Gordons didn't seem to care about the great loss to modem literature. Bringing one hand back, he rabbit-punched forward, shattering the computer screen. He began rooting around inside the monitor for parts.
"It's okay," McQueen quickly declared. "Take whatever you want. I can always type up a couple more books. Usually takes me about two days to do three hundred pages anyway." He bit his lip with his rodentlike incisors. "Although lately it's been a little harder than it used to. That's why I went to find you. A real live monster could maybe help to shake things up for me. Um, you are a monster, aren't you?"
"I am an android," Mr. Gordons explained.
He ripped two green motherboards from the interior of the shattered monitor. When he turned to face the novelist, McQueen saw that a wide gash had opened in the being's stomach. The computer components disappeared in the freshly created slot. After they were accepted inside, the wound sealed back up behind them. So, too, Stewart McQueen noted, did the creature's dress shirt.
"Android, huh?" McQueen said, trying to hide his disappointment. "I don't know about that. Kind of sci-fi, you know what I mean? The readers might complain if I start shoving robots into my books."
"I must go," Gordons announced abruptly.
Without another word he started across the room. "Whoa, there, Charlie," McQueen blurted, jumping to his feet. His leg nearly buckled beneath him in his dash to get out in front of the departing android.
"My name is Mr. Gordons, not Charlie. And if you do not step from my path, I will assume that you are an enemy to my survival, as well."
"I'm not an enemy," McQueen argued. "I saved you. And I can help you with whatever you need. I'm loaded. You want computers? I can feed them to you three squares a day. You want sanctuary? You got it here. This is still a small town. No one knows I brought you here."
"Even if that is true now, it will not remain so," Gordons disagreed. "My enemies have the resources to locate me if they so desire."
"Then let me help you stop them," McQueen pleaded.
He dropped to his knees. Tears immediately welled up in his eyes. Most from the buzz-saw pain in his injured leg.
Gordons seemed to consider his words. "The resources of NASA are far greater than yours. It is unlikely that you will be able to assist me. However, the information I have absorbed from your computer's hard drive indicates to me that you are a creative individual. This is a trait that I lack. Perhaps it would be wiser from a tactical standpoint to accept your offer. If you fail, I will always have my fallback position with Colonel Codwin and NASA. Two lines of attack are always preferable to one."
"Sure," Stewart McQueen agreed. He had no idea what the hell the screwy robot was talking about. Probably had a few gears loose in the old noggin.
As the novelist dragged himself back to his feet, Mr. Gordons crossed back into the room, walking over to the TV.
Bringing his arm up, he punched his hand through the top of the television. The set flickered on. McQueen was standing upright now, grasping the door frame. "Just 'cause you broke the remote, there's still a control panel on the front of that thing," he panted.
A grainy image appeared on the screen. It seemed to have been recorded on a very old videotape. Ghosts of other images played in the foreground and background.
"Given time, I could resolve the picture quality," the android said. "This is an old image, taken by me just prior to an earlier encounter with my enemies. I am translating it from partially damaged files into a video context that is comprehensible to your limited ocular system."
"It's fine," McQueen said.
The pain in his leg was nearly forgotten. He hobbled forward, amazed by the android's abilities.
On the TV screen were two men. Despite the ghosts and the grainy grayness of the picture, they appeared to exist almost three-dimensionally. One was a young white; the other was a very old Asian. They were strolling through what appeared to be some sort of amusement park.
"That thing you do," McQueen mused thoughtfully as he stared at the picture, "where you take the parts of stuff and incorporate them into you...?"
"My ability to assimilate," Gordons suggested.
"Yeah, that," McQueen said. "I have an idea that might knock your pals off their game. How big an object can you assimilate?"
There was no bravado in the android's voice. "How big an object do you wish me to assimilate?" McQueen flashed a ferretlike smile. He glanced around at the gloomy Gothic surroundings of his dusty mansion. There was an evil twinkle in his eye. "How about a haunted house?" asked the world-famous horror novelist.
FOR SECRECY'S SAKE, Mark Howard had driven across the New York border to Milford, Connecticut, mailing the small metal fragment Remo had collected in Florida from there. The package had been picked up and was well on its way to a laboratory for analysis by the time Mark made his way back inside his Folcroft office.
He noted the small envelope that sat on the edge of his desk as soon as he opened the door.
The morning had been so hectic that he hadn't even bothered to open the second envelope Remo had addressed to him. There was a note scrawled on the outside. With a frown, Howard reread it: "Nothing to do with what we're working on, Prince. Just leave this in my room. R."
Mark collected the envelope. It was fat but soft. Envelope in hand, Mark headed down to Remo and Chiun's quarters. He unlocked the door with his Folcroft passkey.
The common room was tidy. Probably Chiun's doing. Remo didn't strike Mark as a neat freak.
He crossed over to Remo's bedroom door. Fumbling around the corner, he flipped on the light. He was halfway to the bureau when he stopped dead. Jaw dropping, Mark swung his head slowly around. All four walls were covered with scraps of paper. Mark couldn't believe his eyes.
B. O. Anson Dead!
B.O. KO'd By Runaway Golfball. FORE!
LAPD Denies Involvement.
The headlines blared from every corner. Since Anson's death, Remo had to have collected every newspaper and magazine article he could find. On many of the articles, pictures of Anson's grinning face and dead eyes stared out at the room.
Mark couldn't believe what he was seeing. Four walls dedicated to the death of B. O. Anson. A shrine to Anson's murder. He realized with a sinking feeling that this was precisely the sort of thing a serial killer would do.
All at once he remembered the envelope in his hands. With anxious fingers, Mark tore open the bulging envelope.
More articles on Anson's death spilled out, these ones from Florida papers.
Mark glanced up once more. Jaw clenching, he shook his head in disbelief.
This was worse than stupid. It was dangerous. Remo had crossed a line far worse than before. Going over to the nearest wall, Howard began the laborious task of pulling down the many clippings.
Chapter 20
"It is time," the Master of Sinanju announced abruptly.
They were on the flight to Maine.
Remo glanced around the cabin, a concerned expression on his face. He assumed that Chiun had seen another passenger of Vietnamese descent and was about to embark on a fresh round of candy-corn-inspired ethnic cleansing. When Remo saw no Asian faces, he didn't know whether he should be relieved or even more worried.
"Time for what?" he asked cautiously.
"Time for you to listen," Chiun said. "For I am going to tell you the dark tale of Master Shiko and the truth behind the infamous yeti of the Himalayas."
"Oh. You sure you don't want to assault any of the other passengers?" Remo asked hopefully. "I think I smelled a Frenchman back in coach." He rose halfway to his feet.
With one bony hand the Master of Sinanju drew him back down into his seat.
"Now, this did take place but a few scant centuries ago," Chiun began. His singsong voice took on the familiar cadence of storyteller. "It was during that period of time after which Master Shiko had already trained a Master to succeed him, but before his time of ritual seclusion. Since his heir had not yet chosen a pupil of his own to pass on the ways of Sinanju, Master Shiko had not yet relinquished the title of Reigning Master, even though he had already ceded most of his responsibilities to his young protege."