The Wrong Stuff td-125

by Warren Murphy

  "Remo, hurry!" Chiun insisted. Twirling, he bounded back toward the cellar, away from the dirt avalanche.

  Remo hesitated. He clearly wanted to go after Gordons, but he could see that it was already too late. The center of the tunnel was filling in. With a rumble the ceiling began to cave in above him.

  With a frustrated snap of his arm, Remo flung his spear through the collapsing wall of dirt. He wasn't sure if his aim was true, but he swore he saw the metal end sink into Gordons's fleeing back. And then the tunnel collapsed fully and the android vanished from sight.

  Spinning, Remo leaped back through the stone archway in a cloud of exploding dust. Behind him the thick-packed earth of the tunnel continued to settle in on itself.

  Once he saw that his pupil was safe, the Master of Sinanju became a flash of silk. Remo joined his teacher in a mad race for the cellar stairs.

  Wherever Gordons was heading, he'd have to surface eventually. Both men intended to be there when the android came up for air.

  When they burst into the foyer, Remo's tense face dropped into an angry scowl.

  A dozen men were waiting for them, each decked out in the same white jumpsuits as their Florida attackers. Unlike the first group, these men wore round plastic helmets over their heads. Their toy ray guns with the very real .45 muzzles were aimed at Remo and Chiun as the two men appeared through the broken basement door.

  Blue patches decorated with the nine planets of the solar system were fastened to their chests. In the center where the sun should be, the legend Space Cadets was stitched in ominous black letters.

  "What in the ding-diddly crap?" Remo growled. He had barely uttered the words when the twelve men opened fire. As the two Masters of Sinanju dodged and weaved, bullets thumped thickly into the wall behind them.

  "We don't have time for this," Remo warned Chiun.

  "In that case, move quickly," Chiun advised.

  The old man skittered right, taking up that line of attack. Reluctantly, Remo moved to the left.

  The nearest shooter seemed frustrated by his inability to aim true. He fired madly as Remo waltzed up.

  Remo grabbed a palmful of Plexiglas. "I'm in a hurry, Pez head," he said, steering the man's fishbowl into the nearest wall.

  Something went crack, and it wasn't the space cadet's helmet. As the Plexiglas globe filled with dark red fluid, the man collapsed to the knees of his space suit.

  On the opposite side of the foyer, the Master of Sinanju was using the bright blue patches of two space cadets as makeshift dartboards. He scored perfect bull's-eyes with a pair of extended fingernails.

  Shocked gasps hissed from within their helmets. When Chiun drew his hands away, the tidy little solar systems of their patches were decorated at the center with expanding red nebulae. Clutching chests, the men collapsed like futuristic rag dolls to the floor. Remo had already moved up the line. Two flattened fingers pierced a domed head, sinking shards of plastic deep into the temple of its occupant. At the same time he launched a toe back in a deceptively gentle move. The rib cage of another attacker was reduced to jelly.

  And as he and Chiun moved up their respective lines, the front door of the mansion-and the killer android who lurked somewhere beyond-inched closer.

  TWISTED SIDEWAYS in the passenger's seat of the rented van, Clark Beemer was trying to get a good look at the front door of the spooky old house. As he peered into the darkness, he tapped his anxious fist on the dashboard.

  Behind the steering wheel, Pete Graham scowled. "Will you stop doing that?" he complained, his youthful voice thick with tension. He, too, watched the door.

  The space cadets had gone in a moment ago. With any luck they'd soon emerge in the company of his poor wayward Virgil probe.

  Graham had been surprised when Zipp Codwin told him about the space cadets. They were an elite group of commandos hired secretly by the head of NASA with space-agency funds, to be deployed in emergency situations only.

  "I'd intended to use them against the more stubborn budget-cutters in Washington," Colonel Codwin had told Graham back at Canaveral. "Maybe their wives, kids, pets. But, son, we have got a dagblummed emergency scenario that's almost as big as our budget woes shaping up here."

  And so Graham and Clark Beemer had been sent to Maine with Zipp Codwin's private army to retrieve Mr. Gordons.

  As the seconds ticked by and the space cadets remained within the building, Pete Graham's anxiety level continued to rise. By the time the first gunshots sounded, his tension was a palpable thing within the cab of the van.

