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

"How did you know what to order?"
"I do not understand."
''Scrambled eggs, bacon, all this. How did you know it's my favorite breakfast?"
Questor frowned, running back over data to locate the information. "This was in my creator's programming. It is
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not directly linked to you, but rather is indicated as a completely acceptable standard meal to order."
Jerry pushed aside his cleaned plate and leaned back tiredly. "Questor, I've got to get some sleep."
"We have a room here. I'm sure it will be sufficient."
The room at the top of a narrow, steep stairway was plain, but clean and comfortable. A draped window looked out over a row of other high roofs. One wall was dominated by a large fireplace that housed a gas heater controlled by a coin meter. The double bed had an ornate brass headboard, plump pillows, and a bright yellow coverlet. Jerry paid no attention to the old-fashioned wallpaper, the big mahogany wardrobe, and the fluted glass shades on the two small bedside lamps. He flopped down on the bed and heaved a sigh of relief and pleasure.
"Heaven," he said.
"I trust two hours will be sufficient?"
Jerry peered at him through red-veined eyes. "Surely you jest." He paused and shook his head. "No, I suppose you don't. Questor, human beings need more rest than that."
"I understand, but this creates a difficulty."
"If I don't get some sleep, it's going to create death."
"I have certain tasks to perform." Questor paced away and stood staring out the window, his back to Jerry.
"Questor?" Jerry said drowsily, "Something I've been wondering about..."
"Yes?"
"How'd you get past the airport metal detectors? Your whole skeleton ..."
Questor did not look around. "There is a shield built into the subcutaneous skin layer. My creator anticipated the problem of such modern devices. I find Vaslovik anticipated many things. These tasks I must perform are somehow related to my locating him. One seems to lead inexorably to the next. It is almost as if he left a map for me in the programming. But, of course, certain portions of it have been obliterated." He turned to find Jerry sound asleep. "Mr. Robinson?"
Jerry did not move. His breathing was steady and quite
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natural for a man deep in sleep. Questor considered the situation for a moment, then moved to the bed. He bent one of the thin decorative strips from the headboard down and around Jerry's left wrist. It formed an effective manacle, not uncomfortable, but unbreakable. Jerry would not be able to go far, even if he woke from his exhausted sleep. Questor took the afghan throw folded at the foot of the bed and placed it over Jerry. The young engineer did not stir. Questor left quietly, locking the door behind him.
The London Stock Exchange had all the turmoil and din of any place dealing in the turnover of enormous amounts of money, paper, and other negotiables. The fact that the figures were called out in well-modulated British accents made no difference in the frantic pace. Questor watched the activity on the board from the gallery, and his hypersensitive ears picked up the bids, isolating them and the effect they had on the listed stocks. He made brief notes, jotting figures on a pad. He did not need the references himself, but they would be necessary to the broker he had chosen to handle the transactions he had in mind.
Francis Scott Campbell had a reputation in brokerage for scrupulous honesty and the ability to handle complex transactions efficiently. He was the epitome of conservative dress and demeanor as he sat behind a desk that held an orderly clutter of papers and files. He waited for the strangely attired young man opposite him to state his business. Campbell fully expected it would take less than five minutes to hear him out and then tell him it was impossible for him to handle small, odd-lot transactions.
Questor leaned across the desk to hand. Campbell the detailed list he had written out. "You will, if you please, follow the directions outlined there-buying and selling at the exact moments indicated." He reached into an accordion folder he had purchased and drew out several flat sheaves of large-denomination bills. "Eighteen hundred fifty British pounds. That should be sufficient for the initial investment."
Campbell studied the list, and his eyebrows arched up
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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
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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."