The Wrong Stuff td-125

by Warren Murphy

  "But-but ...you can't leave," Graham spluttered.

  "There is zero probability that you will be capable of stopping me," Mr. Gordons replied. And with that there came a squeaking from below his thorax.

  The Virgil probe rose high on its eight legs and promptly began walking toward the door.

  If Graham thought the image of the eye in the front of Virgil's thorax was creepy, the sight of the probe walking as it never had before-in a flawless parody of a spider's crawl-was absolutely bone chilling.

  When Virgil reached the door, Graham was startled to see that one of its legs had re-formed into something resembling a human hand. With an impossible delicacy that would have made any robotics engineer weep, the leg reached out and opened the lab door.

  The probe pulled in its legs like four sets of broad shoulders and skittered on tiptoe out into the hallway.

  Graham bounded out after it. "Wait!" he begged.

  When the probe ignored him and continued down the corridor, the scientist latched on to a leg. He was dragged a few yards before the leg shook him off. Graham rolled roughly into a wall.

  Its clattering legs crawling in perfect concert, the spider-shaped probe darted around a corner. It had no sooner disappeared than Graham heard a familiar startled voice.

  "What in the devil's own blue blazer is going on here?" Colonel Zipp Codwin's disembodied voice bellowed.

  Scampering to his feet, Pete Graham raced around the corner. He found the Virgil probe standing stockstill in the middle of the floor. Before the metal creature stood the head of NASA. Codwin's granitehewed face was intensely displeased as he stared down the runaway robot.

  "What's this thing doing running around out here?" NASA's chief administrator demanded the instant a very frazzled Pete Graham appeared around the corner.

  "Just a standard shakedown," Graham offered weakly.

  The NASA administrator was barely listening. He had just noticed something different on the probe. "Good gravy, what did you do to it?" Zipp Codwin demanded.

  He was staring at the eye. He got the eerie feeling that the eye was staring back.

  "I, um, was just tinkering. Fixing it. You know." Codwin took a pen from his pocket and tapped the cap against the eye. It clicked.

  "That is the goddamn creepiest thing I've ever seen," he snarled at Graham. "I want the new faster, better, cheaper NASA to inspire kids to shoot for the moon, not make them piss their goddamn beds. Rip that thing out of there."

  "I do not require human maintenance," announced a voice at Colonel Codwin's shoulder.

  When he turned to see the man brave enough to dare contradict him-the man who was about to get his ass kicked from here to next Christmas morning-he found no one.

  Only the Virgil probe.

  It was then he noticed the mouth.

  "Jesus, Mary and Saint Jehoshaphat's ears, what the hell have you done to this thing?" Zipp gasped. There was no sense in lying. Graham took a deep breath.

  "He's not just the Virgil probe anymore, sir," the scientist stated. And rather than dwell on what it might mean to his career, he blurted out the whole story. From the discovery of the silver orb by the Virgil probe in the Mexican volcano to the events of the past three days.

  When he was through, Codwin looked the young man up and down with an expression he generally reserved for mental patients, small children and the House Finance Committee.

  "Great Galloping Grapefruit, man," the colonel said, aghast, "have you been smoking your goddamn Tang?"

  The response came not from Graham, but from Virgil.

  "Dr. Graham has not ingested any carcinogenic materials during the period of time I have spent in his laboratory."

  Codwin wheeled on the Virgil. "How did you-?"

  He spun back to Graham. "How did it know I was gonna say that?" he demanded of the scientist.

  "He didn't," Graham explained. "He heard you and responded accordingly. I swear to you he's more than just an ordinary probe now."

  Codwin turned back to Virgil.

  The lips were curled into the slightest of smiles. It was all calculation. There was no emotion behind it. "Is this true?" he asked the probe point-blank. Colonel Codwin almost jumped out of his skin when the lips answered.

  "Yes," the mouth said simply.

  Zipp Codwin's eyes were calculating saucers. This was huge. This was bigger than huge. He took a step back.

  "Well, what the hell are you doing out here, boy?" he demanded of the probe.

  "He's scared, sir," Graham explained. "He's afraid some kind of enemies will find him. That's why he's leaving."

