Warren Murphy: Created, The Destroyer

He didn't bother to figure it out. There were many things he gave up thinking about. It didn't pay to think. Not with this crew.

He whistled softly to himself and stared at the high wide ceiling buttressed by thick metal beams. What would it be now? More gun training? In two weeks, instructors had shown him everything from Mauser action rifles to pipe pistols. He had been responsible for taking them apart, putting them together, knowing where they could be jammed; knowing the ranges and the accuracy. And then there were the position exercises.

The lying down with your arm over a pistol, then grabbing and firing. The guarded sleep where your lids are half shut and you don't give yourself away by moving your body first. That had been painful. Every time his stomach muscles twitched as they do with anyone trying to move an arm to a certain position while lying down, a thick stick would slap across his navel.

"The best way," an instructor had said cheerfully. "You really can't control your stomach muscles so we train them for you. We're not punishing you; we're punishing your muscles. They'll learn, even if you don't."

The muscles had learned.

And then the hello. For hours they had him practice the casual hello and the firing of the gun as the instructor moved to shake hands.

And over and over, the same words: "Get in close. Close, you idiot, close. You're not sending a telegram. Move your hand as if you're going to shake. No, no! The gun is obvious. You should have three shots off before anyone around you realizes you're hostile. Now try it again. No. With a smile. Try it again. Now with a little bounce to take the eyes off your hand. Ah, good. Once more."

It had become automatic. He had tried it on MacCleary once in a strategy session, those classes MacCleary chose to teach himself. Remo came in with the hello, but as he raised the blank pistol to fire, a blinding flash caught his eyes. He didn't know what had happened, not even when MacCleary, laughing, lifted him to his feet.

"You're learning," MacCleary had said.

"Yeah, it looks it. How come you noticed?"

"I didn't. My muscles did. You'll be taught that. Your reflex action is faster than your conscious action."

"Yeah," Remo said. "I can't wait." He rubbed his eyes. "What'd you hit me with?"

"Fingernails."

"What?"

"Fingernails." He extended his hand. "You see, I..."

"Never mind," Remo said and they got down to apartment entrances and locks. When the session was over, MacCleary asked, "Lonely?"

"No, it's a ball," Remo answered. "I go to classes. The instructor and me are the only ones there. I go to sleep and a guard wakes me up in the morning. I get up and a waitress brings me my food. They won't talk to me. They're afraid. I eat alone. I sleep alone. I live alone. Sometimes I wonder if the chair wouldn't have been better."

"Judge for yourself. You were in the chair. Did you enjoy it?"

"No. How'd you get me out anyway?"

"Easy. The pill was a drug to paralyze you into looking dead. We had the chair's electrical system rewired. When one of our guys pressed a switch, it cut the voltage down just enough to burn, but not to kill. After we left the place, a timer set the whole control panel afire so there'd be no traces. It was easy."

"Yeah, easy for you, but not for me."

"Don't knock it, you're here." MacCleary's constant smile disappeared. "But maybe you're right. The chair might have been better. This is a lonely business."

"You're telling me." Remo grunted a laugh. "Look. I'll be going out on assignments sometime. Why can't I go into town tonight?"

"Because when you pass that gate, you'll never return."

"That's no explanation."

"You can't afford to be seen near here. You know what happens if we're ever going to have to dump you."

Remo wished the blank gun strapped to his wrist were real. But then he probably couldn't get a shot off against MacCleary anyhow. Maybe just one night, one night into town, a few drinks. That was a modern lock but it had its weaknesses. What would they do to him? Kill him? They had too much invested. But then with this crew, who knew what the hell they'd do?

"You want a woman?" MacCleary asked.

"What kind, one of those ice cubes that cleans my room or delivers my food?"

"A woman," MacCleary said. "What do you care? Turn 'em upside down and they're all the same."

Remo agreed. And after it was over, he vowed it would be the last time he let CURE do his procuring for him.

Just before lunch, as he was washing his hands in the small bathroom attached to his room, there was a knock on the door.

"Come in," Remo yelled. He ran his hands under the cool water to rinse off the non-scented soap CURE had provided.

Drying bis hands on the unmarked white towel, he stepped into the room. What he saw wasn't really bad at all.

She was in her late twenties, a few years younger than Remo. Athletically developed breasts pushed against her blue clerk's uniform. Her brown hair was set pony-tail fashion. The skirt swirled around her rather flattish hips. Her legs were just a bit thick.

"I saw your room number and the time on the board," she said. Remo recognized the accent as Southern California. At least, that's what he would have written on one of the speech recognition tests.

"On the board?" Remo asked. He stared at her eyes. There was something missing. They were blue, but deadened like lenses on small Japanese hand cameras.

"Yes, the board," she said, not moving from the door. "This is the right room?"

"Uh, yeah," Remo said, dropping the towel on the bed. "Yeah, sure."

Her face brightened with a smile. "I like to be undressed when I do it," she said, staring at his broad muscled chest. Remo unconsciously pulled in his stomach.

She shut the door behind her and before she reached the bed she was unbuttoning the blouse. She dropped the blouse over the wooden bedpost and forced her hands behind her back to unhitch the bra.

Her stomach was white and flat. Her breasts dropped gently from the bra's cups, but not so far as to show she wasn't firm. The nipples were red and already hardened.

She folded the bra over the blouse and turned to Remo and said, "C'mon, I don't have all day. I have to be back in codes in forty minutes. This is my lunch hour."

Remo forced his eyes away, then threw the towel off the bed. He dropped his trousers and his hesitancy.

She was waiting for him under the sheets by the time he unlaced his shoes. Gently he lifted the sheets and got into bed. She forced one of his arms behind her back, the other between her legs, and whispered, "Kiss my breasts."

It was over in five minutes. She responded with an animal fury strangely without honest passion. Then she was out of bed before Remo was really sure he had had a woman.

"You're all right," she said, wriggling into her white panties.

Remo laid on his back and stared at the white ceiling. His right arm was tucked between his head and the pillow. "How would you know? You weren't here long enough."

She laughed. "I wish we had more time. Maybe tonight."

"Yeah. Maybe." Remo said, "but I usually have instructions at night."

"What kind?"

"The usual."

Remo glanced up at the girl. She was putting her bra back on, Hollywood style. She held it in front of her, points down, then bent forward lowering her breasts into the cups.

She kept talking: "I didn't know what kind of work you do. I mean, I never saw a number like yours on the board before."

Remo cut her off. "What's this board you're talking about?" He stared at the ceiling. She smelled strongly of deodorant.

"Oh. In the recreation room. If you want relationships, you put your room and code number on the board. A man and a woman's number come up and a clerk just matches them up. You're not supposed to know who you'll be doing it with. They say if you know you could get serious and everything. But after awhile, you can figure numbers and wait to put yours in. Like women always have a zero in front of their numbers, men have odd first numbers. You have nine. That's the first time I ever saw that."