Unpopular Science

Chapter 30

Remo sat in the chair as Chiun stood near Smith’s desk.

“Ignore him, Emperor. His brain has jellied,” Chiun proclaimed.

“My brain is fine,” Remo protested.

“It is sad indeed when a teacher discovers his pupil has learned nothing despite a lifetime of education. He was a simpleton when I found him and a simpleton he remains.”

“Go eat a cow.” Remo responded.

“See the disrespect? Witness the lack of understanding?”

‘I’m inclined to agree with Master Chiun this time, Remo. You’ve demonstrated poor judgment recently.”

“And you can go to hell. You have no clue what’s been happening, Smitty. This is a weapon we might not be able to overcome. It’s not a rock or an arrow or a bullet or a bomb. We’re not slithering around it or dodging it or outrunning it.”

“Every weapon is a hurled rock,” Chiun responded without emotion. “Once I had thought my pupil listened to my teachings. Now I know he was hearing the words but not understanding their meaning.”

“Every weapon is not a rock,” Remo said. “This time the weapon is something different. For once, being a Master of Sinanju is a disability.”

“Fah!” Chiun swiped the words out of the air. There was a knock, then Eileen Mikulka, Smith’s longtime secretary, opened the door and rolled Mark Howard into the room in his wheelchair, clucking all the while.

“Thank you, thank you so much, Mrs. Mikulka,” Howard kept saying, until she was satisfied that he was comfortably situated, had a full cup of water and was not in need of medicine, Kleenex or other items or services. She finally closed the door behind her.

“Sorry I’m late,” Mark said. “What did I miss?”

Chiun glared disapprovingly at Mark’s bandaged ankle. Remo watched the Long Island surf roll in. Harold Smith was in a rare state of indecisiveness.

Mark got a whiff of the ill will in the room and said, “The doc gave me the okay to get back to work. Where should I start, Dr. Smith?”

“We’re still trying to get a full profile put together on Archibald Slate and the original Ironhand, as well as trace the history of the antique robot samples you brought back from Spain,” Dr. Smith said. “Our top priority, however, is to find out everything we can about the system used to charge the robot power supplies. Unfortunately we have a lot of possibilities. The technology was either stolen from the Soviets or developed independently. If stolen from the Soviets, it might have occurred any time in the last fifteen years. If developed independently—well, it could have been anywhere.”

“Like the Pentagon,” Remo said.

“We’d know if it came from the U.S. military,” Mark answered.

“You didn’t know about Ironhand.”

“That’s different. He was classified and forgotten seventy years ago. The proton discharge device has to be a lot newer than that.”

Remo sighed. “What did you get from Sarah?”

Mark Howard looked startled. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, about Ironhand. What happened to him? Where has he been all this time?”

“I haven’t learned anything like that.”

“Bringing her to Rye was a bad decision,” Dr. Smith remarked, addressing Mark. “Allowing her to come to Folcroft was also foolish.”

“That’s my doing,” Remo announced before Mark could open his mouth. “Being here doesn’t mean she’ll learn anything about CURE. She’s the best link we have to the old Ironhand.”

“I do not see her as a reliable intelligence source.”

“Got news for ya—she’s the only intelligence we got.”

“Remo,” Chiun remonstrated, “you shall not insult the emperor to whom you owe your contractual allegiance.”

Remo looked up at Chiun. “If it’s true it’s not an insult. Where are the Ironhand arms?” Remo asked finally.

“Under analysis.”

“Any idea where Ironhand ran off to last night?”

Dr. Smith shook his head. “No trace of him. We’re also tracking the robot that was his accomplice. This Clockwork. We have not determined if it is the original machine used in the television program, or if there was more than one built. Until we learn more, our best course of action will be for you and Master Chiun to police the possible upcoming attacks.”

Remo waited.

“The Department of Defense is in a unique state of high alert. Vital military research projects all over the country are being relocated, but the emphasis is on secrecy. The President insists on it. If the American people come to think die highest levels of their military are worrying about burglars—public faith in the government would suffer.”

