The Wrong Stuff td-125

by Warren Murphy

  His gimpy leg ached. Limping under the weight of his precious bundle, the novelist steered his mutant spider-man into the living room.

  Mr. Gordons had fallen silent during the plane ride up from Florida. Good thing, too. It was hard enough to hide all those extra furry legs under an overcoat, but McQueen doubted he could have avoided extra attention if the creature had continued to mutter "survive, survive" over and over again as he had on the car ride to the airport.

  Once on the ground in Maine, McQueen had been startled when he started to help his monster up from his first-class seat and discovered that the spider legs had disappeared at some point during the flight. All that was left were the two human appendages. When McQueen looked closely, he could still see the slices in the blue fabric of the jacket through which the extra legs had jutted.

  He was home now, and his creature still had but two arms as Stewart McQueen dumped Mr. Gordons into his old living-room chair. A thick cloud of white dust escaped into the air as the heavy bundle settled into the cushions.

  Coughing and limping, McQueen collapsed exhausted to the high-backed Victorian-era sofa.

  "We made it," the novelist gasped to himself. He blinked away the sharp pain that suddenly gripped his knee.

  As if in response, a noise sounded deep within the chest of his guest. It was as if he was trying to speak, but the words wouldn't come. Even his lips failed to move.

  Stewart strained to hear what he was saying. It came slowly, as if echoing up from the depths of a dark well. The same word, repeated over and over.

  "...survive, survive, survive, survive..."

  McQueen's shoulders slumped. "Not again," he sighed.

  "...survive, survive, survive..."

  The word grew louder. He had been quiescent during the flight, but it now seemed almost as if the spider creature had been recharging its batteries.

  All at once Mr. Gordons snapped alert. His eyes opened wide, as if seeing his surroundings for the first time. His head twisted to one side.

  On a stand next to the chair was a television remote control. As the word survive cut out, Gordons lifted his right hand and dropped it on the sleek black device.

  There was a crack of plastic.

  When he took his hand away a moment later, all that remained was the shattered casing and two crushed batteries. The guts of the remote had been absorbed into Gordons' s hand.

  His head twisted again, right then left. He seemed to be absorbing every minute detail of the room he was in. At last he turned his flat gaze on Stewart McQueen.

  "I am not home," Gordons pronounced.

  "Home?" McQueen asked, still amazed by what his monster had done to the remote control. Gordons resumed scanning his surroundings. Artificial cobwebs hung from beamed ceilings. Above the black stone fireplace, a pair of carved gargoyles stared back at him.

  "This is not NASA," Gordons stated. "It is an environment unfamiliar to me. Where am I?"

  "You're at my home," McQueen explained. "In Maine. I rescued you from that bar. You were pretty beat up."

  Gordons seemed to be remembering, accessing those parts of his stored memory not damaged after his deadly confrontation at the Roadkill Tavern.

  "I encountered an entity of a nature unknown to me," he said. "From what I was able to ascertain before and during his attack, he was a cybernetic being."

  "Yeah," McQueen nodded. "He seemed to pack a real wallop." A hopeful glint sparked in his eyes. "You wouldn't happen to have his address, would you?"

  "No."

  "Too bad," McQueen said. "That guy had inspiration written all over him. Just like you."

  Standing, the android examined his arms and hands. "There are no words inscribed on my body," he disagreed. "Nor would the presence of such a disfigurement be effective camouflage. As for the cybernetic man I encountered, he is irrelevant. I do not have the time to engage another enemy. My primary targets remain the same."

  "Targets? What targets? Hey, that's my computer."

  Gordons was at the desk in the corner. "I require components to complete repairs."

  Placing his palms firmly on either side of McQueen's PC, the android's hands began to shudder. As the writer watched, fascinated, the hands seemed to melt through the chassis, disappearing inside the machine. They rested that way for a moment, bare wrists fused to metal. A few crunches and whirs later, the hands reappeared, apparently as good as new.

  The same couldn't be said for McQueen's computer. The device now sported two perfectly round holes in each side.

