The Questor Tapes (3 page)

“I expect Monsieur Darro is correct.” Audret stood and gathered up some of the papers. “But I intend to study these further in my quarters.”

As the other scientists rose, the android snapped its head back to its original position and its eyes closed. Jerry walked to the banks of still-glowing equipment and began to turn off various controls.

Darro watched him without appearing to be studying his every movement. Was the engineer just doing his job, or was he dallying behind in the hope of being left alone with the android? Jerry completed shutdown of the computer complex. He was turning to the EEG oscilloscope when Darro’s tap on his shoulder stopped him.

“Leaving, Mr. Robinson?”

“Yes, right away,” Jerry said. He flicked off the oscilloscope and the main medical monitor. “No need to waste all that power on a failed project.” Darro followed him through the lab and out into the changing room. As he went out, Jerry turned off the main laboratory lights, leaving on only a few work lights here and there to illuminate the big room.

In the silent lab the android lay on the assembly pallet like a figure cut from stone. But on the pen-needle track of the Brain Wave Log, the stylus jerked and trembled, inscribing the android’s brain activity on graph paper—belying the stillness of the body.

Darro delayed until all the scientists and Robinson had left the building. Then he approached the security guard seated at the desk in the entrance alcove. The guard had been glancing impatiently at his watch, looking for his relief; but he snapped alert when Darro stopped beside the desk.

“Evening, sir.”

Darro grunted something that sounded like a response. His eyes scanned the check-out list bearing the signatures of every person who had entered and left the building each day. All personnel except for the guards and himself were accounted for.

“I want this entire building under full security tonight. Tell your relief I’m calling in two extra men. They’ll identify themselves by name and badge number. Check it against the master security list.”

The guard frowned nervously. “Yes, sir. Anything wrong?”

“No. And I want to keep it that way.” Darro glanced along the narrow hallway that led toward the changing room and security lab. Abruptly, he turned and started back to the lab. A second security guard, patrolling the corridor, joined him.

The changing room was deserted. A few lockers still stood open, the white edges of discarded clean suits poking out like ghostly fingers. No one would enter here until six-thirty the next morning, when the first shift maintenance crew came in. New clean suits would be brought in at seven o’clock, before the project team arrived. No one was allowed in the locker room or lab at night.

Darro checked the inner security door, then the television monitor, which was trained on the still form of the android. He tapped a zoom button and the image drew nearer. The body seemed the same as before. Darro studied the screen, then turned to the laboratory door.

The locks were in order, as Jerry had closed them. Darro opened them systematically and entered the lab. The security man remained at the door. Darro was not the kind of man who looked over his shoulder on dark streets, but something about the dimly lighted room bothered him. His eyes swept the lab, seeking whatever it was that had suddenly alerted his senses.

Nothing was out of place. Nothing added nor taken away. The air-conditioning and humidity control hummed gently. A few control lights glowed. Everything seemed normal, but Darro felt something out of order.

Moving quickly, he crossed to the assembly pallet and examined the android. It looked as it had before the attempt at activation. He touched it. The plastiskin felt smooth and cool, definitely below body temperature. He hesitated for a moment more, then examined the metal restraints on the wrists and ankles. Everything was as it should be, except that Darro still felt that something was wrong.

He finally turned away and joined the guard at the door. “I want this area closed off all night. No one is to come near it, got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

Darro pushed shut the door and engaged the locks. He could see into the lab, and it still looked normal. Pushing aside the apprehension niggling at his mind, he firmly turned his back on the locked door and left.

The sound of Darro’s footsteps going in one direction and the guard’s in another registered on the android’s sensitive hearing apparatus. As soon as the two humans had gone, its eyes snapped open and looked down at the thick metal straps that bound it to the assembly pallet. It briefly evaluated the situation, then tensed its muscles and lifted its arms. The restraints broke with a scream of outraged metal. The android sat up and examined the ankle straps. Since there seemed to be no difference between these and the wrist restraints, the android simply reached down and pulled them loose as easily as if they had been made of soft wax.

It sat on the pallet, its eyes and ears taking in and cataloging the laboratory in detail. The preliminary scan accomplished, it looked down at itself and recalled the things it had to do. It brought its body temperature up to the required 98.6 and activated the internal mechanisms that produced pulse, heartbeats, and a normal respiratory action. Jerry Robinson would have been surprised to learn that the android could control these activities without the aid of the expensive equipment that crammed the laboratory.

The android carefully maneuvered itself to the edge of the pallet, swung its feet down to the floor, and stood. It swayed, then quickly made the necessary internal balance adjustments. Its back was very straight, and as it took its first step, it registered the fact that this stiff posture was not correct. It loosened the body muscles slightly, flexed the knee and ankle joints, cataloged how much balance control came from the toes. Another step revealed how weight must be shifted, how arm motion also helped stabilization. The android absorbed, filed, and used information in a fraction of a second. As soon as the problem of walking was sufficiently mastered, the android moved to the computer banks and began to activate them. Its movements were purposeful, planned, and ominous.

3

G
eoffrey Darro’s office was as straightforward as he was. The room was large and decorated in attractively cool colors. No clutter, no piles of paper, comfortable but clean-lined furniture, files with discreet but stout locks. One file folder lay open on the table Darro used as a desk. The neatly typed strip on the tab read
ROBINSON, JEROME BAKER
. Darro flipped past the usual ID photos and fingerprints to the sheaf of background data. His administrative assistant, Walter Phillips, entered quietly and set a stack of teletype sheets at Darro’s elbow. He waited until the project chief looked up.

