The Questor Tapes (16 page)

The operator came on the line, and Jerry found it hard to talk around the lump in his throat. “Operator, this is a person-to-person call to Mr. Geoffrey B. Darro. You may reach him through . . . through the metropolitan police in London. If not, I have a number in California.”

1 3

J
erry Robinson was quite drunk. At least, he should have been. By his own vague count, he was on his twelfth Wild Turkey bourbon and branch water; but he merely felt depressed and moderately inebriated as he chased worried thoughts around his head. Randolph set a fresh drink before him on the terrace table and removed two empty glasses.

Helena stepped out onto the terrace and paused, puzzled, when she saw Jerry slumped in one of the lounge chairs, staring glassy-eyed out at the garden. “Randolph.” The butler stopped on his way past her. “How long has he been at that?”

“Since early this afternoon, madam.” Randolph looked around at Jerry and lowered his voice. “I tried to lighten the drinks, but he asked for the bottle of bourbon himself and he’s been adding it to the drinks I bring him.” He shook his head. “Extraordinary.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Madam, the amount of liquor he has consumed in just two hours would flatten an African elephant. But he keeps telling me to bring him another.”

“I’ll see to it, Randolph. Thank you.”

Jerry watched her approach through half-squinted eyes, and raised his glass to her in greeting. “Ah . . . Helena. ‘How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame which, like a canker in the fragrant rose . . . doth spot the beauty of thy . . . of thy budding name. Oh, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose. That . . . that tongue that tells the story of thy days, making lascivious comments on thy sport, cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise; naming thy name blesses an ill report. Oh, what a mansion have those vices got which for their habitation chose out thee, where beauty’s veil doth cover every blot, and all things turn to fair that eyes can see . . . Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege; the hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge . . .”

“Bravo, Jerry,” Helena said as she sat down beside him. “Randolph was right. You are quite extraordinary.”

“Howzzat?”

“Anyone who can go through a bottle of bourbon and still recite one of Shakespeare’s sonnets is rather remarkable.”

Jerry contemplated the bottle and the drink on the table and nodded solemnly. “I’m a closet inaluctual.”

“Intellectual?”

“That’s what I said.”

Helena smiled slightly, amused. “Jerry, what is it? I suppose Emil’s information center must have been a surprise to you.”

Jerry looked over at her and wagged a finger in her direction. “I’m more interested in why you decided to show that room to Questor.”

“Partly intuition, I suppose.” She glanced at him almost demurely. “I suppose you know Mr. Questor is a most unusual man.”

“I’ll drink to
that,
” Jerry said promptly. He took a hefty swig of the fresh drink Randolph had brought, then reached for the bottle of bourbon and added another two fingers of the liquor. “Why do
you
think Questor is . . . uh . . . unusual?”

“One gets the feeling he’s almost incapable of dishonesty. And then there’s his way of speaking. The words he uses. They reminded me so much of Emil, I realized they had to have been very, very close.”

“And I’ll drink to
that!
” He downed another healthy swallow.

Helena frowned and reached out a hand to touch his arm gently. “Jerry, what’s troubling you? Questor did explain about what we do here?”

“I can see what you do here.” He waved the glass around, taking in the house and grounds. Some of the liquor slopped over the rim of the glass, but Jerry ignored it. “And
how
you do here. Very, very well!”

Randolph had returned with another drink on a tray and hovered in the background, not intruding on the conversation. Jerry paused to take another drink, and Randolph stepped forward to set down the fresh glass. Helena waved him back.

“Mr. Robinson is going to have a large pot of black coffee, Randolph . . . and the surprise of his life.”

Jerry sat up straight, supported by injured dignity. “I refuse to sober up.”

Helena’s lovely face set in grim, unyielding lines. “Mr. Robinson, you are not going to have a choice.”

Questor still sat in the circular console in the information center, deep in concentration on the data flooding into him. The look on his face had changed—a touch of sadness. If he could feel, it might have been despair. He stirred, slowly reached out to the control board, and began shutting down the equipment. The readouts began to fade, one by one. The laser telemetry lessened in quantity and intensity until it was gone, leaving him seated in darkness except for a pool of light around the circular console. Questor tapped one more key.

“This message tape is to be delivered to Mr. Robinson.” He swiveled around in the chair slightly and saw himself reflected in one of the wall rectangles, as if on camera. The message would be a videotape, and he spoke directly to Jerry. “My friend . . . I regret we shall never meet again. Until now, my programming has prevented me from informing you that my creator designed within me a time limit in which to find him.” He glanced around at the banks of equipment, the blank dark walls. “I now conclude further search is useless. There is no trace of my creator. There has been none for three years. In seven days, my friend Jerry, I will cease to exist. I must now leave to prepare myself for that event. You must consider me merely a device which has failed its programmed function. I . . . wish I had learned more of man . . . of your own concept of your creator. I have much to criticize in man, but I believe there is even more to admire. Had I more time, I might have even learned to understand man’s greatest of all achievements . . . his ability to feel love for his fellows. But I thank you for teaching me the meaning, at least, of the word
friendship.”

He reached out and depressed the key again. The rectangle on the wall melted away to blackness.

Helena poured Jerry another cup of coffee, which he dutifully drank without pausing for breath. He looked a little less disheveled, though his shirt collar was unbuttoned and his tie had disappeared. He set down the cup of coffee, which she instantly refilled.

“I
want
to believe you, Helena,” Jerry said. “But there’s equipment here that can tap into any place in the world! Without being detected. It makes the CIA look like amateurs.”

“Jerry . . . isn’t the important question
how
we use it?”

“It’s too much power for one man to have. Even a genius!”

