The Wrong Stuff

REMO AND CHIUN WEATHERED the blast beneath their rental car. They had spotted the man dragging the boat as soon as they'd climbed out from under the charred car.

"I hate it when they blow us up," Remo complained. He brushed stone dust from his hair as they walked.

"If you had disposed of that flying contraption the correct way, we would not have been anywhere near it when it boomed," Chiun sniffed. With delicate hands he brushed puffs of dust from his sleeves.

Remo gave him a baleful look. "And what's the right way, Mr. Know-It-All?"

"Did it blow up?" Chiun asked blandly.

"Yeah," Remo replied.

"Then the right way would be the opposite of whatever it was you did."

At the shore they stepped down the black rocks to the oily little man with slicked-back hair. Clark Beemer was straining hard to lug his motorboat into the water. He had nearly succeeded when he heard Remo's voice behind him.

"Where's Mr. Gordons?"

Beemer whipped around. When he saw the young white man and the old Asian standing on the rocks before him, his jaw dropped wide.

"It wasn't me!" Beemer begged. "It's Zipp Codwin. He's gone nuts. NASA used to stand for something, like dipping rocks in glitter paint and saying they were filled with Martian bugs or selling spaceshuttle posters to grammar schools. But now Zipp's got it in his crazy head that he can start exploring space again. All because of that bank-robbing psycho robot of his."

Remo apparently wasn't happy with Beemer's nonanswer. Remo convinced him to be more forthcoming in his replies. He did this by shattering the PR man's right kneecap.

"Aahhhrrgg!" Beemer screamed as he tipped sideways onto the rocks of the shore.

As the PR man grabbed his broken knee in both hands, Remo crouched beside him.

"Okay, let's try this again," he said coldly. "Where is Mr. Gordons?"

"I don't know!" Beemer gasped. "I think he said he didn't want to stay on the base while Zipp went after you guys. He didn't think it was safe. But I don't know where he is now." His eyes were watering from the pain in his leg.

Remo stood. "He didn't want to stay here, huh?" he said flatly. His eyes strayed across the stretch of water.

A space shuttle sat on the nearest launching pad. It was nestled back on its thrusters, its black nose aimed skyward.

Remo's eyes narrowed as he looked over at the shuttle.

"That time Gordons was launched into space, he got back home on board one of those things," Remo said, nodding toward the silent space shuttle.

"That thing-that-is-not-a-man has in the past equated safety with survival," Chiun agreed. His hazel eyes were trained on the distant shape of the shuttle.

Remo glanced down at Beemer. "You're driving." Hefting Beemer up, he tossed the NASA PR agent into the back of the motorboat. With Beemer aboard he lifted the boat up and dumped it into the water.

Chiun scampered up to the prow, leaving the center seat for Remo. Clark Beemer didn't dare refuse. Wincing at the pain in his knee, he started the outboard motor.

Leaving a wake of frothy white, the boat sped away from shore. It bounced across the rolling waves toward Pad 39A and the looming shape of the space shuttle.

They had gotten barely halfway across the wide stretch of water when Remo heard a high-pitched whistling noise. It registered as an abrupt itchiness on his eardrums.

It was not so much a sound as something that was felt.

A noise beyond ordinary sound, beyond the normal human capacity to hear. It was as if in a bright-flashing instant, something had attacked the very nature of the physical world as Remo had been trained to perceive it.

Nothing traveled as fast as the sound that struck his ears. Nothing, save the object that at that moment came screaming from the mainland toward their spluttering boat.

And, Remo realized in an instant of slow-motion shock, it wasn't a noise he had heard, but the sensation of something flying toward them at an impossible speed.

The object was fat, small and moved faster than anything Remo had ever encountered.

Faster than any bullet could travel, faster than any man could react, the projectile roared into the rear of the boat.

From start to finish it had taken less than one-hundredth of a slivered second. Remo didn't know if Chiun had felt the strange sensation. So fast did it come, he didn't even have time to speak a word of warning.

Wood splintered at the vicious impact. The outboard motor was ripped into twisted scrap.

When the trailing sound finally cracked like a sonic boom over the desolate wastes of the Kennedy Space Center-catching up with the deadly projectile-it thundered over the churning river on which floated pathetic scraps of pulped wood.

And as the sound waves echoed off into the distance, the first mangled slabs of raw human flesh splattered in wet red gobs on the distant, mosscovered rocks of Merritt Island.

IN THE SHADOW of the space shuttle Discovery, Mr. Gordons clung to the side of the metal service structure. He had once more assumed his spider shape. From the safety of the crisscrossing network of steel girders, he scanned the water with cold mechanical eyes.

There were but a few fragments of wood visible bobbing on the surface. A widening dark stain was dissipating on the surface of the clear blue water. Mr. Gordons calculated a one hundred percent probability that this was human blood. However, since there was another human being on board the boat at the time of impact, he could only further compute a ninety-two percent probability that some of this blood was that of his enemies.

