Unnatural Selection

"And, Remo?" Smith called. When Remo turned, the CURE director's face was fraught with fatherly concern. "Please try your best to bring him back alive."

Spinning on his heel, he ducked through the fire door. His gaunt frame disappeared inside the murky stairwell.

If Remo didn't know better, he would have sworn Harold Smith's flint-gray eyes were moist.

Chapter 33

Smith hurried alone through the darkened corridor of Folcroft's administrative wing. Cautious eyes studied every shadow as he made his way to his office suite. His secretary was not at her desk.

Assuming she'd finally gone home for the evening, he hurried into his own inner sanctum. Settling into his chair, he did a quick security check of CURE's computer system.

It had only been a few minutes since he'd been summoned downstairs. Smith had assumed there wasn't enough time for Mark to access the system so soon after his escape. Still, he was relieved to find everything in order. CURE's files remained untouched.

Setting to work, Smith quickly altered the security protocols, changing passwords and initiating lockouts. It took only a few moments. With the changes he instituted, he was confident the mainframes would be safe.

Sliding open his top drawer, he grabbed up his special set of keys.

Before getting out of his chair, Smith cast a glance at his closed bottom drawer. Under the circumstances he would ordinarily have taken his automatic with him. But the cigar box in the back of the drawer was empty.

He had given the gun to Mark for protection. The old .45 had sentimental value to the ordinarily emotionless Smith. In more than fifty years he had never loaned his service weapon to another soul. Mark Howard was the first. And now Smith needed it to defend himself against the assistant he had hoped to protect.

Feeling a chill up his rigid spine, Smith dropped the keys in his pocket and hustled out into the hall. In all probability, animal instinct had compelled Mark to flee the sanitarium grounds immediately. He was likely miles from Folcroft already. Still, just in case, on his way to the basement Smith crept past Mark's office.

He wasn't sure what he would do if he encountered his assistant. In his current condition Mark would be more than a match for unarmed Harold Smith.

Fortunately the door was locked and there was no sign of tampering.

Breathing a small sigh of relief, the CURE director hustled to the basement door at the far end of the hall. Smith fought to keep his anxiety under control as he climbed down the stairs. His normally ordered mind swirled with competing thoughts. None of them good.

He had faced many disasters in his day, but this ranked up with the worst.

One of CURE's own had been turned.

Of course Smith understood that it wasn't Mark's fault. Judith White's twisted tampering had not only drawn out the young man's animal instincts, it had suppressed his sense of duty, honor and loyalty. But although Mark wasn't to blame for what he had become, that didn't lessen Smith's concern.

Smith had invested much in his assistant. From the start the young man had showed great promise. More than anything else, Mark Howard had given Harold Smith hope. For CURE, for America. For the future.

Presiding over CURE had been Smith's mission and his alone from the very start. Oh, for the first few years he'd had some help. But Conrad MacCleary, Smith's right hand in those formative years, was more a field agent. MacCleary tended to blank out when it came to the mundane day-to-day aspects of running the secret organization. In a very real sense, Harold Smith had always been alone.

But over the past few years, Mark Howard had given Smith hope that the agency would continue after his own death. That knowledge had given the older man great relief. After all, when Smith was gone, America's problems wouldn't end. The nation would still need CURE. Mark was their best bet for the organization to continue.

But now he was gone. Lost to the enemy. Worse, the secrets in his possession could damn them all. Jaws clenched tight, Smith hurried across the basement.

The cabinet with the tranquilizer guns was in the corner opposite the stairs. Walking briskly, Smith was reaching in his pocket for the keys when he heard a sudden noise.

He stopped dead.

For a moment he just stood there, uncertain of the sound, unsure if he had heard anything at all.

He strained to hear, but the basement was silent. Thinking he had imagined the noise, he was about to take another step when he heard it again. A soft rustling.

Only then did he notice the scrap of yellowed paper on the floor.

It was the note he had taped to the storage-room door years before. The Scotch tape was brittle from age. There were pieces overlapping from where he'd had to replace them over the years. But the note had never fallen before.

When Smith craned to look around the boiler, he saw that the steel door was ajar.

A shadow in human shape spilled from inside the room. A scuffling footfall sounded from within. Smith became aware of the pacemaker in his chest. He noticed it only in moments of extreme anxiety. Holding his breath, he tried to will his heart to slow.

Pulling in a lungful of air, Smith pressed his back to the wall. He stayed there a moment, unsure what to do.

He could not possibly reach the tranquilizer guns. The cabinet was too far away, beyond the open door. He would have to pass in full view of the storage room. Even if by some miracle he made it past, he was certain he couldn't get his keys out and open the cabinet without being heard.

He contemplated turning back. He might be able to catch up with Remo and Chiun. Get help.

But whoever was in the room wouldn't stay inside forever. If Mark had come down to hide until he felt it was safe to bolt, he might be gone by the time Smith returned.

Smith was given little choice.

On the wall nearby hung a rack of old lawn tools that had for years been used by Folcroft's elderly groundskeeper. When that man retired back in the 1980s, Smith had hired a professional landscaping service. He was happy now to have saved the gardening equipment.

Hands veined from age took a pair of shears down from a hook. They were rusted shut. No matter. Fingers tight on the twin grips, Smith crept for the open door. He held the blades out before him, ready for anything that might lunge at him through the door. As he approached, the shadow that came from the open door made little movements.

And then, abruptly, it stopped.

Smith worried that whatever was inside had sensed someone creeping up from outside.

He was almost to the door. He raised his makeshift weapon. Ready for attack, ready to plunge the blades home.

A soft scuffle. Something stepping out from the storage room. The shadow congealed into a familiar shape.

It wasn't the figure he had expected. Startled, Smith felt the tension slip away. "Mrs. Mikulka," he gasped, lowering the blades.

"Dr. Smith?" Eileen Mikulka asked, glancing at the shears. There was no alarm in her voice or on her face. Smith's secretary seemed to take in stride the fact that she had just nearly been assaulted, by her employer in a lonely basement in the dead of night. "Is something wrong?"

"I was-" Smith said. He cleared his throat. "That is, I heard a noise. I forgot you were still here."

"I'm nearly finished," she promised.

"Finish whatever you have to in the morning," Smith said. "It is not safe for you to stay here by yourself. "

"Oh, dear. Is something wrong?"

Smith considered telling her about Mark Howard but decided against it. Mrs. Mikulka was fond of Smith's assistant. Having her standing around all night fretting would merely complicate an already difficult situation.

"A dangerous patient has escaped," Smith replied. "I'll see you safely to your car. Please lock the records room. I'll be with you in a moment."

