Remo hesitated. Even after the previous day's news reports, he was uncomfortable admitting his mission. "It was left at a crime scene," he said.
"Hmm," Zipp said, handing the fragment back to Remo. "We're not exactly a forensics lab here, but we're not lacking in brilliant scientists. I think I've got someone here who might be able to help you." He stabbed a finger on his intercom. "Mitzi, I'm bringing my guests down to see Dr. Graham. Tell him they've got some stuff they've collected from a crime scene they'd like to have examined."
When he looked up at Remo there was a glint of something new in his pale blue eyes. A kind of knowing smugness. His tightly smiling mouth displayed a line of barracuda teeth.
"Come with me," the NASA head offered.
Chapter 18
"By the way, Zipp Codwin's the name."
They had crossed the broad expanse of a tarmac to enter another big building on the Canaveral grounds. The NASA head let his famous name hang heavy in the air between them.
As they walked, Remo was supremely disinterested. "Blame your parents," he said, not looking Zipp's way.
The eyes beneath the steel-gray hair darkened. "Zipp Codwin," Zipp Codwin pressed. He pointed at his own chest. "The Zipp Codwin."
Remo glanced at Chiun. The Master of Sinanju was keeping pace with both men.
"Don't look at me," the old man said, his eyes downcast. He was studying a tiny window in his plastic rocket. "I do not even know what a Dipp Codpiece is."
"You ain't alone," Remo muttered.
"You don't remember me," Codwin growled, his painful smile collapsing to a more comfortable scowl. "Damn that whole shuttle program. Kids around the country remember the name of some blown-up schoolteacher who wasn't anything more than a piece of glorified luggage, but they don't know the names of the real pioneers who built the whole damn program."
"Okay, Piss-" Remo began.
"That's Zipp," Zipp interrupted coldly.
"Whatever," Remo said dismissively. "I get the drift. You were some kind of astronaut when the moon was still in diapers. Now let's just aim your rocket boosters into the current century where you can help the nice men who don't give a crap in a hat what your life story is."
Zipp's scowl grew so tight it threatened to cave in on itself like a collapsing dwarf star.
"Son, there used to be a time when folks'd go ass over knickers at the chance to meet a bona fide spaceman."
"We're thrilled," Remo said, deadpan. "Aren't we, Little Father?"
Chiun wasn't even listening. Plastic rocket in hand, he was soaring skyward. "Whoosh," the elderly Korean said.
"I suppose I shouldn't keep getting ticked that folks don't remember me," Zipp muttered. "It's been thirty damn years since we've done anything significant around here." He instantly regretted speaking the words aloud. "Not that we're not still important," he quickly amended. "It's just that our purpose has changed over the years."
"I'll say," Remo agreed. "You've changed from an extravagant waste of money that used to do stuff once in a while to an extravagant waste of money that doesn't do anything at all ever. NASA's just a black hole the government shovels tax dollars into."
"That isn't true," Codwin insisted hotly. "NASA is a vital and, I might add, underfunded agency. And thanks to me, you can be certain that your tax dollars are wisely spent."
"Not mine," Remo said as they walked. "Don't pay 'em."
"Hear! Hear!" Chiun sniffed at his elbow. As they continued down the long, sterile hallway, his rocket flew parallel to the floor.
Codwin's steely eyes narrowed. "Are you telling me that neither of you pays taxes?"
One hand still flying the model, Chiun used the other to stroke his thread of beard thoughtfully. "A tax collector visited my village once when I was a boy"
"Uh-oh," Remo said. "You never told me that. What'd those money-grubbing villagers do, boil him in a pot?"
"Of course not," Chiun frowned. "We are not barbarians. My father allowed him to leave in peace. He merely kept his purse." He tipped his head. "And his hands. I believe he had them bronzed and sent them along to Pyongyang. We weren't bothered by another tax collector as long as my father lived." There was a tear of pride in the corner of one hazel eye as he resumed flying his rocket.
"Even so," Zipp droned flatly, suspicious eyes trained on the old man, "taxes are our lifeblood. Without money this agency couldn't function."
Remo snorted. "Said the head of the agency that can't even land a Tinkertoy on Mars."
Zipp's face clouded. "The media likes to dwell on the negatives," he said through tightly clenched teeth, "but the truth is we've had many great successes lately. There was the ice that might or might not be on the surface of the moon that we almost found, some close-up pictures of a big rock in space and a new generation of space plane that could be off the drawing board by the year 2332. And don't forget, we even sent Senator Glenn back into space."
"Yeah, but then you had to ruin it by bringing him back down," Remo said. "And we're not here for the sales pitch."
Nostrils flaring, Codwin only grunted.
They took an elevator to a lower level, exiting into an antiseptic hallway. Down the corridor and around the corner, Zipp led them through a door marked Special Project Director, Virgil Climatic Explorer, Dr. Peter Graham.
The man inside, a twitchy twenty-something with shaggy hair and pasty skin, was perched on a lab stool. Graham's tired eyes jumped to the door when the three men entered.
"Pete, these men are with the FBI," Zipp announced. "They have something they want you to examine for them."
"Yes," Graham said, his eyes shifting back and forth from Remo to Chiun. His nervous voice cracked. "Some crime-scene evidence?"
Remo handed the scientist the envelope. "You know what this stuff is?" he asked.
"Nope," Graham insisted with absolute certainty. "You wanna try looking inside the envelope first?" Remo suggested.
"Oh." Pete Graham dumped a few of the black fragments into his hand. "Nope," he stated once more.
Beside the seated scientist, Zipp Codwin's lips thinned disapprovingly. "Pete here's the best in the business," he said tightly. "If he says nope, I gotta believe it's nope."
One of the benefits of Remo's Sinanju training was the ability to detect when someone was lying. Heart rate, perspiration, subtle mannerisms-all helped determine if a subject was being untruthful. It was clear to him that these two men were lying about something. Given what he'd seen of their operation, he was willing to chalk it up to the lies men told to cover up rank incompetence.
He was about to press further when a muted electronic beep issued from the pocket of Zipp's jacket. When the NASA head answered his cell phone, his angled face grew puzzled.
"It's for you," Codwin said, handing the phone to Remo.
"Hello?" Remo asked with a frown.
"Remo, Mark," Howard's familiar voice said excitedly. "Someone thinks they saw the spider. She saw someone helping it into the back of a car. Weird thing is, she says it looked like a man, but with a bunch of arms like a spider."
Chiun had grown bored with his toy. At Howard's words, the plastic spaceship vanished inside his robes. His face serious, he listened in on Remo's call. "Where's Smith?" Remo complained.
"He asked me to call," Howard said. "Remo, I know this woman's story sounds kind of out there-"
"No, Zitt Hatpin is kind of out there. You're lightyears past him. Let me talk to Smith."
"Hush, Remo," Chiun admonished.
"Whatever it was, she swore she knew the guy who helped it get away," Howard pressed. "It was Stewart McQueen."
A shadow formed on Remo's brow. "Stewart McQueen? Isn't he the guy who writes all those crackpot horror books about killer clowns and possessed farm equipment?"