An eight percent margin of error was unacceptable. And since a visual inspection from this distance could not produce definitive results, he concluded that closer inspection would be necessary.

The data was processed and the conclusion was made in less than the blink of an eye.

Decision made, Mr. Gordons began crawling down the side of the tower on eight furry legs.

Chapter 29

No one noticed the tall, thin man as he limped across the dock at the busy Cocoa Beach marina. His shaggy hair was tucked up under his hat, his upper lip pulled down tight over his long incisors. The rest of his face was hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses.

He had rented the motorboat with a phony credit card. He had several of them-one for each of his pen names. They worked great whenever he desired anonymity.

He had regretted his actions since fleeing in terror the previous day. The greatest jolt of inspiration he'd been given in the past two years and he'd run away from it.

But he knew where his inspiration would go. After all, even as he had set up his trap, the soulless automaton had kept going on about his family. And the outfits on the men who had come to collect him were a dead giveaway.

He'd be at NASA. Waiting to inspire nightmares in the midnight hearts of timid souls the world over. The boat engine chugged with spluttering determination. His jaw firmly set, Stewart McQueen putted out into the choppy waves of the Atlantic.

Chapter 30

When he saw the speeding boat smash to smithereens on his monitor, Colonel Zipp Codwin allowed himself yet another unaccustomed smile.

The two groundlubbers hadn't even had a chance to see the weapon that had been fired at them.

The electromagnetic launcher was part of a prototype space-based defense system that his boys had been tinkering with for the past ten years. Capable of firing a projectile at hypervelocity, three of the hightech guns were at Zipp's disposal. To aid Gordons, the NASA head had loaded each of the launchers on a swivel base and pointed the business end out their respective hangar doors. He figured that the two fellas were bound to wander into the range of one of the guns, and sure as shootin', they hadn't disappointed old Zipp.

The boat was there one instant -skimming the waves of the Banana River-and the next it was pulp. Along with Gordons's two pals. That the traitorous Clark Beemer had also been blasted into a zillion scraps of fish food was a bonus that the NASA head savored as he climbed to his feet.

"Good shooting, Graham," Codwin remarked. He nodded approval to the scientist.

At the launcher controls, Pete Graham's face was ashen. He nodded nervously as he swallowed. "Now that that nonsense is out of the way, we can finally get back to doing what NASA does best," Zipp said.

And for the first time since taking command of the space agency, Colonel Zipp Codwin wasn't thinking of the endless cycle of raising enough funds in order to sponsor nothing but another round of even bigger fund-raising. That was what he had been forced to do all these years. Whore himself out along with the space agency he loved so dearly. Now, thanks to Mr. Gordons, NASA was about to enter a new golden age.

The money would come. And not the nickels and dimes of the past week. With Gordons on his side he could have every member of Congress quaking in their boots. Hell, with the skills the android possessed, the White House was his for the taking. And not just for so simple a thing as shaking down the President. After all, the real benefits would come to NASA only with a true sympathizer to the cause of space exploration living at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

President Zipp Codwin. And the gross national product of an entire nation turned over to the single goal of colonizing and exploring the final frontier.

With starry-eyed images of moon colonies and space stations dancing in his head, Zipp exited the control room.

Pete Graham and a group of space cadets followed him downstairs.

In the empty parking lot next to the command center was a waiting helicopter. While Graham and the rest of the men ducked from the powerful downdraft of the whirling rotor blades, Zipp Codwin kept his head held high. The NASA administrator strode to the front of the waiting craft.

As Zipp climbed in beside the pilot, the rest of the men scurried up into the back. Graham was still scampering aboard as the wheels pulled off the ground.

Nose dipping, the chopper flew across the river to the shuttle launch pads.

By now the remnants of the broken boat were barely visible. Zipp nodded deep approval as the helicopter swept over the tiny chunks of floating debris.

The chopper landed near one of the low concrete shuttle control bunkers. Sand swirled angrily around a wide area as Zipp and his team climbed down to the ground.

From the shadow of the launch tower a figure was scampering toward them.

The thing that had been the Virgil probe looked like the featured performer in some 1950s B movie on the folly of atomic testing. Codwin watched without reaction as the eight-legged creature sped across the asphalt.

Several of the space cadets who were seeing Mr. Gordons for the first time took a frightened step back. In a panic a few started to raise weapons.

"At ease, men," Colonel Codwin barked, nudging down the barrels of two of the nearest guns.

As he spoke, the legs of the approaching creature began to shorten visibly. The spider still came at them, but it slowed its pace. At twenty yards four of its legs had been absorbed into the body. At ten it was rearing upright. By five the remaining spider legs had re-formed into human appendages. By the time it reached Zipp's entourage, the spider had bled completely away, replaced by the familiar human form of Mr. Gordons.

The stiff, emotionless android stopped before Codwin.