Turning, Smith fumbled the shears up under his arm as he reached in his pocket once more for the keys. He was heading for the corner cabinet when he caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye.

He twisted in time to see his secretary lunging. Shocked, Smith dropped the shears as Eileen Mikulka roared. A loud, inhuman sound that chilled his marrow. Mrs. Mikulka's crooked talons flew for his throat.

IN THE INSTANT before the blow landed, Harold Smith's heart thrilled as he spied the flash of yellow in his secretary's brown eyes.

She was too fast. Too slow to react, the flashing, logical part of his brain fully expected the killing blow to register. He felt the breeze on his neck.

In the instant before her claws struck, Smith was startled when another hand darted into view. With a loud slap, it batted his secretary's hand harmlessly away.

"Hold, thing of evil," a booming voice commanded.

Smith's brain was still only vaguely registering how close he had just come to mortality when his lagging vision finally spied the flash of black to his left.

The Master of Sinanju shot in beside the CURE director. In a heartbeat, he was standing between Smith and his snarling secretary. Knotted hands rose before the old Korean like tensing cobras, ready to lash out.

Remo slid in on Smith's right.

"You okay, Smitty?" Rerno asked levelly, a wary eye on Mrs. Mikulka.

"Fine," Smith insisted. He was still gathering his wits. The shock had begun to fade.

Eileen Mikulka had stepped back a pace. She hunched her head protectively down into her shoulders as she studied the wizened figure that had blocked her killing blow. She seemed to suddenly decide that he was no real threat.

Baring fangs, Mrs. Mikulka growled.

"Prepare to meet your doom!" Chiun declared, deadly hands raised.

"Don't hurt her!" Smith shouted.

Remo had to hold the CURE director back to keep him from throwing himself between Chiun and Mrs. Mikulka.

"I realize this was a favorite concubine, Emperor," Chiun said through clenched teeth. "But this one is lost. Allow me to dispatch her, and you may restock your harem with a dozen maidens more comely than she."

"No, Master Chiun," Smith insisted. "There will already be too many questions with Mark. I might be able to keep that confined to Folcroft, but if Mrs. Mikulka is killed, the police would definitely become involved. It is too risky."

The Master of Sinanju shot Smith an irritated look. The moment his head was turned, Mrs. Mikulka charged.

For a frightened moment, Smith thought his dowdy secretary's attack would succeed. But in the instant her claws should have ripped through Chiun's spindly neck, the old Asian was no longer where he had been.

Only Remo saw the perfect pirouette the Master of Sinanju executed around the charging woman. In a flash, he was beside her. As she lumbered past, a single whitened knuckle struck a point on her right temple.

Eileen Mikulka went down in a growling, wheezing heap.

Skidding on the dirty concrete floor, she came to a sliding stop at the feet of Harold W. Smith.

Smith looked up at the Master of Sinanju, his face wan. "Is she-" he pleaded.

"It lives," Chiun replied, gliding up beside Smith. His hands vanished inside his sleeves.

A low groan rose from beneath the rumpled pile that was Eileen Mikulka. Smith let out his own low sigh of relief.

"Thank God," Smith said. "We will strap her down more tightly than Mark and sedate her heavily. With luck she will pull through."

"I'll give you luck," Remo said. "You're lucky we found the loading-dock door open. Two seconds more and you would have been a midnight snack. What the hell happened here, Smitty?"

"It would appear Mark came down here after his escape," Smith said, checking the knot on his Dartmouth tie.

"We don't know where he went after. He didn't leave a trail outside to follow." Remo nodded to Eileen Mikulka. "So how did he change her? These things aren't werewolves. You said all the contaminated water was being collected."

For a moment, Smith seemed puzzled. "It is," he insisted, frowning. The light dawned. "Except-" His face blanched. The CURE director stepped hastily over his secretary's body, hurrying inside the storage room.

The refrigerator door was open. On the floor the aspirin bottle Remo had brought from Manhattan lay on its side. The cap was off. Smith's bad knee creaked like crunching cornstarch as he quickly knelt. When he shook the bottle, a single drop fell out.

"Oh, my," Smith said.

"That explains that," Remo said. "Why the hell didn't you dump that stuff?"

"I was keeping it here for testing in the future if it became necessary or until a purer form of the formula could be found. Mark knew this was where it was stored."

"Why would the Prince risk his life poisoning the Emperor's concubine when he knew that Sinanju was but a stone's throw away?" Chiun asked.

"Probably wanted her to buy some time for his escape. Mission accomplished, by the way. He's long gone by now."

"I fear that was not his purpose here," Smith said. His eyes were trained on a silver object in the corner. There were three similar, barrel-shaped devices lined up in a neat row. Only one seemed operational. Even across the room near the door, Remo and Chiun could feel the intense cold emanating from the device. A top lid had been popped open. Weird steam-like melting dry ice-rose from the open top.

While the three of them had been in the room, Remo had watched the temperature gauge on the side change. It had started at -132 and was now at -98. "What's that contraption?" Remo asked.

When Smith looked up, his angular face had grown visibly haggard. Remo didn't like the older man's tone.

"Perhaps we should discuss this in my office," the CURE director said. He didn't look Remo in the eye.

Chapter 34

"You son of a bitch," Remo growled.

They had returned to Smith's office. The CURE director had taken up his post behind his desk, hands folded neatly before him. Remo and Chiun stood in front of the desk near Mark Howard's vacant chair.

Smith had just finished telling them, in the most blunt, clinical terms possible, exactly what had been stored in the stainless-steel drum downstairs.

"You no-good, lying, cold-hearted son of a bitch," Remo repeated. Knots of rage stood out on his neck. He clenched his hands so tight his digging nails nearly drew blood.

"I did not lie," Smith pointed out. "And you were aware that we took a semen sample from you the day you arrived here at Folcroft."

"Hold the phone," Remo said, a warning finger raised. "It's not like I was awake for that particular party. You didn't even let me in on the joke until twenty years later. And that was only after I found out you'd gone off and created a test-tube son for me without even telling me about him."

Smith's lips thinned. "That child was not created as a son for you," he said tightly, clearly uncomfortable with this aspect of the discussion. "He might have been your biological offspring, but he was brought into existence as a contingency plan for CURE. In case you were killed in the line of duty, Winston was to be our fallback."

"'Brought into existence,'" Remo scoffed. "Do you even hear yourself? You jerked me around so you could jerk some other poor slob around." A thought suddenly occurred to him. "How many more are there?"

"I do not understand."

"You used artificial insemination to make one. How many more little contingency mes are running around out there?"

