On his way to the office door, Mark glanced at his wristwatch.
"Uh-oh," he said when he saw that it was four minutes after six.
Expecting to be chewed out for his tardiness, he rapped a gentle knuckle on the door even as he pushed it open.
As usual Smith sat behind his broad desk. Through the one-way picture window behind the CURE director, the thinning black trees of Folcroft's back lawn surrendered their burden of dark leaves to dusk. Beyond the trees the choppy waves of Long Island Sound were gray and cold. At the same time in a few short days, the end of daylight savings time would bring nightfall an hour sooner.
Smith's face was stern.
"I'm sorry I'm late," Mark said as he clicked the door shut. "It won't happen again."
He was surprised when Smith did not so much as raise a disapproving eyebrow. His hard expression never wavering, the CURE director beckoned the young man forward.
"Is something wrong?" Mark asked as he slipped into his usual straight-backed chair.
"The report you got this afternoon on the metal fragment Remo found in Florida," Smith said, not answering the question. "The results were conclusive?"
It was an odd question. They had discussed the lab report only an hour before. Afterward Smith had said that he was going to do some research. By the sounds of it, he had found something that was not to his liking.
"Yes," Mark replied. "It was a special alloy created to be virtually impervious to intense heat and chemical abrasion." He shook his head, confused. "Is everything all right, Dr. Smith? I sent it by courier to one of your approved labs. If you want it retested, I can send it to one of the others."
"The lab is not the problem," Smith said darkly. He sank back in his chair, a dim shadow in his gloomy office.
Howard detected something in the older man's tone he had never heard before. It was deep concern. Bordering on fear.
"I have been doing some digging," Smith said somberly. "There are few applications for such an alloy. Since one is space exploration, proximity obviously dictated that I should start with NASA. I have concluded that this is indeed the likeliest source."
"Remo said they couldn't identify it," Howard frowned.
Smith was not dissuaded. "That is unlikely," he said. "Look at this." He pulled his chair in tight to his desk. The old man looked down over his monitor like a modern sorcerer searching for augers in the realm of cyberspace.
Curious, Mark circled around the desk.
On the monitor was a picture Smith had found at a science magazine's Web site.
The subject of the photograph was a giant robotic spider. Underneath the picture a caption identified it as the Virgil probe, part of a new generation of NASA space-exploration technology. Technical data filled the screen all around the picture. Small images of Neptune and Venus had been plugged in around Virgil, red arrows detailing atmospheric and climatic information.
Knuckles leaning on the lip of the desk, Howard glanced down at Smith.
"I don't think that's what we're after, Dr. Smith," Mark cautioned slowly.
"You are correct," Smith said gravely. "Our adversary is far more dangerous than any of us realized." He glanced up at Howard. "You have analyzed some of CURE's operations database. Have you reached the section on Mr. Gordons?"
Mark shook his head. "I don't think so," he admitted. "What's his first name?" he asked, hoping to jog his memory.
"He-or rather, it-doesn't have one," Smith explained. "Gordons is an artificially created entity built by the space program. He has the form of a man, but he is not human. He was meant to be utilized for interstellar exploration, but he escaped from his lab years ago and has been at large ever since. CURE has encountered him on numerous occasions over the course of the last two and a half decades."
As he stood beside Smith, Mark Howard's face was perfectly flat. Moving only his eyes, he looked from the picture of the Virgil probe to the CURE director's serious face.
"I'm not sure what to make of this, Dr. Smith," he ventured cautiously.
"I know it sounds absurd," Smith agreed, "but you need only review the material we have collected on Gordons to see that it is true. In point of fact, science has nearly caught up with his design in the years since his creation. There have been great advances in robotics, computer science, artificial intelligence and miniaturization. At the time of his creation he might have seemed like science fiction, but science fact is rapidly catching up with him."
Mark already knew from experience that CURE dealt with things that seemed somewhat out of the ordinary. And the truth was Mark Howard himself somewhat fit the mold of extranormal phenomena.
"All right," he offered. "I'll review the Gordons data. But if what you're saying is true, he'd technically be an android. A machine in human form. What does he have to do with this?" He nodded to the image on the computer.
"Gordons is more than just a simple android," Smith said, exhaling. "He was programmed to survive. It is a command that supersedes all others. In his quest to survive, he is able to assimilate all materials from his environment necessary to fulfill that function. During Remo and Chiun's last encounter with him six years ago, they disposed of Gordons's brain housing in a Mexican volcano. At the time I had hoped that his metallic components would melt in the magma. If not, it would not matter so much, for he was finally isolated. Left in a place where there was no hope of assimilating the material, he would need to remake himself."
In a flash Howard had a moment of intuitive clarity.
"The Virgil probe," the young man announced. "It's supposed to be used on hostile planets. They would have had to simulate an alien environment to see if it worked. NASA must have brought it to that volcano for testing." He nodded to himself, not waiting for a response. "They sent it down there and it found something it didn't expect. Whatever was left of your Mr. Gordons must have assimilated the probe."
"It appears that is the case," Smith agreed. "I have reviewed NASA's internal data. They brought Virgil to the Popocatepetl volcano late last week. It was only a few days after it was brought back to the United States that the first spider sighting took place in Florida. I am almost certain we are dealing with Gordons." He glanced up at Howard. "However, Remo and Chiun are unaware it is him."
The assistant CURE director's brow creased. "But they'll be safe, right?" he asked, his voice troubled. "I mean, they've beaten this thing before."
"Mr. Gordons is no ordinary foe. Yes, they have succeeded in neutralizing him in the past, but not without great difficulty. And I fear complacency might be their enemy this time. If they are certain in their belief that Gordons is dead, the risk to them increases."
Mark straightened, a determined cast to his soft jaw. "Then I'll fly to Maine and warn them."
"You would not reach them in time," Smith said. "They are already on the ground there."
Standing beside Smith's desk, Mark Howard felt a surge of impotent frustration. He clenched and unclenched his hands, unsure what to do.
Outside, night had taken firm hold. The grounds beyond Smith's one-way picture window had been swallowed up by an impenetrable cloak of blackness.
"There must be something we can do," Howard insisted.
Smith nodded. "Yes, there is," he said. Still seated, the older man looked up over the tops of his rimless glasses. "We will remain at Folcroft and use CURE's resources to uncover who at NASA is responsible for the events in Florida. Someone there has been directing Gordons in the guise of the Virgil probe. If Remo and Chiun succeed in Maine, we will send them back to Florida to deal with his accomplices."
"And if they fail?" Howard asked.
Smith didn't miss a beat. "Then CURE will be without its enforcement arm and you will have gotten your wish."
Turning from his subordinate, he began typing swiftly at his computer keyboard.