“Robinson’s academic records. I’ve just discovered that large eastern universities do not like having to dig out alumni information after closing hours.”

“But they did it.”

“You have friends at M.I.T.”

Darro turned back to Robinson’s file. “I want a personality profile on him. Try Washington. Wake up whomever you have to.”

Phillips nodded and left, knowing that Darro had friends in Washington, too. Perhaps more important, Darro knew that Phillips would carry out the order, and the information would be in his hands as fast as it could humanly be obtained.

Jerry Robinson appreciated complex machines, which may have been one reason why he could never get vending machines to work properly, if at all. The coffee machine in the project living quarters was the only dispenser available at that late hour, and he was forced to face it. The machine accepted his quarter and waited for the selection. He punched the button for cream—no sugar, and the machine coughed out a paper cup but no coffee. Jerry hit the side of the machine, but nothing more happened. He hit it again, with the same result. Just as he was turning away, the dispenser maliciously began to spurt gouts of cream and a trickle of coffee. Jerry took the paper cup with the acceptance of a confirmed vending-machine victim.

“Ah, Mr. Robinson, what a fortuitous meeting. I was hoping to find you.”

Jerry turned to look into the smiling face of Dr. Chen. “Good evening, Doctor.” He waved to indicate the vending machine. “Coffee?”

“Thank you, no. Are you returning to your room? I’m going that way.”

Jerry shrugged. “Sure. Come along.” He absently took a sip from the cup and grimaced down at the light beige cream. Then he realized what Chen was saying.

“I would like to discuss a certain proposition with you . . . one which I believe you would find quite profitable.”

“Dr. Chen, I don’t know any more about the project than you do,” Jerry snapped coldly. “I’m simply following the blueprints which you and your colleagues have thoroughly studied.”

“Of course, of course. But on the other hand, you did work for Dr. Vaslovik.”

“In the same way you work for your government. I followed orders—which is exactly what I’m doing now.”

Chen moved closer, clearly not believing Jerry. His voice dropped confidentially. “But Vaslovik insisted that
you
be retained for the assemblage. Really, Mr. Robinson . . .”

“Look, I’ve said it before. I’ll say it again. I know how to install servo-mechanisms and diodes and triodes and tetrodes—but I don’t know
why
in this particular assembly.”

“Someone else has talked to you—”

Jerry interrupted brusquely, “Dr. Chen—get off my back.” He shouldered the smaller man aside and strode away toward his quarters.

The small suite of rooms assigned to Jerry, as to each member of the project team, had become a home for him in the past few years. He was used to it and found it comfortable. The bed-sitting room was cheerfully decorated in colors of the occupant’s selection. Jerry had chosen warm yellows and browns, with splashes of orange. The adjoining room was a workroom, where Jerry had set up his drafting board and shelves for books. At twenty-nine, he had not acquired many material possessions except for those items directly concerned with his work. But several pen-and-ink sketches and watercolors of his own were included in the art on his walls, and the compact stereo tape deck was one he had designed and built himself. The selection of tapes ranged from the classics to the music of Dylan and Kristofferson. The bars on the windows were the only things he hated about the building.

Jerry felt the key turn a little too easily in the lock, but he had stepped inside before the fact fully registered. Phyllis Bradley and another American stood facing him. He noticed that the man had smoked two cigarettes and stubbed them out in the decorative ashtray on the end table beside the soft leather couch.

“This is my room. What are you doing here?”

“Mr. Smith and I just want to talk to you, Jerry.”

“Smith!” Jerry snorted. “What kind of alphabet soup are you? FBI? CIA? ONI?”

“Sit down, Robinson,” Smith said.

Jerry stared at the man, sat down, and stared again. Smith. The name was as nondescript as his appearance—exactly what was required in his kind of work. He was a pale man, gray eyes and blond hair as washed out as an old dish towel. Jerry did not miss the fact that the suit, which seemed a bit oversized, neatly hid a heavily muscled body and the ever-so-slight bulge of an automatic.

“You are an American citizen, Robinson. If you are working under secret instructions left by this Vaslovik—if you are withholding information—or if you have made a personal agreement with one of the participating powers . . .”

Jerry tiredly interrupted, “Who do you think I sold out to?”

Phyllis Bradley took a step toward him, troubled by Smith’s line of attack. “Jerry, that thing in there—the country that controls its manufacture could control the world.”

“As I understand it, that is exactly why Vaslovik insisted it be a joint project of the five powers.”

“Then think of your own country, Robinson.” Smith had softened his approach, and Jerry decided that he liked him better the other way. “If that robot in there finally functions—”

“Android,”
Jerry said. “Not a robot. And it would be functioning already if Dr. Bradley’s pals hadn’t been so suspicious of Vaslovik—and each other—that they wound up erasing half the activating tape.”

Phyllis looked away from Jerry’s accusing stare. “That was a mistake. We admitted it.”

“Robinson, if that—android—falls into the hands of an unfriendly power and they duplicate it thousands of times, the rest of the world would virtually be helpless.”

Jerry stood up impatiently, shaking his head at Smith’s persistence. “If, if, if. The android can’t be duplicated. The entire supply of bionic plasma Vaslovik left has been installed in the android’s cranium. Take any of it away, and it won’t function at all.”

“Anything can be analyzed and reconstructed,” Dr. Bradley said.

“Really?” Jerry said acidly. “You people tried to for six months and failed.”

“Where is Vaslovik?”

“I wish to God I knew.”

Suddenly the door to the corridor opened, and Geoffrey Darro stepped in. Smith started to move for the automatic, then his hand stopped and went back to his side, limply. There was an armed security guard standing behind Darro.