"Winston was the only one," Smith said.

"How do I know that?" Remo demanded. "You've had that stuff stored downstairs in deep freeze for thirty years. You could have whipped up a hundred more in all that time."

"It is my understanding that you are able to tell when someone is not telling the truth. Remo, Master Chiun, I give you my word that there was only one baby born with the aid of Remo's, er, contribution."

"He does not lie," Chiun said. The old Korean stood at Remo's elbow, leathery countenance unreadable.

"Small comfort, you bastard," Remo grumbled. A delicate touch to the wrist. Remo glanced at the Master of Sinanju. Chiun was shaking his head. His yellowing white puffs of hair stirred almost imperceptibly.

"Now is not the time, my son," he said in Korean. "We have a far greater problem on our hands."

In English he said to Smith, "Remo's seed was frozen for many years. Would it retain its potency after all this time?"

Smith exhaled. "I'm not certain. There is another sample that Mark left in the container. I can send it out for testing in the morning. For now I can only guess, but I do believe in the fertility field ten years is considered a long time for liquid-nitrogen storage. And we've tripled that time. However, I have maintained the environment meticulously over the years. I suppose it is possible."

"Swell," Remo said. "I guess we finally know now what she was really after this time. And now thanks to you, Judith White has a turkey baster with my name on it. You're unbelievable, you know that, Smith?"

There was no emotion on the CURE director's face. "I do that which is necessary," he replied levelly. "And might I suggest we put off the recriminations until we have retrieved the specimen?" He stretched his hands for his keyboard. "I will arrange a military flight back to Maine. Mark does not have access to CURE's facilities any longer, so if that is where he is headed, he will have to get there by conventional means. You should arrive there first."

Remo crossed his arms. "I can't believe this is what she was after all along," he muttered bitterly.

"Yes," Smith said as he worked. "It would seem that the chaos of the past few days was engineered just to satisfy some mating urge in Judith White. Of course she could not have known about the sample. She must have given Mark some sort of instructions after she fed him the formula."

"The first time this happened years ago that other monster wanted to do the same damn thing," Remo said. "What do they want with me?"

"You are Sinanju," Chiun said with a simple shrug. "Other females sense it-why would these be any different?"

"Yeah?" Remo grunted. "Well, at least the first one had the decency to kidnap me and actually get in my pants. This one's satisfied to let science do her dirty work for her."

"Judith White has-or at least had-a methodical, well-ordered mind," Smith said, eyes on his monitor. "Given her scientific background, from her perspective this would be the most efficient way to handle her procreative needs."

Remo didn't even look at his employer. "Don't, Smitty," he warned. "Don't even think about being matter-of-fact about all this."

The CURE director could hear the strain in Remo's voice.

He glanced up.

There was something more beneath the anger. He could hear it in Remo's voice, see it on his face. Hurt and worry.

Smith understood the reason. Remo had been robbed of a life of wife and children many years ago. And the thief had been Smith. Now, thanks to Smith, Judith White might acquire the means to create something that would stand as a mockery to everything Remo wanted but could never have.

Clearing his throat, Smith refocused his attention on his computer.

He had made arrangements for a Navy jet to fly them from Connecticut to Maine. He quickly gave Remo the details. Once he was finished, both Sinanju Masters turned wordlessly.

Chiun padded from the office. Remo trailed behind. He was on his way out the door when Smith called to him.

"Remo, I understand that this is difficult for you. I apologize for that. But Mark is innocent. Please do not blame him for any of this."

Remo turned. His voice was flat.

"I don't. The kid's not responsible for what he's doing. This is all your fault, Smitty. Whatever happens from here on out is your doing."

With that he was gone. Leaving Harold W. Smith alone with his computers. And his guilt.

Chapter 35

The car scrunched to a stop on the lonely access road. The thing that had been Mark Howard switched off the engine.

When he got out, he smelled the tantalizing blood aroma rising from the outside door handle.

He had stolen the car in Rye.

This new Mark Howard was no more fool than his human counterpart had been. He had wisely chosen from memory a man from the CURE computers. Mark's first real meal had been a minor player in organized crime. He might not be missed for days. And even then his associates would probably dispose of the remains themselves rather than involve the authorities.

Harold Smith wouldn't be able to track him. Mark moved with catlike silence up the wooded access road.

He was pleased at his own thoroughness. When he was human and cared about such trivial human things, he had made a point of familiarizing himself with all possible routes in to Lubec Springs. Since it wasn't relevant, he hadn't bothered to mention it to the others. And so it was that Mark Howard had his own private route to the bottling plant.

A few dozen yards up the road, he glimpsed the low buildings through the trees. For the next half hour, he patiently watched for any sign of activity. Nothing.

Mark continued on.

The bodies that Remo had forced Bobby Bugget to haul from the warehouse were still arranged outside the loading dock. They were going on two days dead now. The smells were no longer inviting.

Mark circled the warehouse and bottling facility. Behind the offices, he stopped in the shattered glass beneath Owen Grude's window. Sprawled along the length of the empty frame, a lone figure waited, bored.

Judith White arched her back, shaking off slumber. "It's about time you came back." She yawned. "I was starting to think I wasted my time on you." She rolled to a sitting position, legs dangling to the ground.

Wordlessly Mark dug in his pocket. He produced a small plastic tube, handing it to Judith White.

She accepted the insulated container. It was cold to the touch. Whatever was inside remained frozen. Judith looked up, suspicious. "What's this?" Mark Howard smiled. When he told her, he could see the look of delight blossom on her beautiful face. "You're joking, right? I figured you'd tell me where he lived. That I'd maybe sneak in and get a follicle from his hairbrush next time he goes shopping. At best I thought maybe since you worked with him you could get me some blood from his last physical." A cold edge crept into her voice. "Is this a joke? Because if it is, I swear I'll rip your liver out and make you watch me eat it."

"It's no joke," Mark insisted.

Judith White's grin broadened. Clutching the vial tight in one paw, she hopped lightly to the ground. "Just one thing," Mark asked. "Why is Remo so special?"

"Genes, sonny boy, genes," Judith said. "Why do pretty human females sniff out big, strong, pretty lunkheads to make darling little pretty pink human babies? Because pretty breeds pretty, and strong breeds strong. I've got the brains but, sad to say, I didn't come by the brawn naturally. But in all my years I never met another human like your friend Remo. Whatever he's got, it's in the genes." She held up the vial like a trophy. "And now I've got it; too."

Judith smiled, victorious. In her mind were tantalizing images of a new world. Men and women sold as livestock. Human children raised in pens like veal. A single pack of creatures like herself-successors to humanity-spreading out across the globe. And herself, Dr. Judith White, architect of the new age, ruling over it all.