Before Gordons had a chance to speak, Zipp grinned widely. "Success, sonny boy," he enthused. Gordons shook his head evenly.

"That statement cannot be made with one hundred percent accuracy," Mr. Gordons disagreed.

"Are you kidding me?" Codwin scoffed. "They're dead, Gordo, old pal. Right now your friends are combing silt from the sea floor alongside Gus Grissom's faulty escape hatch. Now, what say the two of us sit down and have a long father-to-son talk about NASA's future."

But Mr. Gordons didn't seem interested in the space agency or Zipp Codwin. His eyes were scanning the shore.

With mechanical precision Gordons turned his head from west to east, covering the entire visible shoreline. When he came to the road that led over from Complex 39 and the orbiter processing facility, his head locked in place. For the first time the almost smile that was fixed to his lips in perpetuity disappeared.

Mr. Gordons took a step back.

"Negative, negative," Gordons said. "Maximum failure level. Threat to survival imminent." Standing before him, Zipp Codwin frowned. If the NASA administrator didn't know better, he would have sworn there was a hint of true fear on the android's face.

Zipp followed Gordons's line of sight. When his eyes locked on what the android had seen, Colonel Codwin felt his own steel heart quail.

There were two men strolling up the wide road from the main base.

"It can't be," Codwin muttered.

It was the two men Mr. Gordons wanted dead. They were walking along, as free as you please. Completely unharmed.

No, not walking. It only looked as if they were going slowly. In fact, they were running. Fast.

And in that moment Colonel Zipp Codwin understood how two mere mortal groundlubbers could spark fear in the soul of an android.

Zipp didn't know how he managed to find his voice. The words were out almost without his even knowing it was he who had shouted them. They rose high up the towering form of the massive, dormant space shuttle and echoed away across the vast stretch of barren land.

"Execute Plan C!" Codwin screamed.

When the colonel whirled and ran back for the control bunker, the space cadets clamored to take up defensive positions around building and helicopter. Codwin and Graham ducked inside, slamming the steel door behind them.

As the soldiers opened fire on the pair of running men, no one saw Mr. Gordons slip around the side of the bunker, the first hint of his reappearing spider legs springing like questing buds from the sides of his suit jacket.

REMO AND CHIUN HAD glimpsed the cluster of men as soon as they'd climbed up from the shore.

They stood away from the shuttle near a squat building. A helicopter blocked the view of some of the men, but the white boots of the space cadets were still visible. Of those they could see clearly, Remo instantly recognized Zipp Codwin, as well as the young scientist he and Chiun had met while at NASA. Most important of all was the man standing with them.

It was Gordons. The android wore the same face he had made for himself years ago. His flat eyes were scanning the horizon. The instant he spied Remo and Chiun coming toward him, he took a step back.

"Looks like he's pissing 10-40 weight," Remo commented, nodding in satisfaction.

As they ran, each man raised his skin temperature. Their rapidly drying clothes left thin puffs of steam in the air behind them.

"Just remain alert this time," Chiun warned. His pipe-stem legs matched his pupil's sprinting gait. "I am finding it harder and harder to come up with creative ways to explain your failures to stop this machine in the sacred scrolls."

Remo's head whipped around. "You've been blaming me for Gordons always getting away?" he demanded.

The old man's eyes remained fixed on the group of men. "For your sake I have left some ambiguity." He shrugged. "It is either you or some other pale-skinned Apprentice Reigning Master who was trained by the last Master of the pure bloodline. I will allow future generations to decide who exactly this might be."

"Are you gonna tell them that it was me who saved you from that whatever-it-was back there?"

At the moment before the projectile from Codwin's electromagnetic launcher had struck the rear of their boat, Remo's instinct had tripped him into action. A blindingly fast jerk to one side had sent him and the Master of Sinanju into the water. Unfortunately for Clark Beemer, the incredible speed of Remo's maneuver had affected only those whose senses were in tune with the harmonic forces of the universe. Like water kept in an upended bucket by centrifugal force, the NASA public-relations man had remained glued to his seat when the projectile hit.

"To give you credit for your one success, I would have to mention you by name," Chiun replied reasonably. "Were I to do that in this instance, future historians would have no difficulty linking you to your many and varied failures. By omitting your name, I am actually doing you a favor."

Remo turned back ahead. "I can't wait until I get a crack at those scrolls," he muttered.

Far ahead Zipp Codwin had just bellowed something about executing Plan C. After that all hell broke loose.

Gordons, Codwin and Graham ran toward the bunker, disappearing behind the helicopter. At the same moment the half-dozen space cadets opened fire. Bullets whizzed around Remo's and Chiun's heads like angry insects.

The route along which they ran was the one used to transport the space shuttle to the launch towers. The wide road fed toward the bunker and Colonel Codwin's idle helicopter. Though they appeared to run in a straight line up the road, not a single bullet had kissed their skin by the time they reached the first of the space cadets.

