"It's starting to happen," said Remo.
"Open your eyes, Remo," Chiun instructed.
Remo obliged. The whites of his eyes had already lost much of their thready redness. His Sinanju-enhanced system accelerated the healing process.
He found himself looking at the Martian's dead face. "That's the Martian?" he blurted.
"Yes. Is his countenance not terrible to behold?" said Chiun.
Frowning, Remo took the head in both hands. "This Martian looks suspiciously Chinese."
"I have always wondered about the Chinese. They seem unsuited for this planet," Chiun sniffed.
"This guy is Chinese," Remo exploded.
"There's something written inside this helmet," Pulse said.
"What's it say?" asked Remo, striding up.
" 'Property of FORTEC.'"
"What the hell is FORTEC?" asked Amos Bulla.
"It's the Foreign Technology Department of the U.S. Air Force," Tom Pulse supplied.
"Never heard of it," Bulla scoffed.
"It's ultrasecret. People say it investigates alien technology."
"Space aliens?" said Remo.
"That's the rumor. The truth is they're interested in exotic technology. Foreign to the US. Unusual propulsion systems. New laser applications. That sort of thing."
"So they could investigate flying saucers if they took a mind to?" Bulla asked.
"It's in their mission. Technically."
"This Chinese guy is one of ours?" Remo asked.
"He is not one of mine," spat Chiun, dropping the head back into its helmet and kicking the gleaming shell away.
From the cell phone in their rented car, Remo put in a call to Harold Smith at Folcroft Sanitarium, the cover for CURE.
"Ever hear of FORTEC?" Remo asked Smith after the call was rerouted through sixteen states and scrambled to avoid eavesdropping by National Security Agency monitors.
"Yes. You have FORTEC credentials yourself, and have used them in the past."
"I can't keep track of all my covers," Remo growled.
"Why do you ask?"
"They sent one of their guys out here. He blinded me with something that looks like a flashlight."
"Laser blinding technology is under development by the Army."
"He was wearing some kind of quilted spacesuit," added Remo.
"A high-tech battle suit also under Army development."
"Why wear combat gear on an investigation?"
"Perhaps because he is not certain what he will encounter," suggested Smith. "You could ask him."
"I could, but Chiun knocked his block off. So to speak."
Smith groaned. "Are there witnesses?"
"Not to the act, but a crowd is gathering around the head."
Smith groaned again. "Pull out," he ordered.
"We haven't got anything. Unless you like Chiun's theory."
"Which is?"
"A sun dragon. It's Korean for 'comet.'"
"The Korean word for 'comet' is hyesong, " returned Harold Smith.
"I stand corrected," Remo said dryly.
"If you have nothing better," said Smith, "pull out."
"The BioBubble PR head is here."
"Find out who is backing the project."
"That should be easy. Hold the line."
Remo walked up to Amos Bulla and said, "We found the big kitchen under the BioBubble."
"I'm only director of public relations. I don't handle logistics or supply."
"But you're not supposed to have any kitchen," Remo persisted.
"You'll have to take that up with the the project's angel."
"Angel?" said Chiun.
"Another word for financial backer."
"Who is he?"
"No clue. I was hired by telephone. His name is Mavors. Ruber Mavors. That's all I know. I don't know who he is or how to reach him."
Chiun narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "You have never met this Ruber Mavors?"
"No. He's just a voice on the telephone who gives me my instructions."
"He tell you to install a full kitchen?" asked Remo.
Bulla wiped sweat off his face. "If there's a kitchen, it was built before my tenure. I came in after the Mars-colony scam-I mean phase-went belly-up. The whole Mars colony project was supposed to be a joint U.S.-USSR space mission. Neither country could do it alone. Folks thought it would be a great way to encourage superpower cooperation. Then the Soviets up and died, and the project went bankrupt. That's when Mr. Mavors came in, hired me and bailed the project out. It's been an ecological-research station ever since."
"This man called Mavors," said Chiun, fingering his beard, "does his voice fall strangely upon your ears?"
"Yeah. He kinda sounds like Rod Serling, if you really want to know the honest truth." Bulla squinted at the Master of Sinanju. "How'd you know that?"
"Yeah, Little Father," said Remo. "How did you know that?"
"Because," intoned Chiun, "in the Latin of old Rome, Ruber Mavors means 'Red Mars.'"
"That's as phony a name as I've ever heard," said Remo.
"It's the name he gave me," Bulla insisted.
"He is telling the truth," Chiun confirmed.
"Yeah, I can hear," said Remo disappointedly.
"Hear what?" asked Bulla.
"Your heartbeat. If it accelerated, that would tip us off. It didn't, so you're telling the truth."
Bulla touched his heart as if to make sure it was still beating.
Remo went back to the telephone and filled in Harold Smith.
"A dead end," said Smith when Remo was through. "I will search through Bulla's telephone records. Something may turn up. You and Chiun leave immediately."
Hanging up, Remo rejoined the others.
Amos Bulla was kicking at the red sands of Arizona disconsolately. "Well, if that's the end of EPA's investigation, I guess I'm out of here-and out of a job, too. Unless Mavors wants to start from scratch." Bulla shot a sick parting glance at the flattened dome of rehardened glass. "Sure would like to know what caused this flop, though."
Everyone took a final look at the BioBubble, baking in the Arizona sun like a candy-glass flapjack.
"A sun dragon," intoned the Master of Sinanju. "Mark my words. A sun dragon is loose in the heavens and will strike again."
No one disputed him this time. The sheer size of the destroyed research station beggared any better explanation.
Chapter 9
The bad news came by e-maiclass="underline"
To: RM@qnm.com From: R Subject: Possible product failure Staff here in R t the situation in Arizona may be a by-product of current testing, which at first appeared to suggest product failure, but which now appears to be the result of a bug in the software.
Long pale fingers hesitated at the keyboard and, after a moment, typed a furious reply while rain beat a steady tattoo on an office window.
To: R From: RM@qnm.com Subject: Your mail Explain software glitch. The reply was not long in coming:
To: RM@qnm.com From: R Subject: Your mail Probable cause is defective Platinum chip unknowingly installed in guidance system.
Pale fingers typed swiftly.
To: R From: RM@qnm.com Subject: Your mail. Defective chip installed where?
To: RM@qnm.com From: R Subject: Your mail In working prototype.
And the pale hands went paler. They shook as they pecked out a response.
To: R From: RM@qnm.com Subject: Ozone layer
Does product failure have any impact on ozone layer?
The reply: "Why do you always ask that?"
To which, the pale fingers shot back: "None of your damn business. Answer the question."
"None." The reply made the pale fingers relax.
Color slowly returned to the poised fingers. The owner cracked his knuckles and attacked the keyboard with renewed energy.
To: R From: RM@qnm.com Subject: Your mail I am on vacation. I have been on vacation for two weeks. Erase this e-mail and all previous electronic communications. I will do same. Project ParaSol is defunded this date. Furlough all nonessential personnel. Remember-loose lips sink careers.