"That's it," said Smith.
"What is?"
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"The gold balls. That is Mikhail Andreyev Isto-ropovich. He is one of the top agents of Moscow Center."
"That's their spy apparatus?" Remo said.
"Their absolute best. They sent out their big guns," Smith said. Remo could hear a small sigh over the telephone. "Unfortunately, I think they've succeeded," Smith said dully. "I've had every package on every airline leaving the United States checked for metal and electronic content, and that computer has not left this country intact."
"Maybe they're holing up here with it. Laying low."
"Highly unlikely. Moscow Center would never allow a property as important as the LC-111 to remain on American soil any longer than was absolutely necessary. There was only one way out, as far as I can see."
"What was that?"
"An Aeroflot flight that left L.A. International about twenty minutes ago had special provisions for a wounded man on a stretcher. The man was accompanied by three men with diplomatic passports. One of them matched Istoropovich's description, but Aeroflot claimed his immunity, and the authorities couldn't touch him. His luggage, of course, was clean. Not so much as a handgun."
"Who do you think the guy on the stretcher was?"
"I don't know. Maybe a corpse with some of the LC-lll's components fitted inside him. It's just a guess. I don't know."
"Was he Hispanic?"
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There was a pause. "Why, yes, I believe he was."
"Forget it," Remo said. "They don't have the computer. That guy on the stretcher was Gonzalez, the garbageman. They probably think he stole the computer, and they're on their way to Moscow Center to beat it out of him."
"That can't be. They wouldn't leave without—"
"I'm telling you, Smitty, that machine's right here someplace."
"I just can't take the chance," Smith said. "If you're not in Moscow Center soon, they'll rebuild the LC-111 and neutralize it. Then nothing will be able to stop the Volga."
"What's the Volga going to do that's so terrible? Bomb us? Don't we have rockets and things to stop that?"
"Bombing is the least of the Volga's functions," Smith said. "I've arranged for your passage on a special diplomatic envoy plane at 11:45 tonight. It'll take you there faster than any commercial
jet." "I can't leave yet," Remo said. 'I'm not working
right. My balance is off."
"How long will it take you to correct that?" Smith asked uncertainly.
"Chiun," Remo called. "How long before I'm well?"
"Ten years."
"He says ten years, Smitty," Remo said.
Smith snorted into the phone. "Get to Russia. Now." And hung up.
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CHAPTER TWELVE
"What's the matter with you? The oscilloscope needle just went off the scale." The professor checked all the electrodes hooked into Mr. Gor-dons's exposed metal chest cavity, blowing away clouds of talcum that fell from her artificially white hair.
"They're activated."
"What's activated?" the professor asked, alarmed.
"My dormant memory banks," he said.
"Which circuit?" She milled around the maze of wires excitedly.
"F-42,1 think. To the right."
"That's it, that's it!" She held the delicate little wire reverently. "Your creator was a genius." She beamed, the penciled-in wrinkles of her face radiating serenely. "A genius. Now, if I can modify the connection with F-26 . . ."
She joined two fuses with a tiny soldering iron
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and replaced them in Mr. Gordons's circuitry. "And if these new silver transistors melt with the heat of the fusion between D-641 and N-22 • . ." She fiddled with a mass of small wire terminals at the rear of Mr. Gordons's chest.
"How long will they take to melt?"
"Can't tell. Maybe never. It'll depend on the amount of use you give your higher intelligence centers. If you spend a lot of time thinking—you know, resolving problems, things like that—you'll activate the heat anodes."
Mr. Gordons blinked in confusion. "I don't understand, Mom. What will happen?"
The professor took a step back to admire her work. "Why, you'll start developing creativity, bird brain. What do you think I've been slaving over these transistors for?"
"Creativity?" Mr. Gordons's hands began to tremble. "I can have creativity? Really?"
"Maybe. No promises. But your memory banks—that's a definite. You should be able to remember everything now."
"Oh, Mom," Mr. Gordons said. "You're the genius. Did you know that the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg has a population density of 360.36 persons per square mile?"
The professor stared at him, dumbfounded. "So what?"
"I remembered. I'm remembering all kinds of things. Cheddar cheese has a food energy count of 115 calories per ounce. Julius Caesar subdued the native tribes of Gaul from 57 to 52 b.c. The cube root of 1,035 is 10.12, to two decimal places. French explorer Jacques Cartier is gener-
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ally regarded as the founder of Canada. I have to kill Remo Williams."
"What? Who?"
"That's the name of that man I thought looked familiar. Remo Williams. He threatens my survival. Therefore, I must kill him. Thanks for the memory."
She snapped the wire out. "Look, you're a nice little robot that tracks missiles. Period. If you keep going around bumping off people, we're not going to have any time to monitor the Volga. Just forget all this murder business."
Mr. Gordons snapped the F-42 wire back in. "No," he said coldly. "I cannot forget, now that my memory banks are repaired. Remo Williams is a dangerous man. He and another named Chiun twice dismembered me. The last time, they burned my parts."
"Commie bastards," the professor said.
"They are not Communists. They work for— shhh." Suddenly Mr. Gordons shot out of his chair and stood bolt upright. "He is traveling."
"That's a relief," the professor said. "Now maybe the little nebshit'11 leave us alone, and we can all get to work. He was awfully cute, though," she remembered wistfully.
"The transmitter I planted in his back is broadcasting from the air. He is moving very quickly. Far away."
"Well, easy come, easy go."
"I must seek him out," Mr. Gordons said. On, come on.
"I must kill him."
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His words sent shivers up her spine. "But you can't leave," she cried.
"I must."
"You are a robot, do you hear me? My robot, my LC-111. I am not letting you out of my sight again. The Volga's due to launch any day. I've got to be with you to adjust the coordinates."
Mr. Gordons's voice was cold and chilling, and for the first time since he had walked into her laboratory, Dr. Frances Payton-Holmes felt a tinge of fear.
"I am not your LC-111. I am a survival machine, created to assimilate all materials necessary so that I may prevail. This Remo Williams is a threat to my survival, and so I will follow him to his destination and I will destroy him. I will do it now before he knows of my existence and is expecting my attack. I think this is a very creative approach to this problem. If you insist upon monitoring me, there is only one possible solution. You go with me. I will let you watch me pull his arms out of his sockets. Mom."
"Oh, no," the professor said, backing away. "I'm not taking off on any wild goose chase. He's probably just on vacation, anyway. Be back in a day or so."
"Then I must go alone."
The professor exhaled deeply. "I'll go pack," she said.
"You're the greatest," Mr. Gordons shouted, rumpling her old-lady hairdo affectionately. The professor choked on the swirling talcum. "Go to bed, Gordons."
"But we have to leave."
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"Tomorrow. I'm beat."
"Now."
The professor looked at her watch. "It's after midnight. I've got all this mother crap on me. I haven't even had my evening cocktail yet."