Remo fed the first two men he came upon up through the helicopter's swirling rotor blades. By the time the twin splats of red were decorating the tarmac like carnival swirl art, he'd already moved on to the next man. Remo took out this one with a heel to the chest that sent the man flying through one open side door of the helicopter and out the other. The man was still soaring through the air when Remo turned back to the Master of Sinanju.

Chiun had torn into the remaining three men with the ferocity of a living paper shredder. Silver space suits surrendered a harvest of limbs as raw stumps pumped spurts of blood onto the dry ground. When Remo reached the Master of Sinanju, the final space cadet had just relinquished both helmet and head. The upended dome and its grisly contents were rolling to a fatal stop at the old Korean's feet.

"They went thataway," Remo said.

Chiun nodded sharply. Spinning from the bodies, the two Masters of Sinanju raced to the concrete bunker. Chiun planted a foot against the steel door and it screamed off its frame, crashing into the shadowy interior. In a twirl of kimono skirts the old man followed the door inside.

Remo was about to duck inside when he noticed a flash of movement with his peripheral vision.

His head snapped around.

At the edge of the shore beyond the bunker, what appeared to be a long red dock extended out into the Atlantic. And at the far end of the dock scurried a massive spider shape. With barely a splash the creature slid off the dock's edge. It slipped under the waves and vanished from sight.

"Chiun, Gordons is getting away!" Remo yelled into the building.

He didn't know if the Master of Sinanju had even heard him. Without waiting for the Korean to reappear, Remo flew around the side of the building. He made it to the shore in two dozen massive strides, kicking off his shoes as he ran.

The sides of the strange dock angled down into the water. Staying in the middle, Remo bounded down its length, diving into the water after the fleeing android.

He hit without making a single splash. Knifing below the surface, Remo instantly extended his senses. With a normal foe he'd be able to focus on life signs, but Gordons wasn't so easy to track.

His eyes wide and his body alert, he scanned the immediate area.

The red surface of the dock from which he'd just jumped continued in a massive arc underwater, forming a huge tube. Extending from the nearest end of that tube were what looked like two conical tunnels. After jumping in, Remo had to slip down between them.

The mouth of each of the tunnels formed a dark minicavern. And Gordons could be hiding in one of them.

Toes flexing against the water, Remo swam a few cautious yards away, trying to see inside both caves at once.

He didn't see Gordons in either of them.

He was about to turn away when he heard a faint click. It carried to his hypersensitive ears through the water.

The click was followed by a rumble. And in the next horrifying instant, the world turned a blinding yellow.

And the massive burst of flame that disgorged from the two dark caverns around the stunned form of Remo Williams seemed to burst out from the very gates of Hell itself.

DEEP IN THE BOWELS of the bunker, Zipp Codwin watched Remo disappear below the waves.

"He's in!" Codwin snapped.

"What about the other one?" Peter Graham asked worriedly. Seated behind his console, the young man's eyes were locked on his monitor screen.

The long red finger that was the arced dock extended far into the water.

"One at a time," Zipp growled. "Get this one while we've got the chance. Gordons can handle the geyser."

Graham didn't seem certain. "But-"

"Dammit, man," Zipp interrupted angrily, "do I have to do everything around here?"

A single red button sat in the middle of Graham's console. Jumping around the seated scientist, the NASA head dropped a flat, furious palm onto the switch.

The instant he depressed the button, the ground began to rumble. On the monitor the weirdly shaped red dock shook visibly.

Of course, it wasn't a dock. When Zipp ordered that the external shuttle tank with its solid rocket boosters be put in the water, he never thought they'd need it. The thing that propelled the shuttle into space would certainly be overkill in the extreme.

Now he was glad he'd done it.

As he watched the rocket boosters rumble to life, Zipp Codwin frowned deeply. As much for Mr. Gordons, this had now become a matter of life and death for the old astronaut, as well as for the agency he led.

This had to work. With that much fuel burning off, there was no way anyone would be able to survive. Ocean water turned to steam. A white haze enveloped the shore like beckoning fog. The rumbling continued unabated. And as the very walls around them shook, the reverberations seemed to suddenly increase.

Fearing that the rockets were somehow misfiring, Zipp leaned down over the monitor. As he did, the rumble found focus at the control room's locked steel door.

In a spray of concrete dust, the thick door buckled and flew into the room. And coming in behind it, like some nightmare-inspired wraith, swirled the Master of Sinanju.

"Where is the evil machine-man?" Chiun boomed, his accusing tone more fearsome and low than the continuing rumble from the rocket boosters.

Zipp gasped, falling back against the monitor. "That's-that's impossible," he stammered. "That was a NASA door. It was built to withstand the punishment of a thousand shuttle launches."

Chiun's hands appeared from the folds of his voluminous kimono sleeves. Zipp Codwin was surprised to see that the tiny Korean held a familiar object.

"Sinanju reserves punishment for men, not doors," the old man intoned.

