Brain Storm

7

The phone rang bright and early at 7:00 a.m.

Maude Smith was in the kitchen preparing a batch of her famous pancakes—the ones that had the tex-ture of dry wool and the color and tang of a block of charcoal. She left the wall phone dangling near the ancient linoleum floor and went to the bottom of the stairs to call up to her husband.

Harold Smith was in the process of knotting his striped Dartmouth tie around the severely starched collar of his plain white shirt. He sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the extension from the nightstand.

"Smith," he said crisply.

"Morning, Smitty," Remo's cheery voice announced.

"Remo?" Smith asked, shocked. The voice at the other end of the line gave a cheerful affirmative.

Smith opened his mouth to speak but suddenly heard another voice on the line. It was female and matronly and somewhat distant. And familiar. The new voice was complaining quietly to no one in particular about something smoking far too much. Wordlessly Smith placed the phone on the lace doily that encircled the top of his nightstand and went to the top of the stairs.

"Maude, could you please hang up the phone,"

he called down the staircase. He heard his wife's muffled surprise at her own forgetfulness as she crossed the kitchen to replace the receiver.

This small act gave the already overdone pancake in the frying pan enough time to blacken to unrecog-nizability.

Smith shut the bedroom door and returned to the telephone.

"Your wife's burning breakfast, I gather," Remo said pleasantly.

'This is an open line."

"Open, shmopen, don't be such a girl's blouse, Smitty."

Smith crinkled his nose at the unfamiliar idiomatic expression.

"I will call you back," he informed Remo.

Smith hung up the phone. A minute later, once he had retrieved his special scrambled phone from his briefcase, he was once more speaking to CURE'S

enforcement arm.

"That was a foolish risk, Remo," he said.

"Oh, yeah, tell me about it, Smitty," Remo replied in a mock-serious tone. "No one ever gets a call at their house. You'll probably have the National Guard and Ma Bell beating down your door by seven-thirty."

"You have the special CURE line."

"I forgot the number."

"That hardly seems likely, even for you," Smith noted dryly.

Years before, Smith had been confounded by Remo's amazing inability to remember even the simplest phone codes. He had finally settled on the multiple series of Is that was now in use, reasoning that Remo would be unlikely to forget the first digit. As it was, Remo had taken six weeks to fully get the hang of it.

"Yeah, well, you can shelve the cloak-and-dagger.

This isn't a business call. It's personal."

"How so?" Smith said. Absently he checked the knot of his tie. As always, it was knotted to perfection in a four-in-hand knot.

"I wanted to congratulate you on your going public. Chiun says it was a mistake to go on when you did, though. The smaller stations are counter programming at the supper hour. He thinks Family Matters will trounce you in the overnights."

"I did not say 'trounce,' Emperor Smith," a squeaky voice called from the background.

"You said 'trounce,' Little Father," Remo said.

"I said that the other program has, in the past, been known to beat the emperor's program. But surely with the addition of Emperor Smith to the cast, the half hour of decadence will transcend its usual level of drollery and fecklessness and mount an effective attack against the sprite Urkel."

"You said 'trounce,' " Remo insisted.

"Did not."

"Did, too," Remo challenged.

"I will not argue with you."

"You should hear what he said about your acting," Remo confided to Smith.

Chiun raised his voice to a new pitch of squeak.

"Do not listen to him, Emperor. Your skills as a thespian are matched only by your wisdom as a ruler."

"I rest my case."

This brought forth from Chiun a burst of Korean that Smith could not follow even if he were fluent in the language, which he was not.

"Is there a point to this phone call, Remo?" Smith asked wearily, once the tirade tapered off.

"I thought we covered that. I just wanted to tell you we caught you on the news last night."

"A masterful performance, O Emperor," Chiun called.

"Er, yes," Smith said, uncomfortably. "A neighbor informed my wife that I was in some of the background footage of the news story."

"You mean to tell me some of your neighbors actually know what you look like? I figured with those Dracula hours you keep they'd either have to be up after midnight or before five just to get a glimpse of you skulking through the bushes."

"I am as active in my community as our work allows."

"Yeah, right. From the house to the car to the office and back. You used to golf," Remo said.

"When was the last time you were out on the links?

Ten years ago? That neighbor lady probably dropped her colon when she saw you on the news. She must've thought you were dead."

"Remo, is there something I can do for you?"

"Not me, Smitty. It's Chiun."

Smith raised an eyebrow. "Is there something wrong with the Master of Sinanju?" he asked.

"Nothing wrong. He just wanted me to ask you for something."

"A trifling item, O illustrious Emperor," Chiun called.

"If it is within my power to do so."

"Oh, it is," Remo said. Smith could almost see the grin being beamed via satellite from the kitchen of Remo's Massachusetts home. "Chiun wants to know if he can have your autograph."

"I'm not sure I understand...."

"He thinks since you've been on the news that you're going to break into the big time. He wants to get your signature first. Especially since he heard that a lot of autographs fetch big bucks."

