Remo, on the other hand, had never been good at sucking up, and he had no intention of starting now. Ahead, B.O. Anson's arthritis was nowhere to be seen as he drove a deep ball down the fairway. This time a joyful laugh escaped his widely parted lips. He muttered something to the men with him, and they chuckled appreciatively.
As the four men climbed back into their carts for the trip to the fifth tee, Remo slipped quickly around the periphery of the course. Anyone who saw him assumed he was late for an appointment, since his gait was more a hurried glide than a sprint. However, if they'd continued to watch they would have noticed that the speed at which he was traveling was only deceptively slow.
Somehow, without appearing to rush, Remo managed to outdistance B. O. Anson's party on their way to the next tee.
When the former football star's cart slowed to a stop, Remo was a hundred yards ahead, waiting at the edge of the green near the woods that rimmed the course.
B.O. was still laughing when he approached the tee.
Remo had taken only one ball with him. Unlike the ones he'd bought, this ball was personalized.
He noted the name on the side as he fished it from his pocket. "B. O. Anson."
In the shade of a denuded maple, he dropped the ball he had swiped from the ex-football player to the grass.
This wasn't acting out, he reasoned as he lowered the head of the wedge. It was making lemonade, pure and simple.
B.O. hauled back and swung mightily. The ball whooshed audibly from the tee, arcing high into the pale autumn sky.
Another clean shot down the fairway, this one closing in on 260 yards. The ex-football star was having one of the best games of his life. As expected, his mouth dropped wide in the same open smile he displayed after all his best strokes.
The instant he saw the first flash of teeth, Remo brought his own club back.
The wedge flew too fast to even make a sound. Over his shoulder and back down again. When the club connected, the ball didn't have time to flatten before it screamed from the grass. It became a white missile flying at supersonic speed.
Remo alone tracked its path as it soared a beeline up the fairway, directly into the happy gaping mouth of B.O. Anson.
It hit with a wet thwuck. When the ball reemerged into daylight an instant later, it was dragging ragged bits of scalp and brain in its wake.
B.O.'s grinning mouth remained open wide. His dull eyes were unblinking. For an instant Remo saw a flash of sunlight shining down the dark tunnel the golf ball had drilled through his hard skull.
And then the most famous ex-football-playing murderer the world had ever known fell face first into the grass.
As his golf buddies began cautiously poking Barrabas Orrin Anson with the grip ends of their drivers, Remo Williams nodded in satisfaction.
"Hole in one," he said, impressed.
No doubt about it. This was the best lemonade he'd ever tasted. Tossing his club into the woods, he stuffed his hands deep in the pockets of his chinos. Whistling a tune from The Little Mermaid, Remo sauntered off the fairway.
Chapter 3
Behind the closed door labeled Special Project Director, Virgil Climatic Explorer, Dr. Peter Graham was being read the riot act by his NASA superiors.
"Who's going to pay for this disaster?" asked Deployment Operations Director Buck Thruston.
"Technically, this falls in the lap of Science Director for Solar System Exploration," Alice Peak replied crisply. She spoke with great authority since, as Director of Space Policy, this would put it out of her purview.
The Virgil probe sat motionless in the corner of the big room. Though they had tried to get it to walk inside after the long flight back from Mexico, the probe had refused to respond to any commands. They'd been forced to carry it in.
"Wouldn't it be Director of Planetary Exploration?" Thruston asked, confused. At NASA it was hard to keep track of all of the various department directors. At last count there were 8,398 of them in all. They were pretty sure of this figure, since the office of the Director of Director Enumeration had said so.
"Solar system is above planetary," Alice replied.
"But the planets are in the solar system."
"Doesn't matter," she insisted. "They're separate divisions. As soon as something hits solid earth-or solid anything-planetary kicks in."
"I'm not sure that matters right now," Pete Graham interjected. He wasn't watching Peak or Thruston. His eyes flicked nervously to the man who stood silently behind them.
"But the asteroids are spatial bodies," Thruston insisted, ignoring Graham. "And Virgil could explore them."
"Apples and oranges," Alice dismissed. "At present asteroid exploration falls under the Director for Intra-Mission Energy. Not applicable in the current situation."
As the two spoke about the various NASA divisions and how neither of them could be blamed for the malfunction of the Virgil probe, the third person in their small group pushed himself to his feet.
Zipp Codwin had been leaning against Graham's desk. He had listened with chilling patience to the Virgil designer's digest of the events in Mexico. Not once during Pete's five-minute summary had Codwin so much as blinked.
Codwin was NASA's current administrator. A retired Air Force colonel, Zipp had been drafted into the space program during its earliest days. Older now, he retained the thin, muscled frame of his youth.
His short steel-gray hair was cut at right angles. A level could have rested on his granite square chin without the bubble shifting a single millimeter. His eyes were as lifeless and black as the void he had twice visited in two of the tiny Mercury modules.
When he saw Colonel Codwin straighten, Pete Graham gulped reflexively. Of the three people in his lab, Zipp was the only one who inspired real fear in Graham.
Buck Thruston was still arguing with Alice Peak. "But we're still in phase one of asteroid exploration. Prestage two should fall under the Director for Outer-"
He never finished his thought.
"Faster, better, cheaper!" Administrator Zipp Codwin barked hotly. His words were as clipped and sharp as his yellowing fingernails.
Buck jumped; Alice gasped. Shocked to silence, both directors wheeled on their superior.
"Faster, better, cheaper!" they echoed with military sharpness. Buck offered something that might have been a salute if a salute involved two shaking hands and a thumb in one eye.
The NASA administrator crossed his arms. A deeply skeptical expression settled in the angles of his face.
"I hear the words, but I do not see the results," Zipp Codwin snapped. "FBC is policy at the new user-friendly NASA. Or have we forgotten?"
Alice and Buck shook their heads so violently they bumped foreheads. Nearby, Pete Graham shook his head, too.
None of them could forget NASA's new policy. They weren't allowed to.
The Faster, Better, Cheaper slogan was now a mantra around the space agency, hauled out whenever anyone questioned its fiscal irresponsibility. Zipp had personally hired an outside public-relations firm to come up with the slogan. It had cost NASA five hundred thousand dollars.
"No, sir," Pete Graham replied.
Codwin's nostrils flared like an angry bull's. Marching over to where Virgil crouched, he extended a hard finger.
"Okay, let's figure this out, then. You built this fast and cheap, right?"
Some of the tension drained from Graham's voice. He was on more familiar ground here.
"Yes, sir," he answered. "Under time and under budget."
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