“And the President’s popularity would go into the toilet,” Remo added. “Up for reelection, isn’t he?”

Smith didn’t acknowledge the comment. “There is one research project that has not been relocated. It is FEM, the Full-spectrum Environmental Monitoring.”

“Kind of girly name,” Remo noted.

“It protects the White House. It is made up of thirty miniaturized mobile units, patrolling the grounds in shifts of fifteen and relaying data to command computers and into the subterranean command centers. They have sound, motion, thermal, vibration and atmospheric sensors. They’re Gee-DAM controlled, of course, but also have a high degree of information processing and the ability for independent decision-making. If they detect intruders with guns, they can call for ground troops. If they detect biological or chemical agents, they can call for HAZMAT. One of the units can perform any and all these functions.”

“How come we’ve never seen them?” Remo asked. “We’ve been to the White House.”

“It has been up and running just a few weeks,” Smith explained. “The units still call in a number of false alarms, but the programming is being tuned daily. It could emerge as the most capable defensive system for any sort of a secure site.”

“If the White House shares it,” Remo clarified.

Dr. Smith slid an eight-by-ten photograph onto the desk, appearing slightly sheepish. “The current FEM unit configuration.”

Remo examined the photo.

“A robotic rodent?” Chiun sniffed.

“It’s a cyber-squirrel,” Remo observed.

“Its a FEMbot,” Smith explained.

“Say again?”

“Full-spectrum Environmental Monitoring robot. FEMbot.”

“1 see.”

“To the casual observer, the only way to distinguish it from a genuine White House squirrel is the markings. All the FEMbots have the same forehead markings.”

Remo noticed that the mark was a series of white streaks in the brown squirrel fur, and the streaks formed a lopsided W. “Somebody at the DOD is brown-nosing big-time.”

Smith scowled. “I agree it’s foolish. I pointed out to the President that one of these units might be photographed by a White House reporter or visitor and surely attract attention. The President believes the units will keep themselves so well camouflaged there will be little opportunity for such a thing to happen.” His words trailed off, full of doubt, and he added, “The President does not believe the White House is threatened. He also does not believe that the two of you will be able to penetrate this new security perimeter.”

Remo and Chiun both stiffened.

“I think he is wrong on both counts, of course.”

Remo nodded. “You want we should keep an eye on the place?”

“For tonight, yes,” Smith said.

“Fine. We’ll go stake out the White House.”

Remo pushed Mark out of the office.

“Really, Remo, I can do it myself.”

“This is a cool set of wheels. Junior,” Remo said. “Wanna go down and try it out in one of the first-floor corridors? I bet I can get this baby up to eighty.”

“No, thank you!”

“I’ll take that” Mrs. Mikulka was out of her chair the moment they left Dr. Smith’s office and she muscled Remo out from behind the wheelchair with unassailable determination. Chiun chuckled.

When Mark Howard’s office door swung open, it almost grazed the front of the massive desk that dominated the room like a hippo in a hot tub. The floor space was narrow. Mark usually had to shuffle sideways to get behind the desk to work.

Experimentally, Mrs. Mikulka wheeled Mark inside. The foot rests wedged against the front of the desk while the rear wheels were still sticking out the door.

“This will never do,” she decided.

“No, no, it’ll work. It will just take a little jimmying.” Mark began wiggling the wheelchair back and forth, inching it around.

Mrs. Mikulka huffed. “This will not work, Mark.”

“Sure, Mrs. M. Just another minute or so and I’ll be inside.”

‘Then what? You’ll never get behind your desk.”

“I’ll work on the front.”

“There’s no room for your legs to get under. You’ll add a bad back to your medical problems.”

“I’m sure it will be—”

“Not another word from you, Mark Howard. I’m calling maintenance.” Mrs. Mikulka strode away. After a few more tiny movements, Mark realized he was completed wedged in. His front wheels tight against the desk, his back wheels jammed at an angle in the door frame.

That was when he realized he needed to go to the men’s room.

Remo was pretending to hold a cigar in one hand and a telephone in another. “Hello, room service? Send up some more room.”

