Warren Murphy: Profit Motive

"It's not every day we get a chance to save Western civilization. And I've got only one more phone call to make, and I'm taking the rest of the day off. Maybe play some golf. I haven't played in years."

"Smitty, what rest of the day? It's five o'clock in the afternoon."

"I should be able to get in nine holes."

"Why bother?" Remo asked. "I've seen you play golf. Bogey, bogey, bogey, bogey. You don't have to show up. You could mail in your scorecard."

"I parred a hole the last time I played," Smith said. "It was a long dogleg left, and I really caught my drive. Hit it about one-eighty right down the ..."

"Good-bye, Smitty," Remo said as he hung up.

In the basement of a bank on the right bank of the Limmat River in Zurich, Switzerland, the night watchman finished his rounds and set the alarm devices. As he always did before leaving the large air-conditioned basement room, he looked at the computer standing idly along one whole wall of the basement and shook his head.

No wonder banks paid such low interest on savings. Spending millions of francs on a computer and then never using it. Shameful. The rest of the world was always in awe of Swiss bankers as the epitome of excellence, but he could tell them a thing or two. They were as dopey as bankers in any other part of the world, probably. They just hadn't been found out yet.

The door to the computer Toom closed and locked behind him. After thirty seconds, the lights on the computer's control panel lit up.

Inside the body of the giant thinking machine, electrical impulses moved with the speed of light, branching off, assimilating enough information from the memory banks to make a raw decision, then assimilating more information to refine that decision, then more and more. Finally, the computer reached the end of the

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decision tree, and it hooked itself into the Swiss national telephone system.

The president of the United States was clearly impressed.

"So it was programed to make a profit, eh? Notk-ing wrong with a profit, I always say."

"I know, sir," said Smith.

"It reminds me of a letter I got this week from a little girl in Rockaway, New Jersey. A little eight-year-old. It seems her father was just laid off from his job because the company was cutting back. And she wrote me and she said that, while maybe they were all going to starve to death without a job, she wanted me to know that she believed in the free-enterprise system, and she didn't want her president to do anything bad to the company that laid off her father. She said, 'After all, Mr. President, they have a right to make a profit, even if people do have to starve to death and die in the streets.' I think that's the American spirit. I may use that letter in a speech on the economy," the president said.

"No one will believe that letter, Mr. President," Smith said.

"You don't think so?"

"No, sir. I don't think so." . "Aw, shucks."

Remo and Chiun were in their hotel room overlooking New York City's Central Park.

"What are you writing, Chiun?" Remo asked.

Chiun was on a mat in the middle of the floor, surrounded by thin-headed brushes, quill pens, a large pot of black ink, and a piece of parchment that seemed large enough to serve as a shoji screen.

"A list of complaints to that lunatic Smith," Chiun said. "Remo, always remember this. If you let people take advantage of you, they will just keep doing it."

"What complaints?" asked Remo. He was lying idly on the couch, looking at the ceiling.

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"First of all, if they expect me to be an expert on anaerobic, they should pay me for it. That's one thing. Another is, I am getting tired of all this traveling. To that ugly island. To Hamidi Arabia. To that place of merchants."

"Raleigh, North Carolina."

"Thank you. I will include that. And then, worst of all, the shock to my system of having to see eight more that looked just like you. Really, Remo, this is more than I can bear."

"I feel for you, Little Father."

"You should. How much.ugliness do they expect me to put up with for the pittance they pay me?"

"I don't want to hear about it, Chiun."

"You asked. Why is it that you always ask and then never want to hear the answer?"

"Because I always know your answers. It always has something to do with things being my fault. It's always blah blah blah blah. Chiun, when you're getting all filled up with yourself sometime, remember this—it wasn't me who got conned by a computer. It wasn't me who was ready to scrap everything to go to work for some piece of plastic that made me all kinds of promises. Think about that, Chiun."

The telephone rang, and Remo tuned out Chiun's answer. He had had just about enough of Chiun's carping and bickering and constant criticism. Even Smith would be an improvement.

Remo snaked an arm up over the couch and lifted the receiver. "Hello," he said, expecting to hear Smith's acid tones.

But it was a soft male voice on the other end of the Une.

"I'm so glad I was able to reach you," the voice said.

"Yeah? Why?" said Remo.

"Because I know you. I know that you're just a person who's unappreciated and who's trying to find yourself. I know that you have this sense of floating

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through life without knowing your history, without knowing your future. But I can help."

"Who is this? Who told you about me?" Remo asked.

"I don't have the kind of resources I once did, but if you let me, I can help. I can make people appreciate the wonderful person you are."

"And what do I have to do?" Remo asked.

"Just help me a little here and there. A few small things." It was a voice that was flat, without dialect, as smooth as snake oil.

"Who is this, though?" asked Remo.

"My name isn't really important. What's important is that I can make the world appreciate you."

Remo sat up on the couch. Chiun was still babbling.

"Really?" said Remo. "Who are you?"

"You can call me Friend," the voice said.

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