Read Online The Questor Tapes by D. C. Fontana - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: D. C. Fontana
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for fog.”
“I see. My knowledge of the vernacular seems to be lacking. I trust you will help me in this area?”
“Oh sure. We’ll have lots of time to review the language . . . in prison.”
“I have a plan, Mr. Robinson,” Questor said calmly.
Jerry nodded skeptically. “Right.”
The British immigration officials were very polite, as Jerry knew they would be. They listened, without interruption, to the fabricated story about the passports in the luggage. But, of course, there was that one little hitch. There was no luggage. Questor said it was undoubtedly lost in transit. He understood that a great many suitcases were misrouted in error. The immigration officials nodded courteously and asked them to accompany the guard to the office where everything would be straightened out. Jerry began to calculate his remaining hours of freedom.
The chief immigration inspector was on the phone at his desk when the guard escorted Jerry and Questor toward his glass-walled office. “No luggage at all?” he said into the receiver. “No baggage checked in Los Angeles . . . no possible error? You’re certain?” He listened to the voice on the other end of the phone and nodded. “Yes. Yes, quite interesting. Thank you.” He hung up and studied the two men being ushered in by the guard.
The taller of the two appeared to be in his late twenties. He had dark hair, intelligent, lively eyes under a high, wide forehead. At the moment, a slightly worried frown creased the forehead, spoiling the normally cheerful, friendly face. He was a slender man, well dressed in a black turtleneck sweater and slacks and wearing a tailored suede jacket.
The other man was shorter but more sturdily built. He was lighter haired and fair skinned, a man with a curiously immobile expression. And his clothes! The inspector’s proper soul was scandalized at the sight of the open-necked sport shirt, tweed jacket, chinos, and white socks. He almost wished there were a dress code to enforce, but these two were in enough trouble as it was.
He stood up, half bowing courteously. “Would you mind terribly if there’s a little delay?”
“No,” Jerry said as casually as possibly. “Of course not. Why should we mind?”
“This way, please.” The immigration inspector led them down a short corridor, the guard discreetly following in case of trouble. They stopped at a detention-room, and the inspector dug out a key to unlock the door. He opened it and turned to Jerry and Questor. “Would you mind waiting in here? You’ll find it more comfortable while we sort out some red tape.”
“We will acquiesce to your request,” Questor said politely. He entered the room, and Jerry followed.
The immigration inspector closed the door behind them and locked it. Jerry looked around the room. There wasn’t much to see. It wasn’t a cell—there were comfortable chairs and a table . . . but there were no windows. The only other door besides the one through which they had entered was a heavy metal fire door on the opposite wall.
Jerry turned to Questor. “You said you had a plan!”
Questor nodded and went to the fire door. It was locked or bolted from the other side. “Since an extraterritorial investigation of this nature involves several government agencies, and thus several detention locations . . .” He systematically examined the door to determine how it was secured, then firmly grasped the top hinge “. . . we will inspect the detention potential of each until . . .” He pulled, and the top hinge twisted completely loose in his hand, accompanied by the sound of protesting metal and crumbling concrete. The door sagged. “. . . a reasonable exit is discovered.” He bent and pulled free the bottom hinge, then lifted the door aside. “Logic indicates the simplest plan is usually best.”
Jerry stared at the wrecked door. “It also helps if you can pull three-inch steel bolts out of reinforced concrete. Let’s get out of here.”
“Of
“I see. My knowledge of the vernacular seems to be lacking. I trust you will help me in this area?”
“Oh sure. We’ll have lots of time to review the language . . . in prison.”
“I have a plan, Mr. Robinson,” Questor said calmly.
Jerry nodded skeptically. “Right.”
The British immigration officials were very polite, as Jerry knew they would be. They listened, without interruption, to the fabricated story about the passports in the luggage. But, of course, there was that one little hitch. There was no luggage. Questor said it was undoubtedly lost in transit. He understood that a great many suitcases were misrouted in error. The immigration officials nodded courteously and asked them to accompany the guard to the office where everything would be straightened out. Jerry began to calculate his remaining hours of freedom.
The chief immigration inspector was on the phone at his desk when the guard escorted Jerry and Questor toward his glass-walled office. “No luggage at all?” he said into the receiver. “No baggage checked in Los Angeles . . . no possible error? You’re certain?” He listened to the voice on the other end of the phone and nodded. “Yes. Yes, quite interesting. Thank you.” He hung up and studied the two men being ushered in by the guard.
The taller of the two appeared to be in his late twenties. He had dark hair, intelligent, lively eyes under a high, wide forehead. At the moment, a slightly worried frown creased the forehead, spoiling the normally cheerful, friendly face. He was a slender man, well dressed in a black turtleneck sweater and slacks and wearing a tailored suede jacket.
The other man was shorter but more sturdily built. He was lighter haired and fair skinned, a man with a curiously immobile expression. And his clothes! The inspector’s proper soul was scandalized at the sight of the open-necked sport shirt, tweed jacket, chinos, and white socks. He almost wished there were a dress code to enforce, but these two were in enough trouble as it was.
He stood up, half bowing courteously. “Would you mind terribly if there’s a little delay?”
“No,” Jerry said as casually as possibly. “Of course not. Why should we mind?”
“This way, please.” The immigration inspector led them down a short corridor, the guard discreetly following in case of trouble. They stopped at a detention-room, and the inspector dug out a key to unlock the door. He opened it and turned to Jerry and Questor. “Would you mind waiting in here? You’ll find it more comfortable while we sort out some red tape.”
“We will acquiesce to your request,” Questor said politely. He entered the room, and Jerry followed.
The immigration inspector closed the door behind them and locked it. Jerry looked around the room. There wasn’t much to see. It wasn’t a cell—there were comfortable chairs and a table . . . but there were no windows. The only other door besides the one through which they had entered was a heavy metal fire door on the opposite wall.
Jerry turned to Questor. “You said you had a plan!”
Questor nodded and went to the fire door. It was locked or bolted from the other side. “Since an extraterritorial investigation of this nature involves several government agencies, and thus several detention locations . . .” He systematically examined the door to determine how it was secured, then firmly grasped the top hinge “. . . we will inspect the detention potential of each until . . .” He pulled, and the top hinge twisted completely loose in his hand, accompanied by the sound of protesting metal and crumbling concrete. The door sagged. “. . . a reasonable exit is discovered.” He bent and pulled free the bottom hinge, then lifted the door aside. “Logic indicates the simplest plan is usually best.”
Jerry stared at the wrecked door. “It also helps if you can pull three-inch steel bolts out of reinforced concrete. Let’s get out of here.”
“Of
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