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

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 twentynine, 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 appearanceexactly 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 Vaslovikif you are withholding information-or if you have

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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 Mm 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 tunes, 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 sis 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.
"Both of you, get out of here!"
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"I'm not sure you have that authority, Mr. Darro," Smith said.
"On this project I have any authority I choose to exercise. Read my contract."
"Robinson is an American citizen."
"Exactly," Darro said. "And he is under contract to a supranational scientific authority. Read his contract." He flicked a look at Phyllis. "And, Dr. Bradley, report to the conference room. There's a meeting in five minutes."
"I thought we'd had a long, hard day."
"Doctor, half an hour ago I learned that the French and the Russians both were planning to abduct Mr. Robinson and the android. They feel someone is double-crossing everyone else. Since Robinson is the lead technician and an American, they decided the double-crosser was you. And they may have something there."
Phyllis turned on him angrily. "That's possible, but I have another nominee. You saw the test run. The mechanism should function, but it doesn't. / think it was Vaslovik, working through his protege here."
"I wasn't his protege! I was one of fifty technicians working on his various projects."
"Be that as it may," Darro said quickly, "from now on, no one speaks to Mr. Robinson privately, except for me."
Smith raised his eyebrows suspiciously. "How do we know we can trust you?"
"You take my word for it." Darro met Smith's stare and glared him down. "Now get out of here. Oh . . . and if you decide to come visiting again, you'll find the security guard posted at Mr. Robinson's door."
Smith and Dr. Bradley left silently. Jerry glanced after them, then back to Darro. "I'm not sure I like that," he said. "The guard, I mean."
"Like it or not, Mr. Robinson," Darro said, "he stays."
The android sat before the mirror in the cosmetology section, studying its own smooth, hairless face and body. The table bore an array of dyes, creams, special heatmolding tools. An image flashed briefly in its brain-a picture of what it should look like. Then the image was

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gone. Gaps . . . too many gaps in information. Program lacking.
The cosmetology computer keyboard was at the left. The android turned to it and activated it. A schematic came on as the screen glowed to life. The android studied it, keyed in a new instruction. Then, faster and faster, it began to go through the entire cosmetology computer bank, until the individual schematics became a blur.
The computer completed the run and stopped. The android was motionless for the space of a minute, analyzing and correlating the information it had absorbed. Then its eyes flicked down to the table, and it picked up a heatmolding tool. It examined the tool briefly and found the activating switch. The android reached down again and located the already cast mouth mold. It fitted the special device onto the basic heat unit and turned the cosmetology mirror toward its face.
This second look at itself, with its new information, triggered a new response. The android blinked its eyelids for the first time. Finding the effect satisfactory, the android activated a program of eyelid movement that corresponded to a natural human pattern.
Then it opened a jar of reddish pigment, applied a thin coating to the interior of the mouth mold, and switched on the tool. When the tool was ready, the android carefully raised it to its lipless mouth and pressed the mold into place. It sizzled, and smoke curled up from the hot mold as it met the plastiskin. The android's face remained expressionless, except for the regularly blinking eyelids. It removed the mold, revealing human lips, perfectly natural in shape and color. The android tilted its head slightly to the side, studying the final result. Then it reached for the ear mold.
The conference room in the project quarters was soundproofed and regularly checked by security guards for wiretap and monitoring devices. Yet the room was intimate enough to encourage a free flow of discussion at the round table that dominated. The five scientists and Darro were seated around the table. Darro's assistant, Phillips, oc-
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