Warren Murphy: Funny Money

He turned back to his desk and looked again at the clipping of Dr. Carlton's announcement. A creativity program. That was what Mr. Gordons wanted. With a creativity program, he could be unstoppable. Why had such a thing been announced? Didn't Dr. Carlton, who had created Mr. Gordons, know that such an announcement would bring Gordons running to her door to steal the program?

He read the clipping again. Words jumped from the paper at him. Creativity. Imbecile. Genius. Survival. And then he had a suspicion.

He picked up the telephone and set a program in motion that within minutes delivered to his desk the name of every passenger who had that day made a reservation to fly to Wyoming. What name might Mr. Gordons use? He was programmed for survival; he would not use his own. Humans taking aliases generally kept their initials; that was the extent of their creativity. Would Mr. Gordons? Smith look down the slim list of seventy names headed for the Cheyenne area that day. His finger stopped near the bottom of the list. Mr. G. Andrew. He knew. He knew. He didn't think, he knew without thinking, that that was Mr. Gordons. He had used his only initial and his description. He had changed android to Andrew. That was it.

Smith called his secretary and got a seat on the next plane to Wyoming. The launch was scheduled for tomorrow morning. Mr. Gordons would be there. He suspected that Remo and Chiun already were there.

And now so would Dr. Harold W. Smith.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The idea to use Dr. Carlton as a lure for Mr. Gordons had been Chiun's.

"A man must be attacked through what he perceives as his need," Chiun had explained to Remo.

"But Gordons isn't a man."

"Silence," said Chiun. "How do you learn anything? Everything feels need. Do you build a dam to stop a river in the desert where there is only flat land and the river will just curl around your dam? No, you build a dam where the river feels a need to run between mountains. Everything feels need. Do you understand?"

Remo nodded glumly. If he agreed quickly, he might be able to head off one of Chiun's unending stories about the thieving Chinese.

"Many years ago," Chiun said, "the thieving Chinese had an emperor who, even for such a people, was of a low order. And he did hire the Master of Sinanju to perform a minor service for him and then did refuse to pay him. He did this because he thought, with the arrogance of all Chinese, that he was above all rules. He was, he said, a sun emperor and must be worshipped like the sun."

"So your ancestor punched his trip ticket," said Remo.

"That is not the point of this story," said Chiun. "This emperor did live in a castle surrounded by walls and guards and many devices designed to protect the emperor."

"Child's play to your ancestor," said Remo.

"Perhaps. But the village depended upon my ancestor for sustenance and therefore he could not risk his person. What did he do then, this ancestor? Did he go home to Sinanju and say 'Oh, I have failed. Send the babies home to the sea.' Because that is what they did with babies in Sinanju when there was starvation. They put them into the sea and they were 'sending them home' again but the people knew they were not sending them home but that they were really drowning them, because they could not feed them. Sinanju is, as you know, a very poor village and…"

"Chiun, please. I know all that."

"So this ancestor did not say, I have failed. He looked to see what the emperor's need was. Now this emperor could have stayed safe behind his walls for years. But he was vain and he thought the thieving Chinese could not govern themselves if he remained behind castle walls. He needed to feel important. And soon the emperor opened the gates of his palace so the people could come to him pleading for justice and mercy.

"And so my ancestor dirtied his face and borrowed a torn old robe…"

"Without paying for it, I bet," said Remo.

"He returned it; one need not pay when one returns a thing. And he did enter the palace in the guise of a beggar and when the emperor, fat and complacent, was wallowing on his throne and satisfying what he felt was his need to rule, my ancestor did grab him by the throat and say I have come for my payment."

"Exit one emperor," said Remo.

"No," said Chiun. "The emperor paid him on the spot with many jewels and great amounts of coins that were of gold. And the people of the village were fed and the babies did not have to be sent home to the sea."

"And all because of what the emperor thought he needed?"

"Correct," said Chiun.

"Good for your ancestor. Now what has this got to do with Mr. Gordons?"

"He thinks he needs creativity to survive. If we tell him where he can get it, he will go there. And then we will attack."

"And this will work?"

"You have the promise of a Master of Sinanju."

"Hear, hear," said Remo. "I still think you should have let me go after him, head to head, me and him."

"See. You have a need, too," said Chiun. "You need to be stupid."

And then he would say no more until they stood before Dr. Carlton in her office at the Wilkins Laboratory. She was happy to see them.

"I've thought of nothing but you, Browneyes, since you left," she told Remo. "You've got a hell of a nerve. It took me three days to fix Mr. Jack Daniels. You really did a number on his transistors. On mine, too."

"Aw, shucks," said Remo. "Twere nothin'."

"Twere too something," she said, smoothing her white nylon blouse down over her pillowy breasts. "You could take lessons from this man, Mr. Smirnoff," she called over Remo's shoulder. "You're supposed to be a pleasure machine, and you're not a pimple on his butt."

Remo turned. The android, Mr. Smirnoff, stood silently in a corner of the room looking at them. Was he watching? Listening? Or was he just propped up, empty, turned off? As he looked, Remo saw Mr. Smirnoff nod his head, as if in agreement with Dr. Carlton. Then his eyes turned and locked on Remo's. Remo turned away.

"Yes, you're really something, Browneyes."

"Yes, yes, yes, yes," Chiun said, "but we are here on important business."

"I never discuss business without a drink. Mr. Seagrams!" The self-powered cart rolled through the door and obeyed her command for a double dry, very dry, martini. She took a long sip of it while the liquor dispenser rolled away.

"Now what's on your mind?"

"You're going to announce the discovery of a new creativity program," Remo said.

Dr. Carlton laughed. "And you're going to walk on the ceiling."

"You have to," Remo said. Chiun nodded. "We need it to lure Mr. Gordons here."

"And that's just why I'm not going to do it. I've got no control over Mr. Gordons anymore. I don't know what he's likely to do if he shows up here. I don't need that headache. Why do you think I changed all the security at the entrances? No thank you. No thank you. No thank you."

"You misunderstand me," Remo said. "We're not asking you to announce the program. We're telling you to." Chiun nodded.

"That's a threat, I take it."

"You've got it."

"What have you got to threaten me with?"

"This," said Remo. "The government cut off the funds for this place. But you're still operating as merrily as ever. On what? With what? Two cents will get you four that it's Mr. Gordons's counterfeit money. The government takes a dim view of people, even scientists, who go around spreading funny money."

Dr. Carlton took another long sip from her drink, then sat at her desk. She started to answer, then stopped, took another sip of the martini, and finally said, "All right."

"No arguments?" asked Remo. "Just 'all right'?"

She nodded.

"What gave you the idea of programming Mr. Gordons for counterfeiting anyway?" Remo asked.

"You browneyed bastard," she said. "You were just guessing."