"How like you to apply your base motivations to another," squeaked Chiun. 4'I would treasure the emperor's signature always, and hold it up for all to see. It would be witness to his munificent and generous nature."

"And you'll sell it as soon as you think you smell a buck."

"Visigoth," Chiun hissed.

"So, you willing to do it or what?" Remo spoke to Smith.

"I will see what I can do." Smith stood up from the bed, eager to end the phone call.

"And Smitty?" Remo said.

"Yes?"

"Don't forget us little people when you're a star."

The kitchen reeked of barbecued pot holders. The tiny hood fan above the stove was making a feeble attempt to clear the smoke-filled air as Smith took his seat at the kitchen table.

"I'm sorry the pancakes are a little dark," Maude Smith apologized as she placed a plate before him.

It looked like a tarred stack of miniature manhole covers.

"They are fine, dear," he said. He picked up his knife and fork and began the laborious job of hacking his way through the pile of charred disks. His wife went over to the sink. With great care, she started to chisel the black grit off the still-smoking frying pan.

Smith considered the phone call from Remo as he chewed languidly on a triangular sliver of carbonized pancake.

All things considered, he was holding up very well. Smith was a man to whom the security of CURE was paramount. For that secure shield to remain firmly in place, Smith could never move out into the limelight. The security of CURE and of Folcroft, and the possible compromise of both, had driven Smith into fits of terror for years.

It was, therefore, uncharacteristic for him to be so casual at getting his face plastered across the evening news.

But though it was normal for him to be upset as a general rule about such things, it was also just as normal for him to be pragmatic about any given situation. And the truth was, the news report meant very little.

Nothing of CURE'S secret mission had been revealed. Smith's name had not been given out. The simple fact was, he had been just another face in the crowd, recognized only by a nosy neighbor.

But Maude Smith had been delighted.

She was waiting up for him when he got home the previous night and had treated him as if he were a real media celebrity. She had burbled on for an hour about how thrilled she was that Gert Higgins had called her after the six-o'clock news and how she wished Harold had allowed her to purchase a VCR

machine so that she could have taped the later broad-cast.

She reminded him that she was going to visit their daughter, Vicki, at the end of the week and that Vicki would have gotten a real thrill out of the whole thing.

Maude was happier than he had seen her in years.

In fact, he didn't generally eat breakfast at home—

preferring instead to get a cup of coffee and a container of prune-whipped yogurt at Folcroft—but Maude had been so pleased at his brush with celebrity and so eager to do something special for him that he had agreed to eat a rare breakfast at home with his wife.

So here he was, home more than an hour later than normal, chewing in silence, lost in his own thoughts, while Maude Smith scrubbed diligently away at the blackened pans in the sink.

Smith was surprised at his own calm appraisal of the situation.

There was always risk of exposure. CURE had had several crises in the past. But this was nothing. Nothing at all.

Smith sliced away at a fresh sliver of blackened pancake, and raised it to his thin lips, first swallow-ing the wad of gritty, wet dough already in his mouth.

There was a timid knock at the kitchen door.

Maude went to answer it.

Probably the paperboy. Late, as usual.

Smith made a mental note to chastise the boy for his tardiness. But all at once, a thought occurred to him. The paperboy collected his money on Friday.

This was Tuesday.

"Mrs. Smith?" a man's voice asked from the door.

"Yes."

With worried eyes, Smith glanced up at the door...and nearly vomited his pancakes back up onto his plate.

He recognized the man from the bank. Lothar Holz.

Maude Smith recognized him, too. Before Smith could protest, she had ushered the man into the small kitchen and shut the door. With a quavering voice she announced him as "the man from the bank" to her seated husband.

"Am I disturbing you?" Holz asked politely, looking from Smith to his wife and back again.

"No, not at all." Mrs. Smith was clearly delighted to have the cause of her husband's celebrity in her own home. "Would you care for some breakfast?"

she asked hopefully. When Holz accepted the offer, Maude restarted the burners and retrieved the damp, black pan from the sink. She moved around the stove excitedly, clucking like a proud mother hen.

"May I?" Holz asked. With a nod, he indicated the vacant chair across from Smith.

Through a colossal effort of will, Smith subdued the urge to panic. He nodded stiffly, and Lothar Holz sat down at the tiny table.

"I'm certain you're wondering why I'm here,"

Holz began.

"The thought had crossed my mind," Smith said guardedly.

A slight smile passed across Holz's lips. "Indeed," he said with a look of satisfaction. He intertwined his fingers on the tablecloth and leaned closer to Smith. "I'm not sure if you realize this, Dr.

Smith," he said conspiratorially, "but you are quite a unique individual."

Smith could see his wife grow more delighted as she fussed about the red-hot burners. He cleared his throat nervously. His mouth felt as dry as dust.

"How so?" he said with a casualness he didn't feel.