It was her dream, her vision. But the instant they came, the images were swept away.

A voice from behind spoiled her moment of triumph.

"Is that all I am to you? A piece of meat?" Judith and Mark wheeled.

Remo and Chiun were sliding silently around the side of the building from the direction of the parking lot.

"Prepare to meet your end, perversion of nature," the Master of Sinanju intoned.

Judith had been shocked by their appearance, but quickly brought herself under control. "Sorry, no can do, Gramps," she said. "I've still got a lot of work ahead of me." With a malevolent grin, she waggled the specimen container.

"How did you two get here?" Mark demanded. "I didn't hear you drive up."

"We've been here right along," Remo said. "We've just been waiting for you to finally show up, junior."

"That's impossible," Mark insisted. "I couldn't hear you or smell you anywhere."

"How like all the lesser beasts," the Master of Sinanju said, his head shaking with pity. "You smell for the scent of man on the footpath to tell whether or not you should fear, yet you do not sense the arrow that from a distance takes your life. We," he said, nodding to himself and Remo, "are the arrow."

Judith nodded, impressed. Clearly she hadn't sensed them either. "What can I say. That's exactly why I wanted your input, brown eyes."

Despite her seeming calm, she was being cautious. With small sidesteps she was circling back.

Remo expected her to dart for the woods, but instead she inched closer to the building. The broken picture window was above her shoulder.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Mittens, but that stuff you're holding isn't exactly the freshest fish in the tank."

Judith's face clouded.

"How new is this?" she hissed to Howard.

"I'm not sure the exact date," Mark replied. "But it was taken some time in late 1971."

"This is more than thirty years old?" she demanded, a hint of worry melting the certainty in her voice.

"I feel your pain," Remo said. "I'm good, but even I'm not that good."

He and the Master of Sinanju continued to advance. They came slowly, as if trying not to spook an animal. Judith White seemed to be doing rapid calculations in her head. Mark Howard stepped in front of her.

"There's no reason this new species and the human race can't live on the same planet peacefully," he said to Remo and Chiun.

"No deal, kid," Remo replied. "The human race wasn't born yesterday, you know. Mankind turns its back for two seconds and it'd wind up on a platter with an apple in its mouth."

"Be reasonable," Mark warned.

"Reason is for man, not beasts," Chiun said. Remo was surprised Judith White hadn't fled by this point. Her behavior seemed to go against every animal instinct for self-preservation. He could sense her growing fear, as well as see her struggle to overcome it.

He and the Master of Sinanju were nearly upon her when they suddenly sensed another presence nearby. The third heartbeat had just registered to their ears when a new figure sprang into view in the open window.

The tan face relaxed the instant it spied the two Masters of Sinanju.

"Hell and damnation, fellas, am I glad to see you," Bobby Bugget said, breathing relief. "I got scarder 'n all hell the way you left me last night. I been hiding out all day in the-" His face dropped when he saw Judith White. "Uh-oh."

"Get out of here, Bugger," Remo warned.

But even as he spoke the words, he knew something wasn't right. The singer's heart rate was off. They hadn't detected him as they approached. An average human had no such ability to hide his life signs.

Bugget had been alone in the warehouse. Bugget had disappeared along with Judith White's case of genetic material. Most important, unlike the first time he'd been dosed with the formula, this time Bugget had been sober.

Chiun had realized it, too.

"My songsmith!" the Master of Sinanju cried as Bobby Bugget hopped up onto the windowsill. With a growl, the singer launched himself at Remo. Bugget alone wouldn't have been too much to worry about. Remo had dealt with these creatures before. But simultaneous with Bugget's attack, Mark Howard lashed out.

He couldn't kill Howard. Not when there was a chance of bringing him home alive. And thanks to Bobby Bugget's fat songwriting yap, he couldn't kill the singer, either. Not without cheesing off the Master of Sinanju.

It was only an instant. A split second of thought, a mere fraction of equivocation.

But that minuscule moment of hesitation was enough.

And in that tiny moment of fractured time, Judith White's darting hand flew forward.

It wasn't intended as a killing blow. Had that been the case-Howard and Bugget be damned-Remo's system would have gone on automatic, dismissing the conflict of mind, killing her instantly. It was a tiny nick. Just on the forearm.

Flecks of glistening red speckled the clapboards of the Lubec Springs office wing.

Blood. Remo's blood.

And then she was gone. With a single leap she was up to the low roof of the one story building. A hand caught the rain gutter and she was swinging up and over.

Bugget was still in the air, flying for Remo. A howl of triumph rose from deep in his throat.

It was a triumph short-lived.

He had scarcely come within two feet of Remo when a flattened palm caught him dead center in the forehead.

It was as if Bugget had been hit by a bus. Bones shattered back into his brain. Eyes widened with the shock of death and the singer belly flopped to the ground.

Remo dropped his hand, whirling for Howard. But the Master of Sinanju had already swept between them. The assistant CURE director didn't see the fluttering hand that darted forward, nor feel the slender fingers that pressed against his bruised temple.

Mark Howard's eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed into the arms of the Master of Sinanju. "Chiun?" Remo pressed urgently.

"I will see to the Prince," Chiun hissed, nodding sharply. "Go. "

Remo didn't need to be told a second time. Flexing calf muscles, he launched himself to the roof in a single bound.

Judith White was gone. "Not this time, sweetheart."

She wouldn't have gone to the road. Wouldn't risk being seen. The forest meant safety. That eliminated south and west. Picking east, Remo flew to that edge of the roof. He spied a set of fresh imprints in the grass below.

There were no others running through the woods this day to confuse her tracks. These marks had been made by White.

In a blur, Remo was back down off the roof and racing full out for the forest. Broken twigs marked the route she had taken. Remo dove in after her.

Fear had made Judith White clumsy.

As he raced through the woods, Remo easily spotted the deep heel print that marked the spot where she had changed direction.

He tore off the same way.

Two miles into the woods, Remo began to smell the closeness of the Atlantic Ocean. The underbrush grew thicker, and the ocean sounds louder as he drew to the edge of the forest. When he broke through a patch of wind-whipped brush a mile later, he found himself standing at the edge of the world.

He was on a bluff high above the Atlantic. A blanket of drab clouds pressed down to the whitecapped waves.

Craggy black rock stabbed off in either direction along the rough shore. Perched at the farthermost point of the jagged finger of rock stood a lone figure.

Judith White's face registered no surprise when Remo emerged from the woods. Brown eyes trailed him as he stepped across the thin strip of tousled-hair grass that separated forest from rock.