And raising one leathery hand, he let the object fly. The toy rocket Chiun had taken from Zipp's desk hopped from slender fingers. It became a blinding plastic blur, eating up the space between Chiun and the colonel. Before the former astronaut even knew what had happened, the blunt nose cone had tracked a course straight through his protruding Adam's apple.

Although the impulse to grab at his throat was there, the NASA leader's arms could not respond. The burrowing nose of the rocket had bored straight through Zipp's neck, severing his spinal cord.

His eyes bulged wide.

His hands locked in a final, fatal clench, the old astronaut toppled to the floor.

Zipp was in the last stages of slipping the surly bonds of Earth when Chiun wheeled on Pete Graham. "Where?" the old man barked.

Shaking visibly, Graham pointed a weak finger at the monitor. "There," he offered. "He tricked your friend into following him into the water."

Chiun saw nothing on the monitor but a great swirl of impenetrable steam. So thick was the cloud that even his keen vision couldn't pierce its depths.

"Remo," the Master of Sinanju breathed. He wheeled on Graham. "Shut it off!" he commanded.

"I can't," Graham pleaded. "The abort's been disabled. It'll burn until it runs out of fuel."

Chiun didn't hesitate.

There was not time to make Pete Graham suffer for his sins. With a backward slap the Master of Sinanju sent the scientist's head deep inside his computer monitor. As sparks and smoke erupted from the shattered screen, the wizened Asian was already bolting for the door.

And all around, the unearthly rumble of the still firing rockets shook the Earth to its molten core.

THE MOMENT the flames were released from the pair of giant nozzles, every muscle in Remo's body tensed.

Before the onrush of flame from the firing boosters had a chance to char him to ash, he snapped his back hard and thrust his feet downward. He shot to the surface, breaking up through the waves like a vaulting porpoise. He was running before the soles of his feet had even brushed the swirling surface of the churning water.

Fire roiled hot below, turning the placid blue sea into a savage orange. Clouds of steam burst upward, blotting his vision and flooding the air like some superheated outdoor sauna.

His feet slapping against the boiling water's swirling surface, Remo raced to where the shore had been. Blisters erupted on the soles of his feet.

The long sleek shape of the fuel tank appeared through the dense fog to his left. Though all around was boiling, there was no heat from the insulated tank.

Banking left, Remo ran for the metal casing. By now he had run past the firing boosters. With a leap he bounded from the surface of the bubbling water, plastering himself against the rounded side.

The huge tank bucked like a rodeo bull, yet Remo's fingers remained plastered to the side. It couldn't last much longer. He'd hold on until it was over.

He was riding out the bone-rattling vibrations when he suddenly felt something at his bare ankle. Twisting around, he caught a glimpse of a furry black appendage sticking up from below the surface of the water.

One of Mr. Gordons's spider legs. Like a coiling snake it wrapped tight around his ankle.

Remo couldn't fight without loosening his grip.

A million thoughts flooded through his mind at the same time, none good.

The fuel continued to burn. The tank beneath him shook madly. At the far end flames still tore wildly at the sea.

And in a single moment of bursting clarity, Remo realized that there was a chance.

In the instant when he felt the yank on his ankle that he knew would come, Remo released his grip, allowing himself to be pulled below the ocean's bubbling surface.

Chapter 31

The water burned his skin. His clothes stuck against his blistering flesh like a hot shroud.

Although Remo was at the side of the tank, away from the belching flames, the water all around was superheated beyond even Sinanju tolerance.

The grip on his ankle never weakened.

Although his entire body screamed in pain, Remo endured. He shut down the nerve endings in his skin, canceling out warnings that were redundant.

Another minute in that boiling inferno and he'd be dead. But for what he had planned, Remo wouldn't need a minute.

Gordons seemed content to hold him in place, allowing the boiling water to finally do for him the task he had for years failed to accomplish on his own.

Remo refused to satisfy the android's blood lust. Twisting, Remo swam downward. Gordons unreeled his leg to its full length, allowing Remo to taste freedom.

The water cooled slightly the lower he went. Ever mindful of the grip around his ankle, he raked the sea floor with his hand.

His fingers had just clutched on to something when he felt himself being yanked back up.

Gordons was toying with him.

But Remo was no toy. He was a man. More than that. He was a Master of Sinanju, a being trained to the full potential of both mind and body. And compared to this the machine that was attempting to extinguish the flame that was his life was little more than a child's plaything.

Shooting up from the sea bottom, Remo opened his lids to a slivered squint. A protective film of thick mucus instantly formed on the surface of his eyes. Through the haze and the pain and the boiling water-surrounded by a backdrop of raging flameRemo saw close-up the form of Mr. Gordons.

The android had altered his shape once more. Half man, half spider, Gordons's human head was studying its victim with clinical dispassion.

Remo's grip tightened around the object in his hand.

It was one of the basalt rocks that littered the shore around Merritt Island. He kept the small, sharp rock hidden behind his body as he floated in toward the android.

