"Fontana,.D.C.-.Questor.Tapes" - читать интересную книгу автора (Fontana D C)

Jean decided she had been right. They were both nervous fliers, trying to cover it. She nodded pleasantly to Jerry and turned to Questor. "And you, sir?"
Questor had resumed his reading. "No, madam. Although I am capable of simulating imbibing and ingesting, there seems little reason at this time to-"
"My friend doesn't want a drink, miss. That's what he means."
Questor recognized the desperate warning tone in Jerry's voice and glanced at the stewardess. She looked puzzled and on the verge of asking embarrassing questions. He understood instantly and nodded his agreement with Jerry's interpretation. "I do not wish a drink."
Jean studied them both for a second longer. "Are you feeling all right, sir?" she asked Questor.
He had gone back to reading. "Functioning perfectly, thank you."
She nodded skeptically and left. Jerry breathed a sigh of relief and reflected that this was getting to be a habit,
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too. "Questor . . . until you get the hang of things, why don't you let me do the talking?"
"I thought I performed quite well. Was the form of address correct?"
"Yes, but-"
"Were sentence structure and grammar correct?"
"Well... yes. Formal, but-"
"Then we are 'in,' as you would say."
In defeat, Jerry slouched down in his seat and folded his arms. "I wouldn't say that."
Darro's office at Cal Tech had been transformed into a communications center. When Phillips walked in, he was reminded of the battle operations station of the aircraft carrier he had served on. Hastily installed phones were manned by project secretaries and assistants. They were going down long lists of numbers, systematically placing calls, asking questions, giving orders. As Phillips made his way toward Darro's desk, he heard snatches of the conversations.
". . . first name Jerome, or Jerry. His photo is on the wires now. Six foot three, one eight-five pounds, dark brown hair . . ."
".. . on your international hookups, too. Include the Far East, every major travel terminal. The second man is to be considered potentially dangerous."
".. . no description other than a blue-eyed male of average appearance, six feet about one hundred seventy five pounds. Probably dressed in items stolen from our laboratory clothing lockers. The missing apparel. . ."
Dr. Chen bent over the desk, showing Darro the hairimplanting machine and several used cosmetic preparations. A secretary took notes in shorthand as he displayed each item.
"You see the traces of several types of medium-brown hair in the implanter."
"Be specific, Chen!" Darro snapped. "Brows, lashes, body hair...?"
"Apparently following existing programming, there was normal hair distribution on the body. Scalp hair thick and
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curly. It also appears he-it used the preparations designed to simulate moles, sun wrinkles, typical epidermic imperfections. It also used a medium fair skin tone-"
Darro interrupted quickly, "Are you saying it'll look human in every way?"
"Yes, sir. As programmed."
The project chief nodded and looked questioningly at Phillips. "We have an artist's rendering being copied now for distribution," Phillips said.
"Good. We can keep to our escaped-lunatic story." Darro turned to the secretary and began to dictate further search and surveillance instructions. Phillips wondered whether it would work. The android had been programmed to look like any average American male. It was tourist season in Europe. If the android got that far, how would they find him among the millions of sightseers in vacationing crowds? Phillips doubted that even Darro was that good.
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The jet approached Heathrow Airport in a dense fog that had Jerry's heart in his throat throughout the descent. Questor peered out the window with interest, scanning what seemed to be layer after layer of thick mist.
"Pea soup," Jerry muttered.
Questor glanced at him, head tilted questioningly to the right. "I do not analyze that substance as a comestible," he said. "It is a heavy moisture layer consisting of-"
"Questor," Jerry said patiently, "I was using a slang expression for fog."
"I see. My knowledge of the vernacular seems to be lacking. I trust you will help me in this area?"
"Oh sure. We'll have lots of time to review the language ... in prison."
"I have a plan, Mr. Robinson," Questor said calmly.
Jerry nodded skeptically. "Right."
The British immigration officials were very polite, as Jerry knew they would be. They listened, without interruption, to the fabricated story about the passports in the luggage. But, of course, there was that one little hitch. There was no luggage. Questor said it was undoubtedly lost in transit. He understood that a great many suitcases were misrouted in error. The immigration officials nodded courteously and asked them to accompany the guard to the office where everything would be straightened out. Jerry began to calculate his remaining hours of freedom.
The chief immigration inspector was on the phone at his desk when the guard escorted Jerry and Questor toward his glass-walled office. "No luggage at all?" he said
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into the receiver. "No baggage checked in Los Angeles ... no possible error? You're certain?" He listened to the voice on the other end of the phone and nodded. "Yes. Yes, quite interesting. Thank you." He hung up and studied the two men being ushered in by the guard.
The taller of the two appeared to be in his late twenties. He had dark hair, intelligent, lively eyes under a high, wide forehead. At the moment, a slightly worried frown creased the forehead, spoiling the normally cheerful, friendly face. He was a slender man, well dressed hi a black turtleneck sweater and slacks and wearing a tailored suede jacket.
The other man was shorter but more sturdily built. He was lighter haired and fair skinned, a man with a curiously immobile expression. And his clothes! The inspector's proper soul was scandalized at the sight of the opennecked sport shirt, tweed jacket, chinos, and white socks. He almost wished there were a dress code to enforce, but these two were in enough trouble as it was.
He stood up, half bowing courteously. "Would you mind terribly if there's a little delay?"
"No," Jerry said as casually as possibly. "Of course not. Why should we mind?"
"This way, please." The immigration inspector led them down a short corridor, the guard discreetly following hi case of trouble. They stopped at a detention-room, and the inspector dug out a key to unlock the door. He opened it and turned to Jerry and Questor. "Would you mind waiting in here? You'll find it more comfortable while we sort out some red tape."
"We will acquiesce to your request," Questor said politely. He entered the room, and Jerry followed.
The immigration inspector closed the door behind them and locked it. Jerry looked around the room. There wasn't much to see. It wasn't a cell-there were comfortable chairs and a table . . . but there were no windows. The only other door besides the one through which they had entered was a heavy metal fire door on the opposite wall.