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sound of papers fluttering in the darkened room. She glanced around quickly. There was no one else in the building at this hour. If she went for the campus police, the trespasser might make off with valuable material. But sometimes, she told herself, a bluff worked. She squared her shoulders, pushed open the doors, and snapped on the lights.
    Questor looked up at the ceiling fixtures, and his eyes instantly adjusted to the new lighting. He had completed his study of the microtapes and bound papers, and now was busy with the files. The faint sound of someone breathing at a rapid rate shifted his attention to the door where Allison stood, her hand still on the light switch.
    Questor studied her curiously. She was tall and slender. Questor automatically calculated her exact height and weight. Her short dark hair framed a fresh and completely open face. The impression of honesty was bolstered by the wide, intelligent blue eyes staring back at him. She was twenty-eight, competent, completely trustworthy—as proven by her top security clearance—and had been Vaslovik’s secretary and administrative assistant. In fact, she still handled all the project paperwork and maintained the archives.
    “Good . . . evening,” Questor said. His voice was still flat and expressionless, but he had smoothed out the individual syllables, so the greeting sounded a little more normal.
    “What are you doing here?”
    Questor tilted his head to the right, quickly absorbing the nuances of Allison’s low voice. “Vocal inflection. Yes . . . interesting.”
    Allison felt tension draining away from her. If the intruder meant robbery, surely he would have bolted by now. Yet this pleasant-looking man with the peculiar speech pattern merely stood at the open file, a folder in his hand, studying her.
    “I asked, what are you doing here? Who are you?”
    Questor began to scan the folder again. But his vocal inflection had improved, giving a touch more naturalness to his extremely formal word selection. “To the first question, I am scanning various minutiae in search of required data input.”
    Allison said softly, “Oh.”
    Questor glanced up at her, noting her raised eyebrows, her expression of puzzled surprise. Obviously facial features, as well as voice inflection, altered as mood and incident required. He would have to practice that. As he returned to his scan of the file papers, he said, “As to the second question . . . I am part of Project Questor.”
    Allison frowned thoughtfully. “I’ve never seen you around that building.”
    “Around?” He was lost for a second, as the word failed to compute in the contexts he knew. Then data slid into place, and he recognized the reference. “As a colloquial phrase, meaning ‘in the vicinity.’ ”
    Allison eyed him nervously, but her curiosity was piqued and she was determined to get an explanation. “Who are you?” she asked again.
    Questor finished scanning the file in his hand, replaced it, and dug out another. “If this is to be an information exchange, then the next interrogative is logically mine. Who are you?”
    “I’m Allison Sample.”
    Questor paused and looked up. “Allison Sample is Professor Vaslovik’s media intermediary.”
    “Uh . . . yes, his secretary.” She smiled for the first time. “That helps. A complete outsider wouldn’t know that.”
    Questor took note of the smile and flexed his facial muscles in an imitative response. It wasn’t a very good smile, but it apparently was done well enough to convince Allison while he tangled with another colloquialism. “Outsider . . . to mean a stranger, a possible threat.” He went back to flipping through the file. “To relieve apprehension, I can supply other information, Miss Sample. Jerry Robinson is the assembly engineer on Project Questor. He was employed by Vaslovik four years ago to—”
    Allison interrupted eagerly, “Do you know Jerry well?”
    Questor pondered the question, then replied honestly. “He has