  Graham shot to attention, and Clark Beemer's head snapped up.

  "What was that?" the PR man asked.

  "Gunshots, I think," Graham said.

  "You think the robot attacked them?" Beemer asked.

  Graham shook his head. "I don't think so. Gordons is a survival machine. As long as they identified themselves to him like they were supposed to, he wouldn't see them as a threat."

  "So that means there's something else in there," Beemer said, his voice laced with foreboding. Sick eyes were trained on the eerie Gothic mansion.

  As soon as he finished speaking, something caught his attention beyond the wrought-iron gate that ran along the sidewalk next to the van. Since it was night, Beemer couldn't see clearly. But it appeared as if the side lawn of the estate had begun to bulge. There was a small hillock of bowed earth and dead grass where there wasn't one before.

  Gasping, he clutched Pete Graham's wrist, steering the scientist's attention to the lawn.

  When he tracked the path of Beemer's eyes, Graham's eyes opened wide in shock.

  In the wash of pale moonlight it appeared as if the ground were slowly heaving up.

  Clark Beemer had seen enough Stewart McQueen movies to know this was in no way good.

  "Get us out of here," the PR man hissed.

  Pete Graham hated to agree with Beemer, but as the earth continued to bubble the NASA scientist found himself fumbling with the ignition key. He hadn't a chance to turn the engine over when two slender black objects thrust up from the center of the earth-bulge.

  The legs sought purchase beyond the mound. Another set appeared, breaking apart the thick clods of dirt. In an instant, Mr. Gordons stumbled up into view.

  Standing in the fresh dirt of the newly plowed over lawn, the android seemed disoriented. When he weaved toward the street, Graham saw why.

  A foot long tube extended from the android's face. One eye was hanging by sparking wires from its socket.

  Gordons stumbled for a moment before falling face first to the lawn.

  On the other side of the fence, Pete Graham's jaw flexed. With a look of fresh determination, he put the van in drive. Stomping down on the gas, he flew around the cul-de-sac. Back around in front of McQueen's house, he bounced over the curb and plowed straight through the fence.

  A full section of wrought iron detached from its connecting stone columns, crashing down onto prickly shrubs.

  Graham came to a stop next to the fallen android. "Get out!" Graham barked at Beemer.

  Nodding woodenly, Beemer climbed down from the cab. Together, they helped Gordons to his feet. Graham noted that it was one of the android's own spider legs sticking out of his face. As they walked Gordons along, the metal of the misplaced leg began to shrink as the android absorbed it back into his system. With a whir and a click, his eye popped back into its socket.

  Graham didn't have time to marvel at the complexity of the machine's design. He and Beemer brought Gordons around, dumping him in the back of the van.

  As he climbed back behind the wheel, Graham noted that the gunfire in the house was dwindling. No matter. They had gotten what they'd come after. Stomping on the gas once more, Graham bounced over the lawn to the side driveway. By the time the shooting finally dwindled to a stop inside, he had plowed through the driveway gates and was hightailing it with his precious cargo back to the safer environs of NASA.

  THE BATTLE within McQueen's house was dying down. With
twin slaps Chiun merged two of the last space helmets into one. Looking like some alien being with but a single head to direct two distinct bodies, the pair of merged space cadets collapsed to the dusty foyer floor.

  There was only one man left.

  The last space cadet realized the battle was lost. Twisting his ray gun around, he aimed the barrel at his own domed head. When he squeezed the trigger he was surprised that he didn't hear a boom. It took him a moment to realize why. In order for a gun to go boom, one first needed to have a gun. Somehow his was no longer in his hand.

  As his empty white glove clutched the air, an unhappy face appeared before his bowl-shaped visor. "I got some stars for you, Buck Rogers," Remo said.

  He bounced the butt of the man's ray gun off the top of his helmet. The resulting gong penetrated through to the man's rattling brain stem. As his teeth jangled, Remo grabbed him up under the arms.

  Chiun had whirled up beside Remo. "What are you doing with this one?" he demanded impatiently.

