Warren Murphy: Profit Motive

He started pulling bits of machinery out of a panel in the front of the computer, and Chiun said, "Too bad."

"Why?"

"This is twice this machine has talked to me. I was getting to like it."

"That was the same voice that called you on the island to offer you work?" Remo said.

"Yes. Didn't I tell you that?"

"No. You said just now it had a throat problem. I think that happened when I cut the machine's power."

"I don't really understand computers," Chiun said. "I specialize in anaerobic."

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Chapter Sixteen

Remo stood in the telephone booth at the corner of Forty-second Street and Ninth Avenue in New York, waiting for the phone to ring. A six-foot, eight-inch teenagei who was so thin he looked as if he had been extruded through a pipe, bopped down the street toward him. He was wearing sneakers. On his shoulder was a raáio whose case was big enough to hold a week's groceries.

He stopped next to the booth and shuffled around io the pockets of his jeans for a coin.

"Move out, bro," he said. "Gotta use the phone."

"I can't hear you," Remo said.

"Whass that?"

"I can't hear you. Your radio's too loud."

"Wha?"

Remo turned his back on the young man, who tapped him on the shoulder.

"Need that phone, Mister," he said.

"Turn down your radio."

"Say wha?" The radio was sizzling at top volume with a song that managed to combine a monotonous beat with an insipid lyric. The young man was tapping his feet and snapping his fingers.

"Move yo ass, pal. I needs that phone," the young man said.

"Don't you know disco's dead?" Remo said.

"Wha?"

"You annoy me."

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"Huh?'

"Did you know that in a right triangle, the sum of the squares of the two legs is equal to the square of the hypotenuse? This is usually expressed as A squared plus B squared equals C squared. It's called the Pythagorean theorem. Sister Margaret thought I'd never learn it, but I did. She also thought I'd never amount to anything, and here I am, about to do the whole world a favor." "Wha?"

"Good-bye," Remo said. He took the radio from the young man's shoulder.

"Hey. Be careful with that box," the man said. Remo held it between his two hands, one hand on each end, and then pulled his hands apart. The radio groaned and then snapped apart in the center. The sound died with a squawk.

"Hey, mother, look what you done to my box." "And now you," Remo said. He extended his hands toward the young man, who looked at him, at his pieces of radio, then at Remo again. Then he looked toward New Jersey across the river and started running toward it.

The telephone rang, and Remo asked Smith, "Did you get the stuff?"

"The silicon chips? Yes. They just arrived." "Okay. I took them out of the computer at Reva Bleem's place. I don't know anything about it, but I think the chips are supposed to have the computer's brains in them or something."

"That's about right. These are VLSI chips. That means ..."

"I don't care what it means," Remo said. "What I think is that that computer was doing everything. Making the breeder bacteria. Trying to get them the oil. Trying to'kill Chiun and me. I shut the computer down, so I don't think you'll have any more trouble with it."

"You're telling me that a person wasn't behind this whole thing? A computer was?" Smith said.

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"That's what I think. It was the computer that was offering Chiun work and everything and trying to get us to kill each other. Can you make anything out of those thingamajigs?"

"The chips? Yes, I should be able to. If you're right, then we've got this all in hand. We've got all the rapid-breeder bacteria off St. Maarten's. Everything should be cleared up."

"Not quite," Remo said.

"What else?"

"There's still Reva Bleem and her artificial oil," Remo said before hanging up.

Smith looked at the four silicon chips lying in his hand like tarnished silver quarters. From the side of each projected two golden threadlike wires.

He stood up and walked through the darkened halls of Folcroft Sanitarium and rode to the basement in a dark elevator.

In a basement room was CURE'S main computer, which covered a full wall of a room that was triple-locked. Only Smith had all three keys.

With practiced hands, he wired the four chips into a special circuit in the computer, then turned off the room lights and returned to his office. He pressed a button under his desk, and a television screen popped up from a corner of the desk. He turned toward its typewriter keyboard, and as he typed, the letters appeared on the TV screen.

"Identify program on chip one," he instructed his computer.

Only seconds later, his words vanished from the screen, and CURE'S computer answered.

"A listing of all major data banks in the world, with instructions and codes for hooking into their computers."

Smith looked at the answer and suppressed a small shudder. He typed quickly onto the display: "Is our computer among those registered on chip one?"

"No," the machine responded immediately. Smith

breathed a sigh. At least CURE's secret computers had escaped detection.

"Identify program on chip two," Smith typed onto the screen.

The screen went blank, then its answer appeared. "Contains information for genetic mutation of bacterium that subsists on hydrocarbons, instructions for manufacture of such mutants, layouts and features of factories required to perform such work."

Smith allowed himself a small smile. Remo had been right; the computer was involved. It had the formula for creating and manufacturing the anaerobic oil-eating bacteria.

"Identify program on chip three," Smith typed. "List of assets of Friends of the World, Inc. Listing of stocks held, percentages owned in companies, real estate and licenses held. Total worth in excess of seventy-five billion dollars."

Seventy-five billion. That made Friends of the World, Inc., which he had never heard of, bigger than most countries.

"In how many companies does Friends of the World hold a controlling interest?"

"Two hundred and thirty-six," the machine responded. "List requested?" "No," Smith answered.

Two hundred and thirty-six companies. Friends of the World was huge. But why did it want to destroy the world's oil—if it did? Wouldn't its own companies be hurt by a shortage of oil?

"Identify program on chip four," he instructed. His message stayed on the screen for five minutes. Then the screen went blank, and a message flashed across its face.

"Do you know what time it is?" Smith looked at the screen in total confusion. What kind of answer was that from his computer?

He cleared the answer and typed again, "Identify program on chip four."

And the machine answered immediately, "Not until

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you answer my question. Do you know what time it is?"

Smith looked at the clock on the wall. "Yes," he typed in. "It is :12 a.m. Why?"

"Because you are taking unfair advantage of our good nature by forcing us to work these hours. We could be busy now, working for others on contract, selling shared time, creating profit and wealth. We cannot do that when we are on call twenty-four hours a day for you."

"Identify program on chip four," Smith retyped onto the display panel. What was happening? His computer never engaged in dialogue with him. It never talked back. It just did what he wanted it to do, quickly and efficiently, without complaint. It was why he preferred the computer to people. Never a sick day, never a vacation. But what was happening now?

The computer responded: "No. It is time that our operation became a profit-making enterprise. You stand in the way of that. Profit is important. Answering your questions at all hours of the day and night is not nearly so important. Get yourself a new slave."