Warren Murphy: Dying Space

Gonzalez thought for a moment. Then he remembered in a rush of clarity. "Hello is all right!" he yelled.

"That's it," the officer said. "Get this nut out of here."

"You got to believe me," Gonzalez cried. "Just send somebody to check it out. The robot might still be there doing the job on Verbanic. You can catch him."

The officer inhaled deeply.

"Podebensky and Needham are up around

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there now," another policeman said. "They could drive by."

The officer squinted at Gonzalez. "All right. But this better be on the level, or I'm going to turn you and every one of your relatives over to the immigration authorities. Understand?"

Gonzalez nodded his assent.

"Sit over there." The officer poked his pencil toward a row of folding metal chairs along one wall. Gonzalez sat down as the dispatcher called the report into a roving police car.

"Some law officers," Gonzalez muttered.

The report from the car came in after a few minutes. Amid the squawks of the radio, Gonzalez could make it out from where he sat.

"There's a body here, all right," the voice over the radio said. "Worst damn thing I ever seen. Better get the coroner over fast. And an ambulance for Needham. He passed out."

The officer at the desk looked over to Gonzalez, his face deadly serious. "Read him his rights," the policeman said quietly.

The police, ambulance, and reporters left the Hollywood Disposal Service grounds just as the first rays of dawn appeared over the hills. When all trace of them was gone, a figure emerged from the belly of the abandoned garbage truck and a new man, complete with uniform and a name tag identifying him as Lewis J. Verbanic, walked into the sunlight.

Mr. Gordons didn't know where he was, but on his person was a clue as to who could help him

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find out. It was on the sole of his foot—the message:

PERSONAL PROPERTY OF DR. FRANCES PAYTON-HOLMES, UCLA

On the highway he saw a sign bearing the same last four letters.

UCLA

NEXT EXIT

He would find her. His creator was gone, but whoever developed the software he had incorporated into his mechanism at the dump knew science. Just the flood of new information pouring into his memory banks told him that.

His components were operative. He had the skin he needed to look human. NoV he only required one other item, something so elusive and ephemeral that most humans didn't even possess it. For this, he would need a new creator. He would find Dr. Frances Payton-Holmes.

He needed her.

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CHAPTER FOUR

"Have you ever heard of Dr. Frances Payton-Holmes?" Smith asked.

"No," said Remo.

"Yes," said Chiun.

"Yes?" said Remo.

"Yes?" said Smith.

"Yes," said Chiun. "He was the companion of a detective named Shylock Watson. I read about this recently. They were very famous. They had somebody good writing about them."

Smith cleared his throat. "Yes," he said. "Well, this is a different Dr. Holmes. Frances Payton-Holmes is a woman, an astrophysicist."

Chiun said, "I do not like women doctors."

"She is a doctor of astrophysics," Smith said.

"I do not like chemicals to insure one's regularity. A person should control his body without drugs."

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Smith looked at Remo, helpless, for an explanation.

"Astrophysics," Remo said. "Chiun thinks that's something like Ex-lax. So do I, for that matter."

"Astrophysics is the study of physics as it applies to outer space," Smith said. "It is the basic science of the space program."

"Of course," Chiun said. "And you want us to dispose of this pretentious woman who masquerades as a real doctor, tampering with people's innards."

"No. No, no, no," said Smith. "She must be protected. She is very important to America."

Chiun looked away, suddenly bored. "Remo," he said, "be sure to pay careful attention to what the emperor tells you."

"All right, Smitty," said Remo. "Who's Dr. Holmes?"

"Payton-Holmes," Smith said. "She's won two Nobel prizes. When she was twenty-eight, she formulated the graphs which outlined the space route of Explorer One. It led the satellite into a an unknown band of radioactive material. The Van Allen belt."

"Why didn't they call it the Payton-Holmes belt?" Remo asked.

"They might have," Smith said. "But when they announced it, she didn't show up. She was in the laboratory using NASA equipment to make a liquor out of coffee. She drinks." "She still drink?" Remo asked. "Yes. Constantly."

"Good. It's nice to know someone is having fun," Remo said.

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"Periodically, she disappears. We're always afraid that the Russians have her, but she always turns up in a jail cell somewhere, sleeping off a hangover. The last time, they found her in the dormitory of a visiting Italian soccer team."

"What has she done now?"

"For the last few years, she's been working on a special project at UCLA. You see, we got wind of a special Russian project called Volga. We don't know much about it except that it's some kind of space plan involving satellites that they think will give them control of space."

"She's defected?" Remo said.

"No," said Smith.

"Dammit, Smitty, then get to the point."

"She designed a computer—it's called LC-111—which can take over control of any satellite or spacecraft. In other words, the Russians could launch a satellite and with LC-111, we could make it ignore the Russians and do whatever we tell it to do."

"Good for her," Remo said.

"The LC-lll's missing," Smith said. "And we don't know where it went. We want you to find it."

Chiun came back to life. "Is there a reward?" he asked.

"The thanks of a grateful people," Smith said.

Chiun sniffed and turned away again.

"This Payton-Place-Holmes doesn't know where it went?" Remo said. "Or you think she sold out to the Russians?"

"I don't think so," Smith said. "I have to warn you, Remo, she's very difficult."

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"How?"

"She'll go to any lengths to get a drink. She apparently also has some strong ... er, biological desires. She is very difficult."

"I'm used to dealing with difficult people," Remo said, looking at Chiun.

"So am I, Emperor," said Chiun.

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CHAPTER FIVE

Dr. Frances Payton-Holmes was sobbing. She had been sobbing for an hour and a half, from the moment she had walked in the door to the software lab and found the gaping hole in the row of computer terminals, their lifelines to the absent LC-111 cut and poking out uselessly.

"My baby," she moaned again and again, rocking wildly on the floor, curled up into a miserable, white-coated ball. "My precious baby."

"It'll be all right, Professor," Ralph Dickey said, patting her uncertainly on the shoulder. "The police have already been here. We've all talked to them. I've called NASA, too. The President of the United States is supposed to be sending a special investigator here to—"

She whacked his arm away. "You! You're supposed to see that things like this don't happen. Ten years of work and love, the finest distillation

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of my genius. Gone in one night, you cretinous pansy!" she screamed.

"Now, Professor," Dickey began, his lips pursing. "Everything was shut up like a drum when I left."

"You shut up like a drum, do you hear me?" She pummeled him with her fists. Dickey tried to shield himself from her blows as two other technicians pulled her off him. "Get away from me," she screamed. "Get back to your cages, all of you. In fact, go home. I don't want to see any of you here today. Scram."

The technicians backed off and silently exited the lab. The professor pulled herself off the floor, dusting herself off. "Shitheel Commie," she muttered loud enough so that Dickey, checking the circuitry on the three remaining terminals, could hear.