  "Hey, the first drafts of my next fifteen books were stored on that thing," the novelist complained. "I wrote them before I got hit by that car. That's three weeks' worth of work you just ruined."

  Gordons didn't seem to care about the great loss to modem literature. Bringing one hand back, he rabbit-punched forward, shattering the computer screen. He began rooting around inside the monitor for parts.

  "It's okay," McQueen quickly declared. "Take whatever you want. I can always type up a couple more books. Usually takes me about two days to do three hundred pages anyway." He bit his lip with his rodentlike incisors. "Although lately it's been a little harder than it used to. That's why I went to find you. A real live monster could maybe help to shake things up for me. Um, you are a monster, aren't you?"

  "I am an android," Mr. Gordons explained.

  He ripped two green motherboards from the interior of the shattered monitor. When he turned to face the novelist, McQueen saw that a wide gash had opened in the being's stomach. The computer components disappeared in the freshly created slot. After they were accepted inside, the wound sealed back up behind them. So, too, Stewart McQueen noted, did the creature's dress shirt.

  "Android, huh?" McQueen said, trying to hide his disappointment. "I don't know about that. Kind of sci-fi, you know what I mean? The readers might complain if I start shoving robots into my books."

  "I must go," Gordons announced abruptly.

  Without another word he started across the room. "Whoa, there, Charlie," McQueen blurted, jumping to his feet. His leg nearly buckled beneath him in his dash to get out in front of the departing android.

  "My name is Mr. Gordons, not Charlie. And if you do not step from my path, I will assume that you are an enemy to my survival, as well."

  "I'm not an enemy," McQueen argued. "I saved you. And I can help you with whatever you need. I'm loaded. You want computers? I can feed them to you three squares a day. You want sanctuary? You got it here. This is still a small town. No one knows I brought you here."

  "Even if that is true now, it will not remain so," Gordons disagreed. "My enemies have the resources to locate me if they so desire."

  "Then let me help you stop them," McQueen pleaded.

  He dropped to his knees. Tears immediately welled up in his eyes. Most from the buzz-saw pain in his injured leg.

  Gordons seemed to consider his words. "The resources of NASA are far greater than yours. It is unlikely that you will be able to assist me. However, the information I have absorbed from your computer's hard drive indicates to me that you are a creative individual. This is a trait that I lack. Perhaps it would be wiser from a tactical standpoint to accept your offer. If you fail, I will always have my fallback position with Colonel Codwin and NASA. Two lines of attack are always preferable to one."

  "Sure," Stewart McQueen agreed. He had no idea what the hell the screwy robot was talking about. Probably had a few gears loose in the old noggin.

  As the novelist dragged himself back to his feet, Mr. Gordons crossed back into the room, walking over to the TV.

  Bringing his arm up, he punched his hand through the top of the television. The set flickered on. McQueen was standing upright now, grasping the door frame. "Just 'cause you broke the remote, there's still a control panel on the front of that thing," he panted.

  A grainy image appeared on the screen. It seemed to have been recorded on a very old videotape. Ghosts of other images played in the foreground and backgroun
d.

  "Given time, I could resolve the picture quality," the android said. "This is an old image, taken by me just prior to an earlier encounter with my enemies. I am translating it from partially damaged files into a video context that is comprehensible to your limited ocular system."

  "It's fine," McQueen said.

  The pain in his leg was nearly forgotten. He hobbled forward, amazed by the android's abilities.

  On the TV screen were two men. Despite the ghosts and the grainy grayness of the picture, they appeared to exist almost three-dimensionally. One was a young white; the other was a very old Asian. They were strolling through what appeared to be some sort of amusement park.

  "That thing you do," McQueen mused thoughtfully as he stared at the picture, "where you take the parts of stuff and incorporate them into you...?"

  "My ability to assimilate," Gordons suggested.

  "Yeah, that," McQueen said. "I have an idea that might knock your pals off their game. How big an object can you assimilate?"

  There was no bravado in the android's voice. "How big an object do you wish me to assimilate?" McQueen flashed a ferretlike smile. He glanced around at the gloomy Gothic surroundings of his dusty mansion. There was an evil twinkle in his eye. "How about a haunted house?" asked the world-famous horror novelist.