Gordons failed to notice the weapon.

Remo kept his body limp, as if the life had all but drained from it. When he came within arm's reach of his attacker, Remo thrust the rock out, hard.

The makeshift knife stuck deep in the android's chest cavity. When Remo jerked upward, the human veneer and the protective heat panels beneath it yawned wide.

Sparks erupted from the cavity.

The blow had to have severed some of Gordons's motor controls, for the android's spider legs went limp. The tightness at Remo's ankle lessened.

Slashing down with his hand, Remo severed the leg. Despite the fact that he'd largely shut down his nerves, the pain was horrific. Yet he endured.

Pushing close, Remo grabbed on to either side of the sparking chest hole. Wrenching hard, he tore the incision into a two-foot-wide gash.

As the flashing fireworks of sparks increased, Gordons seemed to recover. Backup systems booted up in remote locations, compensating for the damage Remo had caused. With renewed vigor all eight of the spider legs lashed out.

Too late.

Remo had already twisted around, propping his feet against the android's chest, soles pressed to either side of the sparking gash. Bracing one hand against the side of the rumbling tank, he gave a mighty shove.

Out of his element and caught by surprise, Mr. Gordons spiraled down the length of the tank, catching the surge of flame from the boosters.

The fire instantly flooded into the breach in his heat-resistant panels. Wires melted and circuitry turned to slag. His body stiffened, then went limp.

Like an undersea comet and trailing eight legs, the burning android disappeared in the fiery slipstream.

Remo didn't stay to watch him vanish. Kicking sharply, he launched himself back up the side of the tank. The instant his hands broke the surface, bony hands clutched on to both his wrists. He felt himself being lifted from the water with delicate urgency.

The coolness of the eighty-degree air shocked him. As careful hands laid him down on the bucking surface of the tank, Remo shivered uncontrollably. Tender fingers wiped his eyes clear.

He found himself staring up into the deeply concerned face of the Master of Sinanju. His mouth forming a grim frown, the old man inspected the mass of burned and blistered flesh that covered his pupil's body.

With a splutter the boosters stopped firing. The tank below them shuddered, then stopped dead. Remo tried to push himself to his elbows. The struggle proved too much. "We have to-" he said weakly as he fell back to the tank's curved surface. "Check, Chiun. We have to make sure this time."

"The machine matters not, my son," the old man said softly. "We must tend to your injuries."

"I'm fine," Remo insisted. But he knew it was not true.

His body was one big bum. A prickly rash of confusion swam through his brain. As the delirium grew, his vision blurred. Behind the kaleidoscopic swirl that was his teacher, he saw a shadow loom up out of the water.

Chiun sensed the motion behind him. Standing sharply, the old man whirled.

The fog had largely burned away, replaced by pockets of wispy steam that swirled across the surface of the water. And from that calming sea, the Virgil probe was clambering up the arced surface of the external shuttle tank.

The machine was badly damaged. Droplets of hissing slag dripped from its ruptured belly. The legs were largely burned away. It crawled on stumps of melted metal.

Chiun saw the thin wire trailing into the steaming water. It was the same technique Gordons had used to animate the various creatures in Maine.

"You are not Mr. Gordons," the old Korean pronounced.

The voice that answered was that of Gordons, filtered through the battered speaker of the probe. "No," replied the voice that spoke through the Virgil probe. "I have been damaged. But I will repair myself."

Lying on his back behind the Master of Sinanju, Remo had been squinting at the probe. As he watched, he realized that his eyes had been injured more than he thought, for a black haze suddenly began to swirl before him.

He tried to blink the illusion away, but it only intensified. And as he watched in stunned silence, the swirl of black brightened and congealed. Remo found himself staring up into a pair of disturbingly familiar eyes.

The otherworldly figure who had appeared above him was only four feet tall with shiny black hair. Remo recognized the moon face of the Korean child. It was Song, the ghost of Chiun's dead son. The same boy who had appeared to Remo more than a year before to warn him of the hardships he would face. But there had been more than just that to his prophesying.

At first Remo wasn't sure if the ghost he was looking at was real or if it was just a vision caused by his delirium.

But then the boy nodded.

And in that moment, Remo understood. Truly understood. The knowledge flooded his mind and heart, and he knew with all his being that it was right.

Song offered a childlike smile and was gone. With calm acceptance Remo dropped his head back to the dock.

Unmindful of the importance of what had just occurred behind him, the Master of Sinanju continued to face down Mr. Gordons's emissary.

"I am a survival machine," the probe was saying. "I will do whatever is necessary to maximize my survival."

"And we will do whatever is necessary to minimize it," the Master of Sinanju replied.

If Gordons wanted to say more, Chiun didn't give him a chance. Bending, he snipped the wire with a single nail. A nudge from his sandal sent the Virgil probe back into the water. It hit with a mighty splash, sinking from sight.

The instant he did so, the distant sound of an outboard motor carried to his shell-like ears.