"We've got to stop meeting like this," she called over the roar of the ocean.

Despite her seeming calm, he could hear the nervous thump-thump-thump of her beating heart. "That's about to be arranged."

Remo was at the base of the outcropping. Although he was still far below her on the angled basalt, Judith took a cautious half step back.

A hundred feet below, the crashing waves of the Atlantic attacked the shore.

"It's kind of fitting that it would end this way," she called down. "For your species, I mean. Did you know that life here on Earth began in the sea? A couple of spontaneous aggregations of dissolved organic molecules that were born from inorganic chemical reactions. Three and a half billion years later, here we both are."

"Not for much longer," Remo commented, eyes dead. "I like the new arm, by the way." He noted the plastic container clutched in her regrown arm. As if protecting something even more valuable, her other hand was clenched tight, fingernails biting deep into the palm.

"Starfish DNA," she explained. "I'm from a species that likes to plan ahead. I just wanted to thank you for your contribution, Poppa. None of the other men I've ever met were worthy to become father of the new Earth. But between your genes and mine, look out, world."

Remo's voice was cold. "Not gonna happen," he vowed.

There was a faint smile at the corners of Judith White's perfect red lips as she held up the specimen container.

"Aw, darlin"' she purred. "Thanks to your buddy back there, it's already a done deal. Your boys and I will see you in a few years. Until then, I wouldn't get too comfortable around this planet. Toodles, brown eyes."

With that, she turned and jumped. The air swallowed her whole.

"Dammit," Remo snapped. He bounded to the edge of the cliff.

Judith White had already slipped beneath the black waves that pounded in between the craggy rock. Though he strained to see a body, she didn't resurface.

It was too great a drop. She shouldn't have survived. But he remembered all too well her spectacular fall from a burning building last time they had met.

One arm missing, bleeding from the shoulder, building collapsing.

She had survived that time. Not again.

Remo kicked off his loafers. Bare toes curled around the edge of the rock promontory. Without a thought of the dizzying height, Remo launched himself out into open air.

In Sinanju it was called the Flying Wall. His forward momentum carried him out over the churning ocean. He soared parallel to the water's surface for fifty feet before allowing gravity to take hold. He descended in a broad arc, his body capturing rogue air pockets to lighten his landing. When he finally brushed the choppy waves, he was facing back toward shore.

His body skimmed the surface for about twenty feet before he allowed the sea to wash in over him. He disappeared near the spot where Judith White had vanished, not a single foamy bubble in his wake.

Below the ocean surface, the cold water of late spring clenched Remo's body like a fist of ice. He willed heat to his extremities as he knifed through the murky waves.

Eyes oblivious to the sting of salt and cold, he scanned the area near the shore. Judith White's body wasn't visible amid the slimy slabs of underwater rock.

The surging sea should have thrown her back to shore, crushing her against stone. It would have done so to Remo, but his arms and legs mimicked the waving skirt of a jellyfish, holding him in place. As his limbs danced in deceptively gentle movements, impossible for even the ocean to overcome, Remo willed the very core of his body still.

He stretched out his senses. The churning water around him became a conductor, carrying sounds and sensations of movement to his finely tuned body.

Even though summer had not yet warmed the waves, the dark world in which he was an alien visitor teemed with life. He felt many living organisms in the sea around him. All were small.

Except one.

About one hundred yards out, the creature that was big enough to be Judith White swam away from shore.

Remo's gentle resistance to the water ceased. He knifed back into the waves, pulling himself away from shore with sharp, powerful strokes.

The cold grew worse the farther he went from land. The creature he was following was leading him deeper and deeper out to sea.

He couldn't allow her to escape. Not this time. Powerful kicks propelled him farther on. He shot through the water like a fired torpedo.

One hundred and fifty yards out, Remo got his first cloudy glimpse of her. She was knifing through the water, faster than humanly possible.

A few sharp kicks and he was on her.

There was no fighting, no finesse. A crushing blow collapsed the back of her skull.

The plastic container wasn't in her hand. She had to have dropped it when she jumped from the cliff. Her fingers were open. Remo noted that they seemed a bit too long. More genetic tampering, no doubt. Although the skin didn't look quite right. This arm was younger than the rest of the body. He had noticed back on the bluff that the skin texture didn't quite match up with the other arm. But here, underwater, both arms seemed to match perfectly.

He felt a sudden sinking in his stomach.

Kicking in the waves, he flipped the body over. Long hair flowed in front of the face. When he pulled it back he found that he was staring into the dead eyes of Elizabeth Tiflis.

He released the body as if it were electrically charged. The current dragged it slowly away.

Remo stopped dead. This time when he extended his senses, he felt nothing except schools of small fish. Judith White was gone.

A single bubble of frustration escaped his thin lips into the cold gray ocean.

Turning his back on the empty sea, Remo began the long swim back to shore.

Chapter 36

When Remo emerged from the woods beside the Lubec Springs bottling plant, the Master of Sinanju was waiting in the front seat of Mark Howard's stolen car. The assistant CURE director lay unconscious on the back seat.

On his way back through the forest from the ocean, Remo had raised his body temperature to dry his clothes. The last of the steam was whirling wisps as he slid in beside Chiun.

The old Korean had salvaged Smith's automatic from the Lubec Springs offices. The gun was on the floor at his sandaled feet. Remo glanced at the weapon as he slammed the car door shut. He said not a word.

Seeing the hard cast of his pupil's face, the Master of Sinanju's own expression darkened.

"The beast has escaped," he said.

"Nine lives," Remo said tightly. "You said it yourself. By my calculations she's got seven more left. Smith better have good news on that batch of stuff he's testing."

He started the car.

As they pulled away from the building, Remo glanced back to the building that housed the offices. He thought of the tiny flecks on the clapboard walls around the back.

Chiun saw his pupil glance down at the wound on his forearm. He noted the look of understanding that seemed to settle on Remo's face as they drove across the parking lot and out onto the wooded road.

Remo sensed his teacher watching him.

"I get it, Little Father," he said without turning. And it was clear by the cast of his face that this time he truly understood. The old man's lips thinned in quiet relief.

"Be grateful it is only a scratch," the Master of Sinanju said simply, returning his gaze to the road. "Some lessons come at a much higher cost."

Remo nodded. "I guess becoming Reigning Master does give you a bit of a swelled head."

"Perish the thought," Chiun said, aghast. "Your features are already swollen to comedic proportions as it is. With that nose and those ears if your head got any bigger you would have to push it around in a wagon."

In the back seat, Mark Howard purred. Remo shot the assistant CURE director a glance in the rearview mirror.