Helena leaned forward earnestly, trying to explain. It wasn’t the kind of thing that worked out logically if it was put down on paper. It was idealistic . . . perhaps too much so for a world grown increasingly cynical. The concept appeared at least once each generation . . . somewhere, someone voiced it. It wasn’t always heard . . . seldom accepted. And yet it was so simple.

“Jerry, Emil Vaslovik wasn’t just a
genius.
He must have been the kindest, most decent man who ever lived. He built what you saw here so his knowledge could be used to
help
people. Don’t you understand? Our world is fragmented by national jealousies, greed, religious and ideological conflicts. There is no
one
place on earth where someone can look past a border to see what is needed there, and past another border to see what is there that can help.”

“The Bangladesh famine and the fungicide studies in Mexico.”

Helena smiled quickly, “Yes, exactly. Emil didn’t want to change the world or control it. All this was worth it if he could save a life here and there, help a young man somewhere become the leader or teacher he was meant to be . . .”

“How would Vaslovik know some child was meant to be a leader or a teacher?”

Helena paused. “Well, perhaps not a child, but a student who showed great promise and ability. Poverty kills so many of them. Lack of education defeats others. Emil’s way helped them grow and learn and contribute.”

Jerry pushed to his feet, agitated, confused. What he’d heard sat uneasily in him, especially after what he’d done. Randolph quietly entered as Jerry interrupted Helena. “Excuse me, Helena,” Jerry said. “I’ve got to get to Questor.”

“Sir, Mr. Questor’s gone,” Randolph said. He turned to Helena. “He asked me to thank you for your kindness, madam.”

“Gone where?” Jerry moved to Randolph anxiously. “Did he say anything?”

“He left a message for you in the information center, sir. I did hear him ask Sebastian to drive him to the village.”

“Helena, I’ll need to borrow a car.”

She frowned, confused and concerned. “Do you think it’s wise, Jerry? Mr. Questor must know what he’s doing.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” He ran inside, heading for the information center, calling over his shoulder as he went. “Have that car ready when I get back upstairs!”

The caravan of police and military vehicles careened down the road so wildly that oncoming drivers pulled over to the side to let them by. Every man in the group was loaded with weapons and ammunition. Overhead, two helicopters fluttered into view, coming from the direction of Trimble Manor.

Darro sat in the back of a police sedan with the police supervisor. The voice of one of the helicopter pilots crackled through a radio telephone, underscored by the roar of the chopper engine and the steady hum of the blades.

“Holding at three thousand feet, sir. Robinson has just left the manor house also and is driving east toward the village.”

Darro flicked down the “talk” button on his microphone. “Keep him in sight. We’re having all exits from the village cut off. If Questor and Robinson are there, we’ve got them.”

Questor had come to like the quiet oases of green trees, flowers, and lawns which humans called parks. He stood quietly under a tree, watching a platoon of children attacking the slides and swings and seesaws of the play area. The weather was warm, and a faint breeze barely riffled the leaves into a swaying dance. Someone skilled in topiary art had shaped a number of trees and shrubs into fanciful animal shapes . . . elephants, giraffes, horses, bears, and seals balancing balls on their noses. One of the children had draped bright pink and yellow crepe streamers around the necks of several of the greenery animals, giving them a pert, carnival look.

The limousine and chauffeur waited on the street, but Questor could not bring himself to leave immediately. He had purchased a small bag of birdseed and stood idly tossing it out to the daintily pecking flock of sparrows that hopped about at his feet. “All creatures great and small . . .” There were so many he would like to have seen for himself—and people—and places.

Jerry Robinson wheeled along the street in an open MG and pulled over to park when he saw the limousine. He shut off the ignition and scrambled out of the car, running across the grass toward Questor. The android did not turn around as Jerry came up beside him. Instead, he shook the last crumbs of birdseed out of the paper bag.

“Questor! That message you left—”

“A curious world, Jerry. Squalor, ugliness, greed, struggle—and yet, so much beauty here, so many persons to hope man survives.”

Jerry impatiently brushed aside Questor’s calm philosophy. “I want to know what happens in seven days. What did you mean you’ll ‘cease to exist’?”

The android shook his head slightly, still gazing off at the topiary garden. “Without my creator, I have no purpose, my friend. He provided me with extinction in that event so I could not be misused.”

“Don’t be so damned cold about it! You’re talking about
dying.”

“Death occurs to living things, Jerry. Do you consider me to be alive?” He brushed past Jerry and moved toward the limousine. Jerry trotted after him and caught his arm to stop him.

“Listen! On that message tape, you mentioned friendship. That means sharing someone’s troubles, risking things with him, confiding in him.”

“But does it not also mean protecting one’s friend? My form of extinction would destroy you.”

“Questor, you’ve
got
to explain what happens to you in seven days!”

Questor hesitated, then leveled his direct, honest eyes at Jerry. He decided it would be better if his friend knew the truth. There was a core of stubborn determination in Jerry that might cause him to put himself in danger if he did not receive an answer. Questor could not allow that. “My fusion furnace will overload, Jerry. I will become a nuclear bomb.”

“What?
” Jerry stared at him, stunned. Then he pulled himself together. There
must
be alternatives. “Look, I can change the furnace, divert the overload . . .”

“Only my creator can alter that,” Questor said calmly. “I must remove myself far from all life. I must not endanger others when I expire.” Questor moved toward the limousine again. “That must include you, my friend Jerry.”

“Questor . . .”

“You will stay here. No one will blame you for any of my actions. I have left evidence to prove your innocence.” He nodded to the chauffeur, who opened the car door for him. Jerry grabbed Questor’s arm and swung him around.