Far off on the bobbing waves of the Atlantic, a small motorboat raced away. Chiun noted that the boat moved at speeds far greater than it should have been able to achieve. In a matter of seconds it had disappeared from sight.

His face tight, the old man spun back around. When he returned to Remo's side, the Master of Sinanju was surprised to find a smile on his pupil's burned and chapped lips. Chiun's frown deepened. "We must tend your wounds," the old Korean said, gently tucking his hands beneath his pupil.

As he lifted Remo into the air, the smile never left the younger man's lips.

The hint of sadness that might have flicked across Remo's eyes as he looked up at the old man's face, was supplanted by a sense of honor, pride and tradition.

"It's time, Chiun," Remo said. And the words felt right.

The Master of Sinanju didn't have time to ask what his pupil meant. Fatigue and injury took firm hold, and Remo faded into the soothing oblivion of peaceful slumber.

Chapter 32

When the ambulance passed through the gates of Folcroft Sanitarium three days later, Harold W. Smith and Mark Howard were waiting on the broad front steps.

On opening the rear door, the ambulance attendants were surprised to see their patient not strapped to his gurney.

Remo stepped down to the gravel drive. The Master of Sinanju flounced down after him.

Thanks to Chiun's ministrations, the younger Master of Sinanju had made great progress on the road to recovery. His skin was still a bright crimson, but the blisters were drying and beginning to scab over. He looked exhausted.

Smith's face was grave. Howard's expression mirrored that of his employer.

"Stop looking like this is a wake," Remo groused at them. "I'm fine."

"No, he is not," Chiun chimed in. "He is better, thanks to my expert care, but he still needs time to recuperate."

Smith turned to Howard. "Mark, summon two orderlies and a gurney."

"Do it and they're the ones who'll need a stretcher," Remo warned. "I just wanna go lie down."

His lips thinning, Smith nodded tightly. Dismissing the ambulance attendants, the four men made their way into the building. Only when they were in the common room of Remo and Chiun's quarters, the door closed tightly behind them, did Smith feel free to speak.

"What of Gordons?" the CURE director asked. Remo had sunk into a living-room chair. Smith and Howard were on the sofa while Chiun sat on the floor.

"Didn't Chiun tell you?" Remo asked.

Smith glanced at the old man. "Given his concern for you and your injuries, Master Chiun was, er, vague on the details," he said tactfully.

"Only detail you need to know is that he got away," Remo said. "Good news is it looks like he shed that cockamamie probe thing, so we might not be seeing spider-Gordons again. But he's still out there somewhere."

Smith clearly wasn't happy with this news. "Very well," he said with a troubled frown. "I suppose we shall have to satisfy ourselves with the fact that you survived your encounter with him."

"Don't sound so disappointed," Remo droned.

Smith forged ahead. "In case you did not hear while you were recovering, the truth of what Zipp Codwin was up to at NASA has come to light. It turns out that he spent the bulk of the agency's budget on everything but scientific research. It is mismanagement on a grand scale. Given his reputation and all that has come to light in the last thirty-six hours, it has been accepted by all that Codwin and his soldiers were to blame for everything odd that has happened there these past few days. So that is that." He stood to go.

"Wait, what about that crackpot writer?" Remo asked. "You want me and Chiun to punch his ticket?"

The Master of Sinanju was quick to chime in. "Remo needs to remain here while he recovers. But I will gladly travel to the Potato Province, Emperor."

Remo noted the cunning in his tone. "You're not going house shopping without me, Little Father," he warned.

The aged Korean raised an eyebrow. "Who said anything about shopping?" he sniffed. "If it is Emperor Smith's wish, that scribbler's home will soon be vacant."

"I am absolutely not living in Stewart McQueen's house of horrors," Remo said firmly.

"No, you are not," echoed Smith. "While his involvement in this is bothersome, we have decided to leave him alone."

"We?" Remo asked. He turned a dull eye on Howard.

For the first time the young man didn't squirm under Remo's glare. A calm certainty seemed to have descended on the assistant CURE director. He was looking beyond Remo, past the kitchenette to the two bedroom doors.

"It would be too high profile," Smith insisted. "Especially so soon after Barrabas Anson."

"Plus Stewart McQueen's become his old prolific self again," Mark Howard interjected. "I read this morning he's got three books coming out in the next three weeks. As a hot property again, it's too risky to connect him to CURE."

Remo only shook his head. "Whatever," he sighed.

"You should rest," Smith said. "I will be in my office. Remo, Master Chiun."

"I'll catch up, Dr. Smith," Mark said as the older man stepped out into the hallway.

Howard waited on the sofa as Remo climbed to his feet. Remo said not a word to the assistant CURE director as he walked over to his bedroom door.

Given all that had happened these past few days, Remo had forgotten all about the articles he had stuck to his wall. He remembered the instant he switched on the light.