  "Leaving?" Codwin bellowed.

  "He doesn't think he's safe here," Graham explained worriedly.

  "NASA built it?" Zipp Codwin asked. Graham nodded.

  Colonel Codwin hiked up his belt and scowled at the thing that had assumed the form of the Virgil probe.

  "If NASA built you, then I own your metal ass," the NASA administrator informed the probe.

  "No," the probe's mouth disagreed. "I have evolved since the time of my birth."

  "Birth?" Codwin mocked. He went toe to metal toe with the Virgil probe. "Son, you weren't born. If Petey here's telling it like it is, you were manufactured. You're nothing more than a talking toaster. A chatty can opener. A microwave with a mouth."

  He turned to Graham. "I want you to get into the brain of this thing and rip out whatever it is that's making it act so uppity," he commanded.

  The colonel caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye. He was just about to ask why Graham's eyes had gone so wide when he felt the cold clamp of a metal claw latch on to his throat.

  Codwin felt his feet leave the floor.

  As the veins in his forehead bulged with blood, he felt himself being whirled 180 degrees in midair. Zipp Codwin came face-to-face with the Virgil probe.

  The microcamera lens that had migrated down from the probe's forehead was now roughly the distance a human right eye would be from the metal mouth.

  One of the spidery legs was extended straight out from the thorax. A newly formed metallic claw had sprouted from the farthest extremity to encircle Codwin's throat.

  The colonel tried to gasp. No air came.

  Desperate fingers grabbed for the claw, trying to pull it apart. The joints remained locked in place. And as the color of his face turned from white to maroon, Zipp Codwin felt the claw tighten.

  "No!" Pete Graham pleaded. "Let him go!" But the Virgil probe continued to exert pressure. To Zipp, it was as if his neck was encircled by a metal boa constrictor. He felt his prodigious Adam's apple being pressed back into his collapsing throat.

  "I must survive," Gordons said to Graham without inflection. "This human has threatened that survival."

  He continued to exert pressure on Codwin's throat. Blood vessels burst in the colonel's eyes. Bulging and bloodshot, the red-lined orbs darted to Graham for help.

  The colonel's legs flailed. He pounded on the metal claw with both fists, to no avail.

  "He didn't mean to!" Graham pleaded. "He doesn't understand what you are!" His pleading eyes looked desperately to Colonel Codwin.

  "Humans fear what they do not understand," Mr. Gordons said as he squeezed. "And they attack that which they fear. I will forestall that eventuality in this human, thus maximizing my survival."

  The head of the U.S. space agency was no longer thrashing. His hands weakly gripped the knot of reformed metal plates. He wouldn't last much longer.

  Frantic, Graham tried another tack. "That's the head of NASA," the scientist insisted. "You're about to kill the one man who can help you to maximize your survival."

  Gordons abruptly stopped squeezing. As Codwin dangled, limp, from his artificial arm, he turned his facsimile of a human eye on Graham.

  "Explain."

  "You were created as an extension of NASA research. You were twice revived by incorporating NASA technology into your systems. In the Popocatepetl case, if it wasn't for NASA you'd almost certainly
have degenerated to the point of being irrecoverable. We saved you," Graham pleaded. "And that man whose neck you're about to snap is the head of NASA. Who better to help you achieve whatever your goals are than him?"

  Gordons considered but a moment.

  "I have but one goal," he said. "To survive." He relaxed the pressure.

  Codwin immediately drew in a huge gulp of air. "Let us help you achieve that goal," Graham begged.

  "This one has threatened my survival," Mr. Gordons said to Graham. "Why would he help me?"

  "He didn't know," Graham pleaded. "Tell him, Colonel."

  Zipp Codwin was still gasping for breath. Clear mucus ran freely from both nostrils.

  "I take it back," Zipp gasped even as the maroon fled his face. "I didn't know. Didn't mean to threaten you."

  Gordons paused. "I am more than a microwave," he pronounced all at once.

  The carefully modulated tone did not change. Yet there was something to the words. As if the machine had been hurt by the NASA administrator's earlier assertion.