Although sound asleep, there was a curl of a smile on Howard's lips. As if he were dreaming of happier days.

It was the last peaceful moment Howard was likely to have for some time. The days to come as his own genetic code reemerged would be a nightmare.

A further gift from Judith White.

"You think the kid will pull through?" Remo asked.

Chiun nodded. "In that, as well, Howard is like Smith. Both are stubborn."

Remo thought of Mark Howard and Harold Smith. He had never been a big fan of either, but at the moment the younger man was winning Remo's personal popularity contest.

"Good," he muttered.

Grip tight on the steering wheel, he steered a steady path through the deep forest. Back toward civilization.

Chapter 37

The San Diego Police Department captain was grateful when the FBI showed up unexpectedly at Genetic Futures, Inc. After all, he hadn't a clue how to handle this bizarre case.

"Employees found the place a shambles when they came in this morning," the detective explained to the two FBI men as they walked along the hall. There were police everywhere. "A lot of equipment's been stolen. They'll be inventorying later. But that's the least of the problems."

The window beside them looked out over an enclosed courtyard. On the well-tended grounds, men and women jumped and cavorted happily. Two bounced up and down on an overturned bench. Some screeched angrily at others, baring gums and pounding their chests. A few swung from trees.

One woman had defecated in her hand. Standing under a tree, she cupped the waste in one hand while waving a fist at the leaves and shouting "ahn-ahn" over and over.

"We tried to talk to them when we first got here, but they're way too far gone. They threw sticks and dirt at us. We finally shut off all the doors and sealed them out there. It's like they're not even human anymore."

The older FBI agent was probably some sort of consultant. He was too old to be an active agent. As they observed the strange behavior of the men and women who had, until the previous day, been the most brilliant minds of Genetic Futures, Inc., the older man offered a troubled nod.

"Whatever they were working on is lost." The younger one said nothing.

"According to the rest of the staff, the labs had shifts on around the clock waiting for something," the detective said. "It got delivered the other night, I guess, 'cause that's when they kicked into high gear. But just what, the higher-ups don't know. The records seem to be lost, along with the stolen computers. The geneticist in charge might have been able to tell us, but..."

The detective led them from the window. They walked a little farther down the hall.

"Only one body," he said as they walked. "But it's a big mess, so prepare yourselves."

They came to an open door.

Inside the small office, one of the scientists had been butchered like a cow. His mauled body lay sprawled across his desk. The silver name tag on his blood-soaked lab coat identified the deceased as Dr. Emil Kowalski. For some reason a bale of fresh-cut hay stood upright in the corner near a file cabinet.

"So what do you think?" the detective said worriedly. "Maybe we got an epidemic on our hands. You think something dangerous got loose?"

The young FBI man didn't say a word. He turned away from the office, heading back down the hall. The older man followed close behind him, deep in thought.

"Wait," the cop said. "What do we do about the ones outside?"

"Fill a paddy wagon with bananas and drive them to the monkey house," called back the FBI agent, who in the end wasn't really quite as helpful as the SDPD captain had originally hoped.

Chapter 38

Mark Howard switched on the light in his small office in Folcroft's administrative wing.

It was his first day back in three weeks.

After Remo had brought him back from Maine, Mark had spent nearly two weeks in the special security corridor in the basement. The effects of Judith White's genetic tampering had worn off near the twelve-day mark. Then came the chills, sweats, vomiting. And the nightmares.

Once he had regained enough strength and was able to keep down solid foods, he'd been released. Mark ordinarily came to work earlier than nine o'clock. But Dr. Smith had insisted that he take it easy at first. Half days only for the next few days. He still felt weak. Thanks to heavy sedatives and an intravenous diet, Mark had lost sixteen pounds in the past twenty-two days. He had always been thin, with a broad face. But his face had now lost its fleshiness. A strong jaw and angular cheekbones had emerged from the lost layer of fat.

Setting his briefcase to the floor, he took his seat at his desk. The chair felt strange. As did the desk, the office, Folcroft. All of it. Everything felt wrong.

He didn't turn on his computer. He just sat in his chair. Staring.

When he heard the sound of a clearing throat nearby, Mark didn't know how long he had been sitting there. He looked to the door.

Harold Smith stood in the doorway. There was a hint of concern on his face.

"How are you feeling, Mark?" the CURE director asked.

"Fine," Mark said. "Good morning, Dr. Smith. I was going to check in with you in a little- I'm fine."

Smith nodded. "I made an appointment for you this afternoon with one of our staff physicians. Just a routine physical. They'll be taking some blood just to be sure. According to your last tests, everything is normal."

At another time in his life Mark might have laughed at Smith's ludicrous use of the word normal. But the world had become so strange and wrong. He merely nodded.

"How's Mrs. Mikulka doing?" Mark asked.

"Very well," Smith said. "Given her age and physical condition, her recovery has been slower than yours. As you might know, she has a son who lives with her who is looking after her. I spoke with him yesterday, and he told me she hopes to return to work next week. Until then I've rotated in a woman, Kathleen Purvish, from the regular sanitarium staff to fill in. She used to work as my secretary years ago and has sometimes filled in during Mrs. Mikulka's vacations, so things should run smoothly."

"Good," Mark Howard said. "That's all ...good."

Smith hesitated. For an awkward moment, he seemed to be wrestling with some inner dilemma. He finally seemed to reach a decision.

"Mark, what was done to you was horrific," he said. "But it was not your fault. None of it."

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. Checking the hallway, the CURE director shut the door with a quiet click.

He spoke without preamble and without inflection. "Back during the Second World War, I was captured by German forces on the island of Usedom," Smith began. "There was a Gestapo officer there, one Josef Menk. I'm not sure why he tortured me. I think he was insane, but then so many were in those days. The war was coming to an end. There wasn't much information that any one OSS agent could have had to turn the tide. Yet, for days-day after day-he had his man beat me, cut me, whip me. They hung me from a rafter. No food, no water. It was unspeakably brutal. To this day when the weather changes I feel the results of what they did to me in my joints and bones. Except for my superiors in the OSS, I never told anyone this before. Not my wife, not Remo or Chiun. It is of a personal nature and not something that I feel is appropriate to share."

Smith took a deep breath before continuing. "Years later, an enemy here in America learned of CURE. I was kidnapped and tortured then, as well. I'll spare you the details, but suffice it to say I was older then and felt the effects far more severely." Before Smith had begun to speak, Mark Howard had gone back to staring blankly at the wall. But now the older man could see that he had drawn his young assistant out.