  FOR SECRECY'S SAKE, Mark Howard had driven across the New York border to Milford, Connecticut, mailing the small metal fragment Remo had collected in Florida from there. The package had been picked up and was well on its way to a laboratory for analysis by the time Mark made his way back inside his Folcroft office.

  He noted the small envelope that sat on the edge of his desk as soon as he opened the door.

  The morning had been so hectic that he hadn't even bothered to open the second envelope Remo had addressed to him. There was a note scrawled on the outside. With a frown, Howard reread it: "Nothing to do with what we're working on, Prince. Just leave this in my room. R."

  Mark collected the envelope. It was fat but soft. Envelope in hand, Mark headed down to Remo and Chiun's quarters. He unlocked the door with his Folcroft passkey.

  The common room was tidy. Probably Chiun's doing. Remo didn't strike Mark as a neat freak.

  He crossed over to Remo's bedroom door. Fumbling around the corner, he flipped on the light. He was halfway to the bureau when he stopped dead. Jaw dropping, Mark swung his head slowly around. All four walls were covered with scraps of paper. Mark couldn't believe his eyes.

  B. O. Anson Dead!

  B.O. KO'd By Runaway Golfball. FORE!

  LAPD Denies Involvement.

  The headlines blared from every corner. Since Anson's death, Remo had to have collected every newspaper and magazine article he could find. On many of the articles, pictures of Anson's grinning face and dead eyes stared out at the room.

  Mark couldn't believe what he was seeing. Four walls dedicated to the death of B. O. Anson. A shrine to Anson's murder. He realized with a sinking feeling that this was precisely the sort of thing a serial killer would do.

  All at once he remembered the envelope in his hands. With anxious fingers, Mark tore open the bulging envelope.

  More articles on Anson's death spilled out, these ones from Florida papers.

  Mark glanced up once more. Jaw clenching, he shook his head in disbelief.

  This was worse than stupid. It was dangerous. Remo had crossed a line far worse than before. Going over to the nearest wall, Howard began the laborious task of pulling down the many clippings.

  Chapter 20

  "It is time," the Master of Sinanju announced abruptly.

  They were on the flight to Maine.

  Remo glanced around the cabin, a concerned expression on his face. He assumed that Chiun had seen another passenger of Vietnamese descent and was about to embark on a fresh round of candy-corn-inspired ethnic cleansing. When Remo saw no Asian faces, he didn't know whether he should be relieved or even more worried.

  "Time for what?" he asked cautiously.

  "Time for you to listen," Chiun said. "For I am going to tell you the dark tale of Master Shiko and the truth behind the infamous yeti of the Himalayas."

  "Oh. You sure you don't want to assault any of the other passengers?" Remo asked hopefully. "I think I smelled a Frenchman back in coach." He rose halfway to his feet.

  With one bony hand the Master of Sinanju drew him back down into his seat.

  "Now, this did take place but a few scant centuries ago," Chiun began. His singsong voice took on the familiar cadence of storyteller. "It was during that period of time after which Master Shiko had already trained a Master to succeed him, but before his time of ritual seclusion. Since his heir had not yet chosen a pupil of his own to pass on the ways of Sinanju, Master Shiko had not yet relinquished the title of Reigning Master, even though he had already ceded most of his responsibilities to his young protege."

  In the seat beside Chiun, Remo shifted uneasily. His teacher's words were a reminder of something he didn't want to think about right now.

  If Chiun sensed his pupil's discomfort, he didn't show it. He continued with his story.

  "Even though Shiko was in but the waning days of his first full century and still technically true claimant of the title Master, his health was not as it had once been. His infirmity was not the result of age alone," Chiun quickly pointed out, "but was due to an encounter several years before with a cult of fireworshiping Ghebers in Persia."

  "Gabors?" Remo asked. "Like Zsa Zsa and Eva?"

  Chiun's papery lips pursed. "There are medications, Remo, for children with wandering minds. I will ask Emperor Smith to write you a prescription." Not desiring another intrusion, he continued. "The Ghebers were a once-powerful sect of Zoroastrians, thought extinct by Sinanju."

