparison, Mr. Robinson.”

Jerry stopped rubbing his arm and stared at Questor. Why did the android have to be so damn logical all the time? But, of course, he was programmed to be just that. More and more often, Jerry was overlooking the fact that Questor was a machine. Still, he said things Jerry could not afford to overlook. “Questor, you said something about commercial transactions?”

“Yes. I invested some of our casino winnings in the stock market.”

Jerry sat down abruptly, his knees weak. “The stock market?”

“Yes. A rather fascinating enterprise I would like to study further. However, for our purposes, only a brief review of its general principles was necessary.”

“I see. How much . . .” Jerry paused, afraid to go further, but he had to. “How much did you invest?”

“All of it, except for the taxi fare I paid to get to the stock exchange.”

“How much did you lose?”

“Ah, Mr. Robinson, you have so little faith in your creation. The profit came to over three hundred thousand pounds, most of which I have reinvested for our future use.” He brought out the two packets of pound notes and held them out to Jerry. “We will have need of this fifty thousand pounds for expenses. I believe you should handle it.”

Jerry took the money cautiously, as if afraid it would dissolve in his hands. When it did not, he tucked it away in his breast pocket. “You know something, Questor . . . I wish I had created you instead of merely following the blueprints.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You’re, well, you’re a fine piece of work.”

Questor nodded. “I am gratified you agree I am functioning well. It is difficult for me to know at times.”

“Me, too, Questor.” He sighed a little and stretched. “What’s next?”

“I believe a trip to the country is in order.”

The home office undersecretary was waiting in a chauffeured limousine when the sleek private jet landed at Heathrow. As soon as the plane rolled to a halt, the chauffeur guided the limousine up to the set of stairs being wheeled into place by airport technicians. A pair of London police vehicles followed the official car.

Darro stepped out of the plane, followed by members of his staff. He paused at the top of the stairs and looked down, frowning deeply at the undersecretary and his assistant, two police supervisors, and several uniformed policemen who were converging on the plane. He didn’t like the idea of the government
and
the police getting into this. The more people who knew the real facts, the greater chance of the truth getting out and causing a panic. He braced himself and moved down the steps.

“Mr. Darro?” said the undersecretary. When Darro nodded, the official held out his hand. “Culwait, home office undersecretary. May we talk privately a moment?”

Darro bobbed his head in the briefest of nods. Culwait led him several yards away from the others and lowered his voice as he spoke. “I’m instructed to inform you the government will cooperate fully on one condition—that there must, under no circumstances, ever be a mention of the word ‘robot.’ ”

Darro smiled coldly. Remarkable how certain minds seem to run in the same patterns. “I understand. The risk of what it might do is far less important than the risk of bringing down the party in power.”

Culwait drew himself up in annoyance, and his voice grew ponderous with dignity. “Our concern happens to be for public safety, Darro. We are simply nervous over the possible panic—”

“—which the word ‘robot’ would create among the labor bloc,” Darro interrupted. “I’ve gotten the same message from the other governments.” He permitted himself the slight bend of his mouth that served as a smile. “Which makes me certain you’ll cooperate in every way, no matter what I ask. You have no choice.”

He turned and walked away, back to his staff. Culwait glared after him angrily. No wonder Darro had been chosen to head up so many national and international projects. He had a personality like a sledgehammer—and about as much in the way of diplomacy. A man like that had to be honest to stay alive.

9

T
he London cab cruised along the country road at a modest speed, and Questor’s head never seemed to stop moving as he took in the scenery. Jerry sat in a corner of the wide back seat, glumly staring out at the green hedges and meadows at the roadside. The cabbie had more important things to watch . . . oncoming drivers and a meter that read over thirty-two pounds and was still climbing. He glanced back at the two men and cleared his throat nervously.

“It’s a bit of a bill you’re runnin’ up, gentlemen.”

“Our journey will terminate in precisely three-tenths of a mile.”

The cab driver nodded dubiously. That did not answer the question of whether or not they could pay the tab, but they seemed to know where they were going. Presumably, they also anticipated the size of the bill.