Every last newspaper and magazine article was gone. The wallboard was riddled with tiny pinholes. The multicolored thumbtacks had been left in a big glass jar on his bureau.

"What the hell did you do in here?" Remo demanded.

Howard's face was flushed as he screwed up his courage. Rising to his feet, he crossed over to Remo's door. He glanced around the empty bedroom walls.

"I burned everything in the furnace," Howard said. He still seemed somewhat intimidated by Remo, yet he held his ground. "I know what you were trying to do," he quickly added. "You wanted to spook me into thinking you're some kind of serial killer. But I'm not stupid, Remo, no matter what you think. You said it yourself. You're an assassin, not a killer. I know now there's a difference. And I'd really appreciate it if in the future you'd refrain from pulling this kind of childish crap again."

There was relief on his face for having spoken the rehearsed words. With a tight nod to the Master of Sinanju, the red-faced young man left the room.

"Well, what do you know," Remo said after the door clicked shut. "I actually hate him even more." He went into the bedroom. Kicking off his shoes, he sank to his sleeping mat. He was reaching up for the light on the nightstand when he noted a silent presence across the room. When he glanced over, he found the Master of Sinanju framed in the doorway. The old man wore a somber expression.

"I have been meaning to ask you something," Chiun said quietly. "After I dealt with the machineman's surrogate, you said something before you lost consciousness."

"Oh, yeah," Remo said. "That." He fell silent.

Chiun waited for his pupil to fill the pause. When Remo didn't, the old man persisted.

"You said that it was time."

Remo felt his shoulders slump. It had to be said. And yet it would change everything.

"It is," he began. "It's just that ...well ...it's hard, that's all." He closed his eyes. Maybe if he didn't look at Chiun it would be easier. "It's time ...for me to be more than just Apprentice Reigning Master." The words were too important to blurt out. Yet speaking them quickly would make it so much easier. "You are the Master who trained me and made me more than anything I deserve to be, and you're also my father and I love you more than anything else on the planet, but the feeling is there and I know that it's right. It hit me back in Florida and I've been afraid to say it these past three days, and it doesn't mean that I don't respect you or want you around anymore, because I think I'll need you more than ever before, but it's time that I take the last step-" he took a deep breath "-and assumed the title of Reigning Master." His eyes still squeezed tightly shut, he winced, waiting for the shoe to drop.

There was a moment of silence during which he expected something to happen. He figured it would mostly involve yelling. But there was no yelling. Just a thoughtful exhale of air. When Chiun spoke, his voice was calm.

"Well, it is about time," the Master of Sinanju said.

Stunned, Remo opened one careful eye.

Chiun still stood in the doorway. There was a knowing look on the old man's face. His hazel eyes twinkled.

Remo thought he'd been ready for any reaction. But this one came as a surprise. "Huh?" he said.

"I did not know how long you were going to take to utter those words," Chiun said, padding into the room. "Honestly, Remo, I had visions of my spirit being forced to forego the Void in order to lead you around by the hand in the Old Assassins' Home, never having made the final step to full Masterhood."

"I don't understand," Remo said. "I figured you'd be upset."

"Upset?" Chiun asked. "Upset that you have achieved what no white ever has? Upset that you have surpassed most Masters who have come before? Upset that you have made every moment of your existence a hymn glorifying the House of Sinanju? How could I be upset with you, Remo Williams?"

"I don't know." Remo shrugged. "Years of practice?"

"When the time finally comes to ascend, a Master knows it. Therefore, if you say you are ready, you are." His narrow chest puffed out with pride. "What's more, I, the Master who trained you, say you are."

"That's it?" Remo asked. "I just have to say I'm the Master of Sinanju and I become the Master of Sinanju? Zip, bang, boom, end of story?"

At this the old man cackled. Shaking his head, he turned from Remo's bedside. There were tears of mirth in his eyes.

"End of story," the tiny Korean said, laughing. He was still laughing when he left the room. Finally alone, Remo sank back into his reed mat. "I don't like the sounds of that," he muttered to himself.

"Believe me, you shouldn't," came the disembodied reply.

Epilogue

He Keeps Going and Going

By Richard L. Hertz

MAINE-It's not easy to keep up with Stewart McQueen these days. After a near fatal accident two years ago, it was rumored that the famed horror novelist had been haunted by the real-life specter of writer's block.

"That was never true, obviously," says Shirley Ederman, a spokesperson for Scrimshaw Publishing. "Stewart had simply taken some time off to recuperate and reflect."

He has obviously emerged from his seclusion well-rested. The novelist-long famous for his tireless work ethic and prolific output-has been burning up the bestseller lists with no less than three number-one books in as many weeks. The release of a fourth is planned for next week.

Retailers are already swamped with preorders for The Devil Dolphins of the Town in Which I Live.

McQueen surprised many in the press when he showed up at the book party for Dolphins without the limp that has plagued him since his accident. In a statement after the event, the author said, "I was damaged, but I have initiated repairs."