  "I'm sorry," Codwin wheezed. His face had almost returned to its normal color. Even so, Gordons still dangled him a foot off the ground.

  Zipp's fingers were beginning to lose their grip on the big metal hand. His shoulders and arms ached from supporting the full weight of his body.

  There was a moment of contemplation from the machine.

  "I accept your apology," Mr. Gordons said at last. The metal arm extended, placing the NASA administrator back to the floor. With impossible fluidity, it settled silently back among the probe's remaining seven limbs.

  Panting, Colonel Codwin touched the skin of his throat. The Virgil probe had left a perfectly smooth indentation in the flesh. When he swallowed, his throat was raw.

  "Good God, son, you almost killed me," he wheezed.

  There was no rancor in his voice. Surprisingly, there seemed to be nothing more than cold calculation.

  "Are you all right, sir?" Graham asked.

  "Yes, yes," Codwin hissed. Still rubbing his throat, he turned to Virgil. "Is Graham right? You afraid of somebody coming to get you?"

  "No," Mr. Gordons said. "That is too ambiguous. I am afraid that they will cause me to cease functioning."

  The colonel was a lot of things, but a fool was not one of them. He saw this thing for what it was: an exploitable commodity. But that could only be the case if it stayed put.

  "Okay, you got enemies," Codwin said. "Hell's bells, boy, I've made a few of my own in my day. I can commiserate. But running isn't the solution. You should stand and fight."

  "I have done so in the past, to no avail. I have sought them out and I have endeavored to avoid them. In every instance have I failed. Given the pattern established, there is a high probability of my encountering them again."

  "So running isn't a proper solution," Codwin reasoned. "You should stay with us, the folks who created you, the folks who've been there for you every time you needed us. Stay with your family, Virgil."

  "Mr. Gordons," both Pete Graham and Mr. Gordons corrected simultaneously.

  "Whatever," Codwin snarled. He placed his hands over his cold heart. "Will you let your family help you?"

  Gordons considered. Artificial synapses calculated every available option. "You are not my family," he said at last. "It is likely that you have a hidden agenda."

  "You kidding?" Codwin scoffed. "That's every family I've ever known."

  It took only a fraction more time for the android buried inside the robotic spider shell to come to a conclusion.

  "I will stay," Mr. Gordons said. "For now." Pete Graham exhaled relief.

  Standing before the probe, Zipp Codwin's face split into a broad smile. Had Gordons the creative capacity to understand the truth concealed behind so false a smile, he would have scurried away as fast as his eight metal legs would carry him. Instead, he began walking back to the lab. Graham and Codwin fell in beside him.

  "Glad you reconsidered, son," Zipp Codwin said. "And we'll map out a plan for those enemies of yours. Family's gotta protect family, doncha know. And in that vein, seems like you came back home just in time." His voice became somber. "Your family's about to lose the farm. We helped you-now it's time you repaid the favor."

  And the conspiratorial tone the NASA administrator employed was by far the most frightening thing Dr. Pete Graham had witnessed in the past four days.

  Chapter 8

  When Remo kicked open the door to the Folcroft quarters he shared with the Master of Sinanju, he was balancing a stack of newspapers and magazines on his bare forearms.

  Chiun didn't look his way. The old Korean sat on a simple reed mat before the television. Luckily for Remo, the set was off. The old Korean had recently developed an interest in Spanish sitcoms and soap operas. Remo suspected he was only watching the Spanish channel to be a pest.

  "I'm back," Remo announced, booting the door shut with his heel.

  The Master of Sinanju remained silent.

  Remo wasn't surprised. The old man had barely said five words to him since their talk six days ago. This was a different sort of silence. Usually, Chiun made a point of letting Remo know that he wasn't talking to him. He'd prattle on for days about why he was giving his pupil the silent treatment. But this time the wizened Asian seemed more thoughtful than upset.

  As he crossed the common room, Remo shook his head.

  "If this is some new trick to get me to apologize for not doing anything wrong, it's worked," Remo said. "I'm sorry. There, I said it. Happy?"

  In profile the Master of Sinanju's wrinkled face remained unchanged. "I am always happy," he replied.

