Warren Murphy: Dying Space

"You will lie beside me," the woman purred, spreading the red gauze.

"What do you want" Remo said flatly.

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"You. You amuse me, just like little monkeys." She patted one of the animals on its head. The creature looked at her submissively. Then, with the back of her hand, she swatted the black box embedded in its neck, and the monkey screamed. It curled into a tight ball and rolled whimpering away from her until the leash around its throat strained.

She laughed when she saw the look of disgust on Remo's face. "You find me cruel, yes?" she asked coyly.

"I wouldn't exactly call you a bleeding heart."

"These animals we breed for dying," she said, letting go of the leashes and kicking the monkeys off the bed. They scurried chattering into a corner of the room. "Soon they take long journey where bad germs will kill them. Transmitters in their necks will inform us how long they go before they die."

"So I heard. Anerobic bacteria," Remo said.

"Da, exactly. Professor tell you?"

"No, the monkeys."

She laughed. "That good. Monkeys tell. Hah. I know professor. She will tell us also, everything we want. She fix robot, she tell everything about computer. Just for boom-boom with Ivan."

She snaked an arm around Remo and kissed him fiercely on the mouth. Uncontrollably, his arms began flapping.

"Hold still long enough for necessary kissing as outlined in Worker's Marriage Manual," she said.

"Sorry, but we're not married. What's it say in the Worker's Makeout Manual?"

She reached out with her painted claws, her

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tongue flicking Between her lips. Remo's nervous system chose that precise moment to execute a double back flip, pulling down the bed's red gauze canopy and tangling the high commander in it like a porpoise.

An unfamiliar feeling swept Remo's body, and it took a split second for him to place it. It was fear. By the moment his body was growing more and more out of control, and somewhere in this pile of stones was Gordons with only one message in his metallic little mind: kill Remo. And what of Chiun? And the professor? And America, with the threat of the Volga over its head?

As suddenly as his movements had begun, Remo dropped to the floor and lay supine, staring at the ceiling. The woman extricated herself from the netting and straddled him, panting. "You are finished? You dare to lie on floor, no kissee, nothing? You obviously not read Worker's Marriage Manual."

He tried to stand up, but his body would not let him.

"This not look like very active position," the woman said.

"Oh, it's deceptive. Nothing shows on the outside. Your liver does all the work."

"I see," she said thoughtfully. "Americans very clever in techniques of pleasure. From leading lazy, money-grubbing lives." With one hand she pulled Remo's T-shirt over his head. In another moment his pants were off. He be^an to twitch again. The twitches turned into spasms. Before long, his arms and legs were flailing in all directions.

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"This more like it," the high commander said.

"It's all from the liver," Remo grunted as he tried unsuccessfully to bring himself under control.

"You sock it to me this way, okay, Yankee?"

He flipped into a handstand. She rose with him, hanging upside down and yelling in delight. "This is what Americans call kinky, yes?" she leered.

"This is what Americans call a pain in the ass." He twitched his way to the corner. She clung to him every step of the way. "Love it to death, imperialist baby," she said. "High commander love kinky boom-boom."

In an effort to stand up, Remo raised his arms. The insteps in his feet coiled and he sprang, astonished, toward the chandelier in the center of the ceiling, the high commander in tow.

"Highly inventive," she said approvingly. The chandelier crashed down in a shower of lights and sparkling glass.

Remo said, "Look, you'll have to excuse me."

"Hah," the high commander said. "American sex. Five minutes, and poof. Pale and bloodless is American nookie. Your people have no feeling. Americans make only dollars, not love. Nowhere in America is man to please Russian woman."

Remo touched a spot on the high commander's left earlobe.

"I command you to provide wild and crazy orgasm, like American magazines talk about."

Remo sighed. "One magazine orgasm coming up," he said. He poked her between her third and fourth ribs. She yelled and whipped her head

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back and forth. He touched her ankle with his big toe. She bared her teeth and pounded her chest. He pinched a spot on her thigh. She burst into a chorus of "Do It Again Like You Did Last Summer, Baby!" in Russian.

When she regained her breath, she sat up. "You will get worker's medal for this."

"The presentation ceremony must be a dilly," Remo said.

"Now we talk softly/'she whispered.

"About what?"

"About Communism, of course. Is on page 210 of Worker's Marriage Manual. I give you copy."

Til pass."

"You not find Communism interesting?" she said archly.

"As interesting as tearing the wings off flies."

She stood up, her hands on her hips. "You have insulted Communist Party," she said. "For this you will be punished." She bellowed for a guard.

When the uniformed detachment entered, she shouted, "Get him out of here."

"Back to his cell, Madam Commander?" one asked.

"No. Put him in the dungeon. By himself."

Remo felt himself being dragged from the office. It was all over. His strength was almost gone. He had nothing left.

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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"Hold still," the professor whispered to the glassy-eyed robot in front of her. The instrument in her hand welded together two wires in his chest.

"I'm experiencing an unusual sensation," Mr. Gordons said.

"Is it heat?" She held up the tiny blowtorch. "I'm welding."

"I don't know. I don't think so. It is a strange and terrible feeling." Then something clicked in his throat and he said, "Now I know what the feeling is. It is fear."

"Fear? How can you feel fear? You're a robot."

"I am afraid, Mom."

The professor stepped back a pace. She looked at his panic-stricken face. "It's the creativity," she said slowly. "The heat from this blowtorch is stepping up the fusion of the silver transistors. That must be it."

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"Am I becoming creative?" Mr. Gordons asked.

"I think you might be."

"Hey, what you two talking about?" Ivan thundered from his chair, the iridescent blue mermaid on his chest undulating. He set down a pitcher of martinis he had finished mixing.

"I was just telling him what a sweet, intelligent, considerate person you are, Ivan," she said, smiling. "Say, you couldn't spare some of that, could you?" She pointed to the pitcher filled with swirling clear liquid.

"When you finished," Ivan said. "First, you change robot into Russian weapon, then you get vodka."

"Commie hoople," she muttered.

Mr. Gordons lurched. "I have to kill that Remo," he said.

"First things first," the professor whispered softly. "We've got other things to do. A country to save. Trust me."

"I must kill Remo," Mr. Gordons said.

Behind them, Ivan dozed lightly.

"Listen," Dr. Payton-Holmes said. "Nothing is more important than destroying that Volga. You're hooked up now to make sure it can't hurt America."

"I do not care about America being hurt. I care about me being hurt. I must kill that Remo before he hurts me again."

"Are you going to listen to your mother?" she hissed.

"Yes, Mom. I think."

"You can have Remo. But first, the Volga. Now play dead."

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Mr. Gordons snapped into a rigid position, and the professor called out, "Okay, Ivan. I'm done."

Ivan snapped awake with a snort. "This thing now Russian weapon?"

"Yes. All they have to do is reach inside his belly and turn him on."