"I have heard of others who revolve their lives around the worst things that have ever happened to them. I don't see the use. These things that happened to me were merely days out of my life-they were not my whole life. For the most part I put those events out of my mind. But I am glad at other times to have those memories. You should be, too. Don't forget what happened to you, Mark. Use it. Use it when you need focus or in those moments of doubt. Remember what was done to you. Remember the evil that it represents and use it to understand why it is we do what we do."

Mark absorbed the CURE director's words. Slowly his head began to nod. When he looked up, his eyes were moist.

"Thanks, Dr. Smith." His voice was soft.

Smith gave a crisp nod. "There is one other thing," he said. He reached into his pocket.

When his hand reappeared, he was holding a small, flat tin case. It was smaller around than a half dollar and less than a quarter-inch thick. He handed the container to Mark.

"I told you of Conrad MacCleary, my old associate who died not long after Remo came aboard CURE," Smith said. "After his death, his personal effects were sent here. He had no family and this was his last known address. He had a cover as a former Folcroft patient. There are only a few small items in a strongbox in the records room downstairs. That was included in the items returned by the hospital."

Mark had examined the container for a moment, rolling it over in his palm. It had a tiny hasp on one side. When he popped it, it opened like a locket. Inside was a small white object. When he saw it, Mark looked up at Smith.

The CURE director's face was unreadable. "Because of the nature of his injuries, MacCleary was not able to use it. Keep it with you at all times."

Smith checked his watch.

"I have work to do," the CURE director said. "Don't forget your appointment this afternoon." With that, Smith left the office.

Alone, Mark Howard looked back at the pill that sat inside the small container. It was identical to the pill Harold Smith carried in his vest pocket. Unlike Smith's, the skull-and-crossbones symbol was not worn with age.

With a click, Mark closed the locket and slipped it in his pocket. For some reason it gave him strange comfort.

Mark found the recessed switch that turned on his computer. When the monitor and keyboard rose up from their hiding spot beneath the desk's smooth surface, he was grateful for the distraction.

With grim resolve, the assistant CURE director threw himself back into his work.

Chapter 39

"You haven't been able to find her?" Remo asked. He was on the kitchen phone of his Connecticut town house. Beyond the breakfast bar, the patio doors off the small dining room were open wide. Summer had finally arrived. The Master of Sinanju sat in the small garden outside, parchment face turned up to the warming rays of the midmorning sun.

"No," Smith's voice replied. "She is either lying low or has changed her pattern of behavior. In either case she has slipped back below our radar. But now that we know she is out there, I have set the mainframes on a continuous search using the data Mark assembled. It is only a matter of time before she reveals herself."

"I hope you're right, Smitty. Any luck with the people from that lab she was using?"

"Unfortunately, no," Smith replied somberly. "She did not use the temporary version of the formula on the scientists of Genetic Futures. They are being cared for, but they are human in physical appearance only. They are incapable of speech and will not change back. We can safely assume that she was covering her tracks. I assume, as well, that the simian DNA was her sick attempt at humor. Reversing the human evolutionary course, as it were."

"Yeah, she was a regular Ruth Buzzi," Remo said. "Whatever she was up to, at least we know she didn't get what she was after from me."

Smith had gotten the test results on the second liquid-nitrogen sample the day after Remo and Chiun had returned from Maine. The specimens had been dead. The same was true of the first vial, which had turned up in a search of the San Diego lab.

"That is good news only to a degree, Remo," Smith cautioned. "The fact that she wishes to procreate will likely not change because of her failure with you. She will no doubt move on to another candidate."

"Just so long as it's not me," Remo said. "She can go back to Maine. She probably still has a hundred of those things stomping around in the woods up there."

"Not any longer. Most have turned up, bedraggled and malnourished. The rest have probably died by now. You frightened them away from inhabited areas, so the death toll in the ensuing weeks was low. And it seems the majority survived the ordeal without any lasting physical harm."

"Shh." Remo held the phone out. "Hear that, Smitty?" he said in a stage whisper. "That's the sound of a hundred shrinks revving up their notebooks and pens."

He hung up the phone.

Remo went out to the patio to where the Master of Sinanju sat cross-legged on the flagstones. The old Korean still wore his robes of black, gathered up around his ankles.

"I've been thinking, Little Father," Remo announced.

"If I give you a shiny nickel, will you think with your mouth closed?" the Master of Sinanju replied. His eyes were closed as he faced the sun.

"No, listen," Remo said. "That prophecy you told me the first time we met these tiger things. 'Even Shiva must walk with care when he passes the jungle where lurk other night tigers.' I'm not sure it meant what we thought it meant."

At this did Chiun open his eyes. "Yes?" he asked. "We were thinking physical harm. Like I'd get killed or something. But maybe I had to walk with care for another reason. Maybe when the Great Wang uttered that prophecy he meant I should look out for horny tigresses."

"Perhaps," Chiun said. It was evident by his tone that he had been considering the same possibility. "Well, at least it's over now. We passed through the jungle where they lurked and came out more or less intact."

Remo sank cross-legged to the ground. He looked at the spot on his bare forearm nicked by Judith White's fingernail.

It had been such a tiny thing. It had long since healed, leaving no trace of a scar.

"You were right, Little Father," he said all at once.

"Of course," Chiun replied. "What about?"

"About my invulnerability. You kept thinking it was just because of my becoming Reigning Master, but it wasn't only that. When we were in Sinanju a few months back, I had that Shiva moment. It was like ...I don't know. I was connected. To the past, present and future. Then I became Reigning Master and everything came together. It sort of made me feel like I didn't really have anything to worry about. I guess I was stupid."

"Do not guess," the Master of Sinanju said, "for I am here to tell you when you are. You were."

"On the other hand, if I hadn't been so worried about how pissed you'd get at me for killing Bugget, I wouldn't have hesitated at all," Remo pointed out.

"Excuses, excuses," Chiun said. "And do not think I forgive you for eliminating the troubadour who was to compose the hymn of glorious me for the beauteous Wylander. Of course, you could make some of it up to me if you were to wear the appropriate garments of celebration, sparing me from traipsing around in these rags for the next year of my life. Which, I might add, at my age could be my last."

"Guilt me no guilt, Little Father. I am not wearing black pajamas for six months. Smitty would have a fit. Assuming, that is, we haven't quit before then," he muttered.

Chiun raised an eyebrow. "Why would we do that?"

"I'm not going to easily forget what he did to me, Chiun," Remo warned. "He froze my wigglies for thirty years. If he'd just kept the temperature a few degrees colder, maybe he'd have given Judith White exactly what she wanted."