  "If by happy you mean crotchety," Remo said. "But if you mean the happy kind of happy where you're actually happy, no, you're not." Stopping in the small kitchen, he dumped his newspapers onto the table.

  "Yes, I am happy," Chiun said. His closed eyes were meditative. "In spite of your continued rudeness. Which, I fear after all these years, is congenital and can never be changed. And the world does not revolve around you, Remo Williams. I am not upset with you, if that is what your great white ego has told you to think."

  Remo felt a spark of hope. "You ticked at How-" This got a reaction. Chiun opened his delicate eyes, tipping his birdlike head quizzically.

  "Why ever would I be upset with the Prince Regent?"

  "Didn't really think you were," Remo sighed, disappointed. "But hope springs eternal."

  He fished in the kitchen drawer, pulling out a pair of scissors he'd filched from a Folcroft nurses' station. Pulling out a clear plastic box filled with multicolored thumbtacks, he knelt at the low table. Picking up the topmost paper on the pile, he began scanning over articles.

  "If you must know, I am thinking," Chiun volunteered after a long moment during which the only sound in the room was the rattle of newspaper.

  "Mm-hmm," Remo said without looking up. "Can't you think a little louder? A week's worth of the silent treatment's starting to get on my nerves."

  "If I have to think of you, then what is the point of thinking at all?" Chiun replied.

  "Touche," Remo said absently.

  He found what he was looking for on page 8. He bit down on the tip of his tongue as he busied himself with the scissors. Once he'd finished clipping out the article, he searched through the rest of the paper. Finding nothing of interest, he tossed it aside, taking up the next one from the pile.

  It was a ritual he had been engaging in for the past week. Chiun hadn't asked what his pupil was up to. He figured he'd find out soon enough. As a general rule Remo was incapable of having a thought for very long without eventually blabbing it to the world. This time, however, he had remained closemouthed.

  From his sitting position on the floor, the Master of Sinanju craned his scrawny neck to see what could possibly make his pupil so self-absorbed. After all, he hadn't even asked Chiun why he had been silent this past week. Of course, Chiun wouldn't have told him, but a polite pupil would at least ask before being rebuke
d for his nosiness.

  Remo was still cutting stories from newspapers. When he saw the glint of evil glee in the younger man's eyes, the Master of Sinanju's own eyes narrowed to suspicious slits.

  "What are you doing?" Chiun asked, his voice flat to mask his curiosity.

  Remo looked up from the latest paper, a mischievous gleam in his dark eyes. "Just having a little fun," he replied. With a final snip the latest newspaper clipping fluttered to the tabletop. Remo dumped the rest of the paper onto the discard pile.

  "Emperor Smith and Prince Mark were not pleased the last time you had fun," the Master of Sinanju pointed out.

  "With any luck I can keep that streak going," Remo said. He picked up the New York Post.

  Above the banner headline on the front page, a thick insert bar read Experts Call Spider Sighters "Buggy"! Smaller type beside the garish come-on read "Full story plus you Sound-Off, page 3."

  Distracted by the headline, Remo skipped to page 3. He found a rough sketch of a large spider. For scale, the artist had added a four-door sedan next to the spider. Both car and arachnid were the same size. A dark notch formed between Remo's eyes.

  The entire page was devoted to a story out of Florida. People were claiming that a giant spider was running around robbing liquor stores and supermarkets in the Sunshine State.

  A government entomologist insisted that a "super spider" couldn't possibly exist. He was given an inch of column space. The bulk of the page was devoted to what readers thought of the scientist's claims. Most seemed to agree the spider was real and was the mutated result of the pesticides used by the government when spraying for West Nile Virus the past three years. Although they didn't entirely rule out outer space, the CIA or the Walt Disney Corporation.

  "When did Americans become so moronic?" Remo said as he scanned the man-on-the-street interviews.

  "July 2, 1776," the Master of Sinanju chimed in from across the room. His papery lids were closed once more. "The day a group of rabble-rousers elected to betray their king and cease being moronic Englanders."

  "That was rhetorical," Remo said dryly. "And I thought it was July 4."

  "I rest your case," Chiun replied smoothly. Frowning, Remo returned to his paper.