The Questor Tapes by D. C. Fontana

to sag open. Then she cast a quick scan over herself in a store-front mirror. Her makeup was perfect, her hair was combed, the clothes did all the right things for her figure—or vice versa. What was wrong with him? “Americans,” she sniffed, but she looked after his retreating back wistfully and wondered what would have happened if she’d had no price on her.
    Francis Scott Campbell had seldom been surprised in his career. Events followed perfectly predictable and totally reasonable patterns, and he preferred it that way. His absolute calm had not been shaken even by the retreat from Dunkirk or the collapse of a house around him in the blitz. But the strangely dressed American he saw approaching his office for the second time that day had rattled him to his core. He struggled to his feet as Questor entered. “Mr. Questor . . . I . . .”
    “Do you have it?”
    Campbell turned to a wall safe behind his desk and worked the combination with trembling fingers. “You understand this is quite unprecedented in the annals of our stock exchange.”
    “Precedents are interesting, but not of immediate importance, Mr. Campbell,” Questor said. “You have the entire amount in cash?”
    “As requested.” Campbell opened the safe and drew out a long, slim metal box. He set it on his desk and opened it to reveal neat packets of pound notes. “Three hundred thousand pounds.”
    “Plus seven hundred fifty-two, I believe,” Questor said.
    Campbell paused in taking the sheaves of notes from the box and stared at him. “Yes, precisely. Would you mind telling me—?”
    “Fascinating hobby, mathematics,” Questor said quickly. “I will take fifty thousand with me. It will be necessary for other business I must transact.” He reached into his breast pocket and drew out another carefully printed list. “You will retain the balance and reinvest it according to these instructions. You will conduct each transaction at the exact hour and day prescribed.”
    Campbell took the proffered list and glanced over it. He had never seen such an assortment of proposed transactions, obscure stocks and well-known ones. There did not seem to be a system. “Mr. Questor, would you mind telling me how you . . . how you . . .”
    “I thought about it,” Questor answered vaguely.
    Campbell sat down heavily behind his desk. Forty years in this business had not given him the incredible insight this strange American had. It was uncanny—and illogical—but it worked.
    Questor gathered up his fifty thousand pounds and placed the rest of the money in Campbell’s box. “I trust your fee in these transactions is recompense enough for the trouble of being so extremely correct and careful?”
    “Oh, the commission is most equitable, sir.”
    “Good.” Questor nodded. “You will continue as instructed until you hear from me.” He tucked the money in his pocket, shook hands with Campbell, and left. Francis Scott Campbell was sure he would never have a more naive client—nor a more successful one.
    Jerry Robinson woke from his deep sleep and tried to roll over. It was impossible; something held his left arm securely. He peered at his wrist and made out the handcuff Questor had devised. “Questor!” he shouted. He tried to wriggle around on the bed to get into a position to free himself, but this, too, was impossible. “ Questor!”
    The door opened with a rattle of the key, and the android stepped inside. “A little less noise, please, Mr. Robinson. We do not wish to draw attention to ourselves.”
    “Let me out of this . . . thing.”
    “Of course.” Questor moved to the side of the bed and effortlessly bent back the piece of metal, freeing Jerry’s wrist. Jerry rubbed his arm briskly, trying to restore circulation, as Questor straightened the metal and pushed it into its former position. “I am truly sorry if I caused you any discomfort. I trust you understand my position.”
    “Your position! What about the one you left me in? I may