"I'm not sure you realize the magnitude of the test you unwittingly participated in yesterday. Yes, the Dynamic Interface System is able to integrate with that part of the brain controlling voluntary movements..."

"The cerebellum," Smith offered.

Braun shrugged. "So my experts say. Truth be told, Dr. Smith, I know very little about the function of the brain or of the device that was demonstrated yesterday, for that matter. I am not a scientist. I am more of a research coordinator."

"I see," Smith said, nodding his understanding.

Holz was the corporate front man. He probably had only the vaguest idea of the incredible technology PlattDeutsche America had developed.

"But there is something we did not reveal to the world. Our device is also able to duplicate the patterns within a human brain. As it was explained to me, the process we've come up with is now as simple as copying the contents of one computer floppy disk to another."

Smith began to get an odd ringing sensation in his ears. It was the increased flow of blood from his desperately beating heart. When he swallowed, his mouth was as dry as the dead center of a sack of flour. "Did you use this aspect of the interface system yesterday?" he asked. His voice sounded as if someone were strangling him with his narrow neck-tie. Unblinking, Holz stared at Smith. "We did."

Smith flicked his glance away to his wife. Must keep the conversation going, the director of CURE

thought. Must not allow Maude to become suspicious.

"It was my understanding that such technology was years away," Smith said weakly. His breathing was coming heavier. The more he attempted to quell it, the more urgent it became. His heart was pounding in his chest.

"It was, actually. Our scientists were able to duplicate all of the raw data. Everything from memories, both conscious and subconscious, to actual acquired learning, such as things learned in school and things long since forgotten. Even glimpses of synaptic images as far back as the prenatal state or as far forward as the last thoughts at the moment of transfer. But in spite of the fact that we were able to duplicate everything, we had a near impossible time accessing everything. That much was true even going into the demonstration at the bank."

Smith allowed himself some cautious relief. He tried to will his heart rate to slow. "So you are unable to crack all the codes."

"Were, Dr. Smith. Were." Holz smiled warmly.

"And we have you to thank. Your mind is so remarkably orderly that we have been able to use it to access others. Our technology has taken a mighty leap forward in a single day. And we have you to thank."

"Really." To Smith, his own voice sounded as if it were echoing up from the empty, dark bottom of a long-abandoned well. "Will you excuse me a moment?" He rose stiffly from the table and went down the hallway to the small half bathroom. Flushing the toilet to mask the sound, Smith proceeded to vomit the meager contents of his stomach into the white porcelain bowl.

When he returned to the table, his skin was drained of what little tinge of color it usually possessed. He had gone from sickly gray to ghostly white in a matter of minutes.

Holz was still seated at the table. He picked at a few syrup-smeared pancakes with the edge of his fork as Mrs. Smith watched him expectantly. He seemed relieved to see Smith.

"Is there something wrong, Harold?" Maude Smith asked as her husband retook his seat. She was wiping her damp hands on a sopping wet dish towel.

Her brow furrowed in concern when she saw her husband's pallor.

"I am fine, dear," he assured her. "I believe I might be developing a slight head cold."

Maude Smith rolled her eyes. "Honestly," she said to her new confidant, "he works so hard it's a wonder he isn't always sick."

"Could I have my coffee now?" Smith interjected, lest she tell Holz any more than he might already know. With a tiny shrug, Maude went dutifully to a rear cupboard. The shoulders of her paisley frock rose precipitously as she dug in the back for the least-cracked mugs. Smith attempted a smile.

"So, Mr. Holz, what is it you wish from me?"

It was a feeble, time-wasting question. But alone at the table, helpless in the face of an unknown enemy, Smith was at a loss for what else to do. His gun was at Folcroft. In a shoe box far back in his desk drawer. Remo and Chiun were too far up the coast to be of any help in an immediate crisis. And besides, he had no idea how much the man actually knew.

In another instant, his worst fears were realized.

Maude Smith had pulled out a pair of almost matching mugs and was scrubbing the sticky coating of dust from their interiors when Lothar Holz leaned forward. His voice was low, so that Mrs. Smith would be unable to hear. The words he spoke sent a chill up Smith's spine.

"I know of Sinanju," he said softly.

The floor suddenly fell out from beneath Smith.

He felt his empty stomach knot up like a rigor-mortis-clenched fist. His head swam with hundreds of amorphous, inchoate thoughts.

Only a few became fully formed.

CURE was doomed. America's most carefully

guarded secret was an open book. And it was all his fault.

Maude Smith returned bearing a pair of steaming coffee mugs. Smith took his dully, automatically.

Like a man who had just entered his last hour on death row.

Mrs. Smith and Holz chatted amicably. She told of her coming trip, of their daughter. Of her excitement at seeing Harold on television. Every now and again, Holz would glance knowingly at Smith. Smith merely sat there, his hands cupped around the steaming mug.

And though the heat from the scalding liquid burned his palms, Harold W. Smith didn't notice.