  "I'm sick of going through this all the time," Remo said. "We keep one this time, just in case." A row of demonic heads was mounted like animal trophies on the wall. Remo hooked the collar of the space suit on the horn of a particularly ghastly creature. As the man squirmed on his hook, Remo and Chiun raced outside.

  On the side lawn they found the mound of freshly turned earth and the tire marks that led across the yard from the toppled-down fence to the broken driveway gate.

  "Looks like baby's been snatched," Remo said angrily.

  Whoever had taken Gordons was long gone. Without hope of trailing the android, they returned to the house.

  The lone surviving space cadet was still wiggling high up on the wall. When he saw Remo and Chiun approaching, his eyes grew wide with fear inside his helmet.

  Remo pulled him down, popping off his fishbowl. "Okay, who do you work for?" Remo asked. "And if you say Ming the Merciless, I'm gonna stick this bowl in your mouth and plant petunias in it."

  The space cadet couldn't answer fast enough. "Colonel Codwin!" the man gasped.

  Remo's face grew dark. "That buzz-cut Ken doll from NASA sent you after us?"

  "No," the man said. "We were sent to retrieve a package. But he did tell us to use extreme prejudice if anyone tried to stop us."

  "Perfect," Remo grumbled. "A pack of you nits blew themselves up in Florida. He sent them after us, too?"

  "That was Alpha Team," the man said, shaking his head. "They were strictly reconnaissance. Taking pictures, surveillance, that sort of thing. The colonel wanted to see who was interested in those giant spider robberies. I didn't know until today that it was a special NASA project."

  Remo glanced at Chiun. "So Captain Codface has been pulling Gordons's strings all along."

  The old man nodded. "If he so values Gordons, his minions would bring the evil machine back to him."

  "Assuming Gordons lets them," Remo cautioned. "After all that's happened, he might not want to go back there."

  The spaceman's eyes bounced from one man to the other. "Who's Gordons?" he asked finally.

  "You don't even know who you came up here to get?" Remo said. "Is anyone at NASA earning his paycheck?" He shook his head. "So what were Zitt's orders?"

  "Just to retrieve the Virgil probe-the spider thing that's been on the news-and bring it back to Canaveral. He said that Virgil had developed almost human intelligence and that to insure the solvency of the entire space program we had to get it back or die trying.

  "Is that what this whole trip around the moon was for?" Remo asked. "Just to keep the cash flowing in to NASA?"

  "I'm not privy to the colonel's private thoughts," the man said. "But he seemed to indicate that. Oh, and he said he had something planned for you if you came back."

  Remo's expression hardened. "And I've got something for him. Here's a preview."

  He delivered the spaceman's head into the mouth of the nearest convenient monster trophy. Although there was too much head to fit in so little mouth, Remo made it work.

  When he was done, he turned from the dangling dead man.

  "I better call Smith," he said grimly. "He'll want to know who we're up against."

  Chapter 26

  "The thing you are after is Mr. Gordons," Smith blurted the instant he heard Remo's voice. The blue contact phone was clutched tight in his arthritic hand. Anxiety filled his lemony voice.

  "No kidding," Remo said. "Where were you half an hour ago when we could have used the heads-up?" Smith sat up more rigidly in his chair. Beside his desk, Mark Howard hovered anxiously.

  "Have you already encountered him?" Smith pressed.

  "We saw him, all right," Remo said. "And this isn't like the last couple times, either. He's back up to speed."

  "Remo is correct, Emperor Smith," Chiun called from the nearby background. "The machine thing did seem rejuvenated. However, he still fears Sinanju."

  "Please tell Master Chiun that he has managed to cause much damage over the years, despite that same fear," the CURE director warned. "We cannot take that as consolation."

  "Amen to that, Smitty," Remo replied. "And to make matters worse he seemed more like the Gordons we first met years ago-same face and everything. And I'd like to take this opportunity to say that I'd forgotten just exactly what a miserable pile of scrap he was way back then."

  "So you were unable to neutralize him?"

  Chiun was quick to answer. "I landed a crippling blow," he called.

  "We put a few dings in the bumper, that's all," Remo said. "I don't know if we could have done more. He got away thanks to Ripp Aspirin and his band of space pirates."

