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been closer to me than any other human.”
    “I like him, too,” Allison confided. “Say, where are you from? It’s a most unusual accent.”
    “It is my speech pattern. I must make it more colloquial. How much do you know of the Questor Project, madam?”
    Allison’s eyebrows lifted again. “I prefer ‘Miss Sample.’ But I really must know what you’re doing here. These archives are not generally open.”
    “There is little I do not know about the project . . . Miss Sample.”
    “You make me sound a million years old.”
    “That does not seem entirely logical, since you obviously—”
    “You know you sound like Professor Vaslovik?”
    He ignored the half question. “Project Questor has reached a stage that absolutely requires that Professor Vaslovik be located. If you can be of any help . . . ?”
    Allison shook her head, troubled. “I only know he seemed to be quite ill . . . then he disappeared, leaving behind this five-nation arrangement to carry on the project.”
    Questor sensed that she was upset and concerned for the missing scientist. The emotion was something he could catalog but could not understand. He changed the subject, more to gain information than to calm her. “Was he known to enjoy aquatic vehicles? I have a . . . fragment of memory associating him with such a thing.”
    “If by aquatic vehicles you mean boats, no. You are the strangest man.”
    He replaced the last of the files and looked at Allison again. “I have spent most of my life in the laboratory, thus I no doubt lack social graces.”
    Allison ducked her head, hiding a smile. She could not know that Questor would not understand why she found his flat statement so amusing. “It . . . does show a little, to be perfectly honest.”
    “This concerns me,” Questor said, “since I am about to leave on a journey which may require them.”
    He brushed past her and through the open doors into the marbled corridor. She followed, startled by his abrupt exit. A small sound of protest started in her throat and died as he stopped and turned back again.
    “Farewell, madam.” He paused, realizing something more should follow. “Parting is such sweet sorrow.”
    Allison stared at him, unable to summon a syllable to cover her surprise. Then she found herself smiling at him, charmed and amused by his solemn, terribly formal manner. “I do hope you’re going with someone on this trip?”
    “Yes,” Questor said somberly. “I see it is quite necessary. Thank you.”
    He moved again to leave, and she involuntarily reached out after him. “You do have a name, don’t you?”
    Questor stopped, half turned to her, and hesitated. He searched his mind for an answer and found the only one that fit. “Yes, Miss Sample. My name is . . . Questor.”
    He left as quickly and quietly as he had come. Allison made no move to stop him. She was paralyzed by the impact of what he had said. Questor? There is no one on the project named Questor. There is only—the project.

5
    J erry Robinson had gone to bed after Darro left. He had suddenly felt weary, and not only because it had been a long day. He had been more disappointed than he wanted to admit when the android failed to function. The following conferences, overtures, and accusations had added to his worries; so he took refuge in sleep. Now he dreamed, again and again seeing the android as it strove for life on the assembly pallet—and failed.
    The shadow that darkened the grilled window did not disturb him. Subconsciously he heard the faint, reverberating bing of metal being bent aside, and thought it was part of his dream. The gentle sound of the window being raised did not disturb him either. He had reached the part of his dream where the android thrashed and strained against the bonds on the assembly pallet. Suddenly, strong fingers clamped across his mouth and nose.
    Jerry’s eyes flew open, and he sat up, panicked. The light from the window revealed only a male figure bending over him. The