The old Korean waved a bony hand, erasing Remo's complaints from the air. "Whatever wrongs you think Smith committed against you in those days, they predate your becoming Sinanju and therefore have no bearing on Sinanju contracts. However, if this is a grievance you feel you must pursue, you may bring it up at our next contract negotiations."

Remo shook his head. "Ah, it's probably just as well. One year is a long way off. I'll be over all this by then."

"Actually, our current contract is slightly longer than the standard one year."

Remo noted his teacher's sly tone.

"How much longer?" he asked, suddenly worried. Chiun stroked his thread of beard thoughtfully. "Five years," he admitted. "Give or take."

"You signed on with Smith for five more years?"

"It was during our time in Sinanju. My last official act as Reigning Master was to negotiate our contract."

"Five freaking years?" Remo demanded.

"You said yourself in one year you would forget what Smith had done. Knowing your wandering mind, one month would probably suffice. Think of how much more you will have forgotten it in five years." He held up a hand, halting Remo's protests. "Best of all, our current contract gives us our loophole."

"I keep telling you there is no loophole," Remo groused. "Sinanju tradition forbids a Master from serving his Emperor's successor. According to that rule, we can't work for Howard if Smith goes belly up. End of story."

"I may not work for his successor," Chiun said craftily. "You, on the other hand, are another story. I signed a long-term contract with Smith as my final official act as Reigning Master. Until the moment you assumed Reigning Masterhood, you were technically my apprentice. That is how you are referred to in our current contract, which remains in force as long as I live. Tradition says nothing about a Master's successor signing an all-new contract with the successor of his Master's Emperor. When Smith passes, you may sign with Howard without having defied tradition." Remo opened his mouth to argue, but stopped. He started again, but again he said nothing. Finally he tipped his head, nodding. "Dammit, you old shyster, you found a loophole." Remo sighed loudly. "Still, I don't like to be nailed down for that long. But it's been six months since we were in Sinanju, so that leaves just over four years. I guess I can put up with four more years."

"Bearing in mind that there are option years built into the contract," Chiun warned.

"Sweet mother of mercy," Remo said.

"But when the option runs out, you will get to negotiate the next contract all by yourself."

"Swell. I'm really looking forward to the year 3000," Remo said.

"Of course, as Reigning Master Emeritus, I may intervene in the event that you plan to sign something stupid," Chiun warned.

Remo wanted to laugh. Instead, he sat in silence, staring at his hands. Chiun sensed the disharmony in his pupil.

"What is wrong, my son?" the old man asked.

"I don't know," Remo said. "It's kind of odd. It's like for the moment we're right back to where we always are, with contracts and arguing and you telling me I'm stupid. But things are going to be different now. I'm Reigning Master, you've got an eye on that retirement cave back in Sinanju, Smitty's got that kid helping him out. Everything's changing. I kind of don't want it to end."

At this, a smile cracked the aged face of the Reigning Master of Sinanju Emeritus.

"End?" Chiun scoffed. "You are worried about endings? So many years have we been together, so many things have we seen. You have had so many days of running hither and yon for your Emperor, so many nights of adventure that you have become jaded, Remo Williams. You think because you have seen much that you have seen everything? You think this is the end? I tell you this. It is only the beginning."

Remo wasn't convinced. "I guess you're right, Little Father," he said with an uncertain shrug.

"Of course I am," the Master of Sinanju insisted. Leaning forward, he smiled knowingly. "Stay tuned."

And with a sadness touched with hope, Remo turned his face to the morning sun.

EPILOGUE

Dr. Jesus Avalos of the Los Angeles Women's Crisis Health Center would have known something was different about this patient even without reading her chart.

The woman lying on the table in the examining room didn't seem like the usual WCHC patient. Sadly, most who came through the front doors of the free clinic had not achieved much in life, financially or in the way of education. But this particular patient seemed intelligent and articulate. According to the form she'd filled out in the waiting room, she didn't smoke, drink or do drugs and-from what Dr. Avalos could tell-she had no visible tattoos.

That last one was the biggest miracle these days. As he applied the gel to her exposed belly, he tried to remember his last patient who hadn't risked HIV and hepatitis by taking a dozen trips to the tattoo parlor. In his less politically correct moments, he wondered how it was that people who relied on federal handouts for their daily bread could afford to get permanent ink disfigurements on their ankles and asses. Maybe tattoo parlors had started taking food stamps.

"You're not from the neighborhood," Dr. Avalos said as rolled the sonogram to the side of the table.

"No," the woman replied.

Her voice was deep, rolling and soft all at once. There was something very feminine and just a little dangerous about her. Dr. Avalos felt drawn to her for some reason.

He tried to keep his mind on work.

"What brings you to us?" he asked. "Besides the obvious, of course."

"I'm leaving the country tomorrow and I want to make sure it's safe to fly."

Dr. Avalos nodded understanding. He pressed the probe to her belly and turned his attention to the monitor.

"Oh, my," he said after a moment. "This wasn't natural."

She didn't say a word. Just smiled a knowing smile.

Dr. Avalos turned his attention away from the monitor. He wore a deeply concerned expression.

"Is your partner here today?" he asked. These days it wasn't safe to assume a husband or even a gender. "There are some important issues you should consider."

"No," she said. "Luckily, he thinks he gave me a cupful of duds, so he won't come snooping around. Most humans have no idea the miracles you can achieve with just a few drops of frozen blood and skin from under a fingernail." Again the knowing smile.

Dr. Avalos wasn't sure what she meant. Nor did he know why he seemed drawn to this woman. There was something about her. Like perfume, but without odor.

The doctor, cleared his throat. "I'll be blunt, even though you've probably heard this before. It would be safer to reduce the number of babies. Two or three would be better to insure healthy births."

His patient looked at him coldly. "No," she said. He directed her attention to the sonogram. "There's at least six heartbeats." With a pen he pointed to a tiny smudge on the monitor. "Maybe seven. I think that one up there might be another one. Multiple births are risky."

"They'll all be fine," she assured him. "I was designed to carry more than one at a time." She took his hand. "I'm not like other women."

He knew he should pull away. This wasn't proper. He could lose his job, his license. But the odor that couldn't be smelled filled his head with indecent thoughts. There was something beguiling about this woman. Almost as if pregnancy were releasing pheromones he was finding impossible to resist. Of course that couldn't be the case.

The woman stroked his hand.

"We can discuss it over dinner tonight," she said. Dr. Avalos glanced at the examining-room door, making certain it was closed.

"I'm not sure it would be appropriate to have dinner with a clinic patient," he whispered. In his head he was already making the reservations.

His patient smiled.

"I didn't say you'd be eating," purred Judith White.