At his pupil's gentle tone, the harder lines of the old man's face softened. "You are a good pupil, Remo, as well as a good son," he said. "And despite what I and others have told you over the years, you have a good brain, too. It merely lacks focus."
Remo's smile bloomed with childlike pride. "You really think so?" he asked.
Chiun rolled his eyes. "Of course not," he droned. "When I first met you I considered wadding up cotton in your ears at night to keep the mice out. I was merely saying so to boost your self-esteem."
A cloud formed on Remo's brow. "Mission accomplished," he grumbled, folding his arms.
Chiun turned his attention back to the blank TV screen. "I saw no web from this spider-that-is-not-a-true-spider that moves funny," the old man said. "And if it is different in this one way, it could be different in others."
"Like being as big as a Buick, for one," Remo suggested thinly.
"Yes," Chiun replied without irony. "If we are to meet this creature about which you know nothing, do not let its resemblance to a thing you know confuse your reactions to it."
Remo understood the Master of Sinanju's concerns.
Yet they seemed unwarranted. "Not a problem," he said.
As he spoke, the room phone jangled to life. Floating to his feet, Remo scooped up the receiver from the nightstand next to the bed.
"Yello," he said.
"Remo, Smith," announced the CURE director's breathless voice. "The creature has been spotted again."
Remo was instantly alert. "Where?"
Smith couldn't keep the troubled anxiety from his voice. "Ten miles from your location," he said. "A bar called the Roadkill Tavern. Local authorities were just alerted. As far as anyone knows, it's still there."
The older man quickly spit out directions. With a final caution to be careful, the CURE director broke the connection.
Remo slammed down the receiver. When he spun toward the Master of Sinanju, Chiun was already rising to his feet, a serious expression on his aged face. "You heard," Remo said quickly.
"Yes," Chiun said seriously as he swept to the door. "I only hope that you did, as well."
And in a flurry of green-and-red silk, he was gone. The old man's concern was infectious. Feeling a pang of unaccustomed disquiet, Remo raced out into the night after the elderly Korean.
Chapter 16
The girl had gotten into the Roadkill Tavern with fake ID. Had to have. There was absolutely no way she was the legal limit. Fake ID and maybe a pretty smile had gotten her through the door.
She was seventeen at best. Maybe a year or two younger. No amount of booze or makeup could hide the truth from the eyes of the shadowy figure who sat in the corner booth. After all, he was an expert.
A warm beer sat on the table before him. Not too stale that the waitress would get annoyed at him for taking up valuable real estate. He knew how to pace his drinking while remaining inconspicuous. Afterward, when the police started asking the inevitable questions, people might remember there was someone sitting there for a few hours-maybe even come up with a vague physical description-but they wouldn't be able to pin down any specifics.
It was a talent honed from years of experience. As he sat alone watching the girl at the bar, he tapped a single index finger on the dirty tabletop. A smile above a halter top. Maybe she had a face, maybe not. It didn't really matter. He'd known it the moment she stepped through the door. She would be the next.
Click-click-click.
The metal pad recessed in his fingertip drummed a relentless staccato on the table.
He alone heard the noise. The jukebox was so loud no one else could hear the sound of Elizu Roote's tapping finger.
A faint reddish blush of anticipation brushed the flesh of his otherwise pale cheeks as he watched the boozy young face of the girl he intended to murder tonight.
IN THE PARKING LOT outside the Roadkill, Clark Beemer hunched behind the steering wheel of the black NASA van. He was trying desperately not to be noticed.
When someone passed by the van, Beemer's eyes grew wide behind his dark sunglasses. He fumbled with the radio, tugged at the upturned collar of his trench coat-anything to distract, to give the appearance that he belonged here.
This wasn't fair. Just because he happened to be in on the big, bad secret at NASA, why did he get tapped to chauffeur around the scary robot?
Clark had been standing right there when Zipp Codwin asked Mr. Gordons to drum up some more operating capital. Even after the thing had turned himself into something that looked human. Even after Gordons had threatened Codwin and all of NASA. One thing about Zipp-he had guts.
Codwin's earlier argument held true. NASA needed the money, and Gordons had needed NASA for repairs in the past. But now there was the additional problem that Gordons had created. With the clues he had left behind, the authorities might already be zeroing in on the space agency.
"Safer from a survival standpoint for you to minimize your time here, son," Zipp had insisted. "Let the brains like me and Graham figure out how to solve your problem. Ol' Clark here'll take you on your rounds tonight."
So that was it. Clark Beemer wasn't the brains. While the only other men with knowledge of who and what Mr. Gordons was stayed back in the wellguarded safety of the Kennedy Space Center, Clark was forced to take to the road with that creepy, emotionless tin can.
He heard a shuffling in the rear of the van.
Since that afternoon at NASA, Mr. Gordons had retained his human form. Like a regular person, he had ridden to the bar in the front of the van with Clark. Once Beemer had parked at the very distant edge of the lot, the android had gotten up and slipped into the back of the van.
More shuffling. A soft grinding of metal.
"Why didn't they let you go alone?" Clark muttered to himself as he sank further into his own shoulders.
A cool mechanical voice answered his question. "There is a fifty-six percent probability that Administrator Codwin did not want you in his vicinity. That, coupled with the eighty-five percent probability of his not wanting me there, either, made his decision to send you with me a reasonable one."
When Clark turned a peeved eye to Gordons, he nearly jumped out of his skin.
The android had reverted to his spider form. This time the not quite smiling face that jutted from the body of the creature was flesh colored.
"Why do you look like that again?" Clark asked, panting with sudden fright. One hand was pressed to his chest to steady his rapidly beating heart.
"In order to mask my true features," Mr. Gordons said. The flatness of his tone never varied. "Necessity forced me to maintain the shape of the Virgil probe throughout the assimilation process. Even though I am now operating at one hundred percent efficiency, I have found that this shape is effective as camouflage. Humans who might otherwise be curious about me are frightened into submission when they see me in this guise. I believe this is due to the fact that most human beings harbor a visceral fear of insects in general and arachnids in particular, would you not agree?"
Not waiting for a response, the Gordons spider scurried around on clattering metal feet. Displaying its furry rear end, the massive creature rapidly crawled to the rear of the van. It popped the door.
Clark felt the van rise on its shocks as the heavy android slipped down to the parking lot.
There was a skittering of feet that seemed to fade in the distance. Clark allowed himself a relieved exhale that lasted only until the huge creature sprang up beside his open window. Gordons leaned his face in close.
"Do not leave," the android instructed. "I'll be back."
With that he sank back onto his metal legs and began scurrying to the bar. Clark watched Gordons crawl quickly through the shadows between the many parked cars. He disappeared around the side of the building.