  This triggered something from far back in Remo's memory. "Those Zeroequestrians were astrologers, weren't they?" he asked. "I remember Sister Irene saying that that's what the three Wise Men were way back in grade-school religion class."

  Chiun shook his head impatiently. "As usual the carpenter's maidens have dropped in a single fact to float in the pool of their fictions. Yes, some were that. Others were much, much more. And that they were Zoroastrians is irrelevant. That they were from Persia is what matters." He continued his story. "In the sunset of his life Master Shiko was summoned to perform a minor service for a Persian emir. The emir wished the Master to remove a band of cutthroats that was terrorizing the lowlands of his kingdom.

  "Now, under ordinary circumstances, though still Reigning Master, Shiko would have remained in Sinanju to mend the nets and watch the children play, allowing his pupil, whose name was Hya-Tee, to go in his stead. However, since Persia was the place where he had met great hardship, Shiko did not wish to risk endangering his pupil so early in his life, Hya-Tee having seen a mere forty-five summers. And so in his age and infirmity did Master Shiko take up his bundle and travel to the distant land of the Persian emirs."

  Remo shook his head. "If Shiko was in such crummy shape, shouldn't Hya-Tee have insisted that he go instead?"

  "There are Apprentice Reigning Masters and there are Reigning Masters," Chiun replied evenly. "In your experience, Remo, which one has the last word?"

  At this Remo couldn't argue.

  Satisfied, Chiun resumed his tale. "Now, it should be known that, although in failing health by Sinanju standards, Shiko was still better than any mere man. His bones were old, his sight was poor and some have said that his mind was beginning to precede his body into the Void, yet all of this mattered not when it came to the task he was to perform. In Persia he did impress the court of this lesser emir with his displays of speed and skill. And this was as it should be, for in his youth Shiko was as able as any Master who had come before, save only the greatest of the line. Verily did Shiko slay the murderous highwayman and, receiving payment in full, did he begin the long trek overland back to Sinanju.

  "It was during his journey home that Master Shiko did make a most grave mistake. Flus
h with his success and the accolades he had received at court, Shiko did see himself for what he once was. In the clouding mind that sometimes comes with the sicknesses of age he once more became the man of his youth. Rather than take the longer, safer path that he had used for his earlier journey to Persia, he did take the less certain route he had employed several times as a young man.

  "And lo did Shiko abandon the wisdom of age and travel did he up the treacherous route through the Himalayas. His path did bring him to Nepal and past the rude buildings that would one day rise up to become what is now the famed Tengpoche Monastery, which sits in the shadow of Chomolunga, the highest mountain in all the world."

  In spite of himself, Remo had found that he was being drawn into the story. But at this, he had to interrupt.

  "Wait," he said. "If it's in the Himalayas, that's gotta be Mount Everest, not Chumbawumba."

  Chiun raised an annoyed eyebrow. "The civilized half of the world doesn't recognize that new name," he said frostily.

  "Okay, but it is Mount Everest we're talking about?" Remo asked. "I just want to be clear."

  "I am talking about Chomolunga," Chiun sniffed. "What filters through to your brain is of no consequence to me."

  "Okay," Remo said, satisfied that they were indeed talking about Mount Everest. He settled back down.

  Chiun didn't even have a chance to pull in another breath before Remo was interrupting again.

  "Wait a sec, I thought K2 was tallest now."

  Chiun's face puckered. "What is that?"

  "A mountain. I think it's in India somewhere."

  "If it is in India, then that ugly thing is not its true name. No doubt the white who first saw it laid claim to it and replaced the good Indian name with that K9 appellation."

  "K9's a dog, Little Father," Remo said. "But you're right. The Indians wouldn't have named it after something that'd be confused with a dog. Cow's more their speed." His face brightened. "Say, you know if there's a Mount Bossie anywhere in India?"

  "No," Chiun said dryly. "Are you quite finished?"

  "Yeah, I'm done," Remo nodded.

  The Korean's narrowed eyes seemed not to believe his pupil. Nonetheless, he forged ahead.