“That was the worst Groucho Marx of all time,” Mark said.

“Seriously, who did you not sleep with to rate this closet? Aren’t there empty offices on both sides of you?”

“They’re no bigger than this one.”

“You just take out a few walls and you’d be in good shape.”

“That doesn’t exactly help me right now.”

“What do you mean? I’ll have it done before you’re back from the little boy’s room.”

“No. Please, no, Remo. And stop invading my privacy. I don’t need to know that you know when I need to—you know.”

“What privacy? You’re shifting around like an eight-year-old in mass. Can I at least get you unstuck?”

Mark sighed. “That would be helpful.”

Mrs. Mikulka returned to find Mark Howard still in his wheelchair, but the wheelchair was now four feet off the ground. It turned and emerged backward from the office. Remo gave her a smile and placed it on the ground again, giving Mark a crash-landing for the benefit of the elderly secretary.

“Unstuck. You could stand to lose a few, Mark. I think I pulled my back.”

“Maybe we have some wheelchairs at Folcroft that are more narrow,” Mark said.

“Mark, you are not going to try to cram yourself inside of that office,” Mrs. Mikulka declared. “Not until you are ambulatory again. Come with me, please.” Remo almost had hold of the wheelchair handles, then found himself facing a mask of maternal determination that sent him into retreat. Mrs. Mikulka wheeled Mark Howard right back to Mr. Smith’s office.

“Dr. Smith has more room than he needs,” she announced, and when they entered the director’s office she explained the difficulties down the hall. “You’ll be more than happy to have Mark as a roommate temporarily, won’t you?”

“Nod, Smitty,” Remo called from outside the door after an uncertain moment.

Smith nodded. “Yes. Of course. That’s an ideal solution. You’ll need a desk.”

Mrs. Mikulka stepped aside as an upended desk rolled into the office, followed by a Folcroft maintenance worker who manned the dolly. “Afternoon, Mrs. M. Where’d you like this?”

Remo couldn’t tear his eyes away as Mrs. Mikulka supervised the arrangement of the new office layout, careful to allow plenty of room for Mark’s wheelchair. Phones arrived and were installed by another maintenance worker. Dr. Smith seemed resigned to the chaos, but in reality it was handled with great efficiency. When the door closed twenty minutes later, Mark was firmly ensconced.

“Just like old times.” Mark grinned sheepishly. “I’m sorry to have this thrust on you. Dr. Smith. Don’t think you were given much choice.”

“It’s perfectly acceptable, Mark, but I have to admit, I’ve rarely witnessed Mrs. Mikulka in such a take-charge mode.”

‘I’d say this pack has a new alpha male,” Remo remarked.

“Are you finished?” Chiun asked, slipping through the door. “I have been waiting in the rental car.”

“I thought you told me you were going to the cafeteria for a burger and fries,” Remo protested. Chiun’s look would have curdled yak milk. “Well, my supervision here is done.”

Remo felt oddly ebullient as they departed, despite his current less-than-affectionate relations with Dr. Smith. In the outer office he made a big thumbs-up. “Good work, Mrs. M.”

Mrs. Mikulka crinkled her wrinkles. “Why, thank you, Romeo.”

Mrs. Mikulka watched them go, mulling over the odd pair that had just left. She’d watched them come and go for so many years they had become a part of the scenery.

But she had never been too clear on who they were. Relatives of Dr. Smith, she had been told more than once. She didn’t know if that was true, and she didn’t really care. But two things she had picked up over the years. They ate a lot of rice and they hadn’t aged much. Why, she herself looked older now than the Asian gentlemen, and he had seemed ancient to her at one time.

What was their strange attachment to Folcroft Sanitarium? And what about Dr. Smith’s late nights, and the two men coming at all hours? What was actually going behind those always-closed doors, anyway?

As always, when these thoughts began getting dark and suspicious, a pleasant puff of distraction floated into her mind as if from nowhere to whisk them away. Which was fine, really. Mrs. Mikulka wasn’t sure what was crouching in those dark corridors of suspicion and she would just as soon not know.