  "Remo, Mark and I were in the process of trying to ascertain who at NASA might be Gordons's confederate," Smith said, voice level. "Are you saying that it is Colonel Zipp Codwin who has allied himself with Gordons?"

  The CURE director couldn't mask his surprise. Although lesser known than Neil Armstrong or Alan Shepard, NASA's current administrator was one of the pioneers of the early space program.

  "You wouldn't be surprised if you ever met him, Smitty," Remo said. "By the sounds of it, that blowhard would get in bed with an invading army of mankind-enslaving space ants just to keep that flapdoodle agency of his afloat. And speaking of stuff NASA does to piss me off, just how the hell did they manage to get Gordons out of that volcano, anyway?"

  "They were testing a new piece of equipment in Popocatepetl," Smith explained. "Gordons assimilated it."

  "Swell," Remo muttered. "I guess that explains why he thinks his family rescued him. As far as the here and now goes, your guess is as good as mine where he winds up. If he stays with the guys who snagged him, they're probably on their way back to NASA."

  Smith pursed his lips. "Did Gordons actually say to you that he felt it was his family who rescued him?"

  "Yeah, why?"

  "Mr. Gordons has always gone to great lengths to mimic human behavior," the CURE director said. "He has had varying degrees of success, but his attempts have been consistent. For most people the family environment means safety. If he truly considers NASA to be his family, and continues the pattern, it is likely he will go there at a time of crisis."

  "I suppose," Remo said.

  Smith sat forward, pointing to the door. "I will have Mark arrange a flight from Maine to Florida for you."

  Howard nodded sharply at the command. He dashed from the room to make the arrangements from his own office.

  As the door swung shut, Smith's face grew somber. "Remo, the technology Gordons has incorporated into his system from the Virgil probe is more advanced than anything else he has ever assimilated," the CURE director advised. "Just because he looks as he once did, do not assume him to be obsolete. I implore you and Chiun to use the utmost caution against him."

  "Not to worry, Smitty," Remo said. "We know what we're up against. Let's just hope he ran back to the warm embrace of his loving family." His voice grew cold. "But even if he didn't, I'm gonna enjoy paying a visit to his old Uncle Zipp."


  Chapter 27

  At an order from on high, the Kennedy Space Center was closed to outsiders until further notice. No guests or tours were allowed either on grounds or in lockeddown buildings. Most of the civilian staff had been given the day off.

  A lone space cadet guarded the main entrance. When Dr. Peter Graham and Clark Beemer raced up the road, the sentry waved their van through, quickly calling ahead. By the time Graham squealed to a stop near the command center, Zipp Codwin was already waiting near the door. The NASA administrator was accompanied by a phalanx of armed men.

  "Is Gordons okay?" Codwin barked as the two exhausted men climbed down from the cab.

  The clipped metallic voice that answered was so close the colonel nearly jumped out of his startled skin.

  "I have completed repairs to my damaged systems."

  When Codwin whipped around, he found Mr. Gordons standing at the side of the van.

  "Oh," Zipp said, trying not to show his surprise. "Good. No, wait a second, you were damaged?"

  "Yes," Gordons explained. "In an encounter with my enemies. I was assisted by a novelist in my effort to remove them. I devised a method of attack based on story elements that I found on his computer hard drive. I suspect he was not very creative, for my enemies failed to succumb. As a result of this unsuccessful effort, they now know that I exist. They will come for me. Therefore, I must go."

  With that, Mr. Gordons turned and began walking away.

  "Whoa, there, son," Codwin said, jumping around him. He bounced along in front of the walking android. "We went through this already. You were gonna let us help you out."

  "The element of surprise is now gone," Gordons said. "I trusted another human to aid me, and he failed. At this juncture another such alliance would pose an unacceptable risk to my safety."

  "But you were with us first," Codwin argued. "And since you left, I've given your problem some thought. I think we can help you get rid of those guys once and for all."

  When Gordons abruptly stopped walking, Colonel Codwin knew he had the android on the ropes. Gordons said nothing.

  "All the resources of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration have been put at your disposal," Zipp said slyly. "We saved your bacon without even trying a couple of times. Doesn't it make sense that with a little effort we'd be able to solve this little problem of yours?"