Free The Questor Tapes by D. C. Fontana Page B

hard after their crazy dash through the streets. He had to remind himself that the android was not supposed to breathe heavily after exertion—or maybe that should have been built into him to make him seem more human. A chilly English voice sliced into his musings.
    “Sir? Do you belong to this club?”
    Jerry looked around at the tuxedo-clad manager. The man was small, narrow, his triangular face only slightly balanced by a neat moustache. Discreet gold and diamond studs glimmered on his immaculate white shirt.
    “Ah . . . no. You see, we’re American.” Jerry floundered, but then got better at fabrication as he went on. “What I mean is, we were told about the place by some friends who’d been here. Friends of members. And they said there was no problem about visitors . . . one time. Lend lease—something like that—you know?”
    “The members’ names?”
    “Ah, Smith.”
    The manager frowned, dubious; but he finally nodded toward the main room. “Very well. One visit is permitted. Enjoy yourselves, gentlemen.” He turned away and Jerry sighed in relief.
    “Come on, Questor.”
    The casino foyer was richly decorated, but the main salon was opulent. Delicate chandeliers presided over a room whose walls were covered with flocked fabric—the windows draped in velvet. The deep carpet pile felt six inches thick. Gaming tables were heavy antique mahogany. Even to Jerry’s amateur eye, the paintings on the walls were a tasteful selection of works by master artists.
    The decorations of the people in the casino were equally opulent. The women leaned toward designer gowns and a variety of gem stones in their jewelry. The men wore tuxedos and favored gold cufflinks, studs, and rings. Lovely young cocktail waitresses moved among the crowd, serving drinks. Their costumes were just barely lawful.
    Questor’s eyes scanned the entire room, analyzing and cataloging. People gathered around various tables playing blackjack, roulette, craps, chemin de fer, baccarat. The money and chips passing across the tables were high denominations. Most of it seemed to be going to the dealers.
    Questor turned to Jerry with the inquisitive tilt of his head that had become a habit. “Curious. These humans proffer specie and receive nothing in return.”
    “They are gambling, a form of recreation.” Jerry was nervous, aware of the way they stood out in the well-dressed crowd. He was not sure the casino manager believed their story, and he was afraid he would hear the shrill tweet of a police whistle at any moment
    Questor scanned around again. “Gambling . . . yes, the enjoyment of random chance.” He watched a man run his fingers down the spine of his female companion, who wore a backless gown. Another man accepted a drink from the tray of a scantily clad waitress and patted her rear as she moved away. Questor frowned. “This puzzles me, too. The human males intent upon the epidermal portions of the females.”
    “Look, this is going to be very hard to explain to a machine . . .”
    “It is the biological continuity between male and female?”
    Jerry shifted his weight uncomfortably and avoided Questor’s bright, inquiring eyes. That was one way to put it, but Jerry chose to try to elucidate further. “Well . . . sort of a combination of biology and booze.”
    “Interesting,” Questor said. “Will we observe humans mating here?”
    Jerry grabbed his arm and guided him away from a couple who had heard the last question and turned to eye them curiously. “No, not here. I mean, the people here aren’t involved quite that way with each other. Well, maybe they’re kind of involved.” He saw he had entangled himself too deeply to get out and ended lamely, “The whole thing is rather . . . involved.”
    Questor stared at him, and Jerry had the uneasy feeling that he was being cataloged as an idiot. But the android said nothing, instead beginning a study of the various gaming tables they passed as they toured the room. He stopped