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Warren Murphy: Sole Survivor

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Warren Murphy Sole Survivor

Sole Survivor: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Was this the way America ended-Not with a bang but a fizzle? The Russians who invented it called it the Sword of Damocles-a device that silently sterilized men and women alike. And now the Sword was in the worst possible hands - the out-of-whack android named Mr. Gordons that had returned from outer space to wreak revenge on those who had sent it there. Remo. Chiun. And the entire U.S. population. America was heading for a fate worse than death unless, Remo, Chiun and an untrustworthy, supersexy Soviet superspy could defeat this cybernaut chameleon that could destroy and attack with ease....

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"Malfunction?" wondered the President.

"I doubt it. I think it may have something to do with the object the crew claimed they encountered. There's a distinct possibility, Mr. President, that the craft and crew are casualties."

The President nodded. It was regrettable, tragic. But at least it was a Soviet craft this time. Perhaps now the American public would fully understand the dangers of space exploration.

In the background, the Russian calls for the Yuri Gagarin to respond repeated endlessly, the voice of the mission supervisor sinking into a weary monotone.

Then suddenly there came an answer. A voice that was flat, metallic, and entirely without accent or inflection. And the voice spoke in English. It said:

"Hello is all right."

Chapter 2

His name was Remo and all he wanted to do was help the homeless.

Below, Washington D.C. was a blaze of light, its white buildings pristine and ethereal. It was a city designed to be beautiful. By night it was. Artistically arranged spotlights made the Capitol resemble a temple of the ancient world. The White House was a shrine. The Lincoln Memorial was a fragment of the Greek Empire.

By day, it had appeared different. The buildings were grimy; the city beyond the fringes of the seat of government for the most powerful nation on earth was a ghetto. But by night it breathed the high ideals on which it had been built.

Remo spanked pollution particles off his palms. He had picked up the grit climbing the cold obelisk that was the Washington Monument. Normal people did not get their hands dirty climbing the Washington Monument. But then, normal people took the indoor stairs during normal visiting hours. Remo Williams had climbed the north face of the marble needle with his bare hands.

He was a young-looking man in simple clothes-tan chinos and a black T-shirt. His eyes were brown, his hair was a darker brown, and his unblemished skin held a light tan which even the ground spotlights could not whiten. He looked normal. In fact, he looked average.

His one distinguishing feature was a pair of abnormally thick wrists which he rotated absently.

With eyes that were more than normal, he scanned the city for the teeming legions of homeless and displaced persons that the TV anchorman had said, in doleful tones, were so numerous in America that they swarmed in the cradle of Liberty itself. He called it America's shame.

Remo, who had been born in America and raised as an orphan wanted to see all these homeless people for himself. He wanted to help. That was all. It would be one of his final services for the land that nurtured him, before he left it for good.

The trouble was, he couldn't find any homeless in the streets of Washington, D.C. Not during the day. And not again at night, when the nip of early spring dwindled into the chill of late winter. The homeless would show themselves at night, Remo thought. They would come out to sleep on the steamy grates of the Washington subway or crawl into cardboard boxes just off Massachusetts Avenue.

But wandering the streets, Remo had found no homeless people. Just the ordinary citizens of an inner city-the winos, the drug addicts, the petty street crooks, and the other kind-who wore three-piece suits and held forth in law offices and corporate boardrooms.

As a last resort, Remo had climbed the Washington Monument, knowing that if there were any homeless prowling the streets below, his abnormally keen eyes would spot them from that high perch.

Finally Remo did see someone. An old woman pushing a shopping cart filled to overflowing with plastic bags stuffed with dirty clothes and old newspapers.

Remo pushed himself off the blunt top of the Washington Monument and twisted in midair so that he clamped the north and east faces of the obelisk with his body. Applying intermittent pressure with the toes of his Italian loafers and using the clamping force of his arms to maintain his vertical position, he slid down the monument like a spider slipping down his web.

It was not the normal way to descend. But nothing about Remo Williams was normal.

He had stopped being normal the day he woke up in Folcroft Sanitarium and discovered he was not dead. He had expected to be dead. After all, hadn't he been tried and falsely convicted of the murder of a drug pusher? And hadn't he been taken to the electric chair?

It was, therefore, a delightful surprise for Remo Williams to awaken in a hospital bed and discover that he was not dead. The trouble was, not being dead was a temporary condition. Unless Remo Williams went to work for a secret government agency called CURE, his death would not be merely official; it would be real.

Remo chose the lesser of the two evils and was put into the hands of a Korean named Chiun, the most recent Master of Sinanju. The last of a line of assassins, Chiun trained Remo in the fabled art of Sinanju, the sun source of all the lesser martial arts. After only a day in Chiun's stern hands, Remo had begun to think about true death with a certain wistfulness. But eventually he learned to unlock the inner power that all men possessed, but which only the practitioners of Sinanju could ever know.

In Chiun's hands, Remo stopped being normal. For CURE, he fought America's enemies for nearly two decades while the world got older and Remo seemed to become younger.

Remo's feet touched the grass at the base of the Washington Monument, his knees barely bending with the impact. He trotted toward Constitution Avenue, oblivious of the cold that did not so much as raise the hairs on his bare forearms.

Remo no longer worked for CURE. He no longer killed in the service of the organization that had been set up by a now-dead President to deal with America's security problems. In many ways he was no longer an American. He was of Sinanju-the discipline, the traditions, and the tiny village on the West Korea Bay, where he had started to build a home for himself and his bride-to-be, Mah-Li, upon his retirement.

For the moment, however, he was stuck in America for a year while Chiun worked off a final obligation to CURE. Remo ached to return to Sinanju to finish his house.

Remo caught up to the big lady. "Excuse me, ma'am," he called.

At the sound of Remo's voice, the bag lady whirled like a Hell's Angel on a motorcycle. She shoved her heavy cart around with surprising agility.

"What do you want?" she demanded. Her voice was a croak. Her features were shrouded by a ragged blue kerchief. Dead strands of gray hair poked out from its edges.

"Are you homeless?" Remo asked.

"Are you?" the woman snapped back, jockeying the cart so that it stood, like a defense, between her and Remo.

"More like displaced," said Remo. "But never mind me. I'm asking about you."

"I asked first," the woman said.

"Actually, I did," Remo pointed out. "Listen, don't get excited. I just want to help you."

"What do you know about homelessness?" the woman said, shoving the cart in his way when Remo tried to step around it.

"I was raised in an orphanage," Remo explained, backing off. "I know how it feels. I wasn't exactly homeless then. But I had no family. It never got better. Not in Vietnam, not after I got back to America. I've lived in just about every city you could name, drifting from one place to another. So I know what it's like. A little. That's why I want to help."

"You're a Vietnam burnout case?" the woman said loudly. Too loudly.

"I wouldn't say that," Remo replied. Something was odd here. Remo wasn't sure what it was. The woman seemed no longer afraid of him, but she kept that shopping cart positioned so that it always faced him, the heaps of plastic garbage bags practically in his face.

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