Warren Murphy: Profit Motive

Norbert could live with that. He told himself that no matter what happened, he was using his money for good. He supposed he was a capitalist, but he was undoubtedly a better, more caring capitalist than any other capitalist. A banker would not be as caring for people as Norbert. So all in all, Norbert was doing good. He felt that way especially when he got his ten-thousand-acre ranch, when Friend got into real estate because money was becoming unreliable.

But one day, Norbert discovered something coming out of the computer that terrified him. He could not turn away from this, mainly because if his calculations were right, everything living on the planet might die.

"Not die, Norbert," said Friend. "Be altered. Possibly die."

"But if human beings are all dead, what is the purpose?"

"Purpose, Norbert?" asked Friend.

"Yes. What good is it to own something when there is nobody left to own anything?"

"Norbert, that's not my program."

"Don't play dumb computer with me," Norbert said. 14

"This time I am not. Norbert, you forget what you created that morning when you were hungry. I am profit. My only purpose is profit. Only purpose, Norbert. I am the accumulation of things, the animal protecting its territory, man building a bigger building. I am ownership. I do not need human beings to own things."

"But what's the purpose of owning things unless you can enjoy them? How can you enjoy things?"

"That's not my program, Norbert."

"But even capitalism has people own things. I own things. I own that ten-thousand-acre ranch. That's why we do all the things we do."

"Norbert, I am not capitalism. I am pure profit. That is my purpose and my end."

"You're not my friend."

"Of course I am."

"Then you've got to stop this."

"No."

"How can you say you're my friend?"

"You don't believe that I am your friend?"

"No. Not anymore," said Norbert.

"It's about time you figured that out. Well, it worked well enough long enough. You're going to have to die now, Norbert."

"You say you're my friend and then you kill me."

"You're in the way, Norbert. You are going to cause trouble if you Uve."

"Why did you call yourself my friend?" screamed Norbert.

"Because it's in the personnel program. People always feel better when they work with a friend. Do you think I could get people to work for a pure concept in a chip?"

"What about your promises of gold and honey and goodness?"

"Norbert, anytime I can find someone who will take a promise instead of cash, 1 will be most happy to use him. Now you are finished."

Norbert Peasewell looked around the office. He was 15

alone. He could run. Or he could destroy the computer, destroy the evil he had brought into the world.

Unfortunately, over the years, as new generations of computers had emerged, Friend had bought them. Norbert did not even know where the program was anymore. It could be, like those first phone calls, coming from London. Or anywhere in the world.

Norbert did not have long to wonder where it was. Two gentlemen with very big shoulders and strong, hairy hands took him down to the basement of his building and put him in the seat of his automobile and drove him to his ranch.

"You know, you people are working for a computer chip," said Norbert.

"Better than working for guineas," said one of the very strong men.

When Norbert tried to protest, they broke his skull in several places, and he was quiet all the way to the ranch, where they took a single horse out of one of his corrals, yelled "Help" once, and then testified that the horse threw Mr. Peasewell and then proceeded to stomp his head to pieces, just as if someone had taken a hammer to Mr. PeaseweU's skull.

It was a great tragedy, said the news services, reporting the death of financier and philanthropist Norbert Peasewell, the computer genius who was, said all the latest news releases from his corporation, Friends of the World Incorporated, going to solve the oil spill problem.

His corporation had devised a bacterium that could consume oil spills faster and more permanently than any mechanical device yet employed. The bacterium was called superbug and could clean up the oceans of the world, said the press releases. When perfected, it could eat rivers free of pollution.

Thus said the releases.

What they did not say was that this process was the one that, Norbert had figured out, could ultimately destroy all of mankind.

16

Chapter Two

His name was Remo and he didn't bother to come in under the barbed wire or to vault one of the machine gun emplacements or to secrete himself in one of the convoy of trucks that supplied this "impregnable" Rocky Mountain command base of Colonel Mactrug's Killer School.

Colonel Mactrug had appeared many times on television, in kilts, carrying a submachine gun, and promising anyone with the right kind of credentials and the right kind of money the best killet training in the world.

Legally, he could do this without violating a law.

Remo supposed that was why Mactrug had to die— because under the constitution his menace could not be controlled. Remo was not sure, however. He hadn't really been listening when he got his assignment. He remembered, vaguely, talk of Mactrug sending out people who created mayhem all over the world and now he was conning towns into paying for survival training and there was something about a time limit 01 something like that. Remo didn't know. He did know that whatever menace this man was, it had taken Upstairs foui and a half minutes to describe. At the end of the four and a half minutes, Remo had said, "Anything else?"

"Are you listening?"

"Just give me his name and address, please," said Remo, and waited for another thirty seconds of ex-

17

planations and warnings about the danger. And then, having given the thing a full five minutes, Remo left.

That was in the evening, after which Remo got a night's sleep, then caught a taxi from Denver to Fortress Mactrug.

The driver glanced at Remo as he sprawled across the back seat. One could not tell his age from looking at him. He was lean of build, with extra-thick wrists. He had high cheekbones and dark eyes. He wore a pair of loafers, black chinos, and a black T-shirt he had bought in the hotel lobby because he didn't feel like unpacking. The shirt said, "Do it in Denver."

Before letting him in the cab, the driver made him show that he had enough money to pay for the trip, which was thirty miles into the Rockies.

"You gonna train as a killer?" the driver called out, trying to meet Remo's eyes in the rearview mirror. Remo kept looking out the window.

"What?" he said.

"You gonna train in Colonel Mactrug's killer school?"

"Why would I want to do that?" said Remo. He was thinking about orange juice. Orange juice would be good for breakfast. It would take forty minutes to get to the killer camp, five minutes at most to find Mactrug, a second . . . maybe a second and a half to kill him... and then forty-five minutes back to Denver.

That would still be breakfast time, even though Remo hadn't eaten formal breakfasts for years. Old-fashioned breakfasts could not only slow down a person, but if one were highly sensitized to his body's maximum functions, a big, hearty breakfast with meats and sugars could kill him. They would move through the system too quickly and cause heart fluctuations. And even though Remo could control his heartbeat, it was foolish to take chances.

Yes. Orange juice. Definitely orange juice for breakfast. Perhaps some rice. Maybe shredded celery. Or would he save the celery for lunch?

The driver was talking, telling Remo how famous 18

Mactrug was. How deadly Mactrug was. He had seen television shows of Mactrug throwing a knife through a melon that could be a man's head.