"That was Gordons, too, I'm afraid. That's when he first came to me. He'd already offed that poor fellow Verbena or whatever his name was."
"Verbanic," Remo said. "Wait a second, if he's Mr. Gordons, why did you tell Lucrezia Borgia in there that he's the LC-111?"
"Because he is," the professor explained. "He's an assimilator. If materials for his construction are available, he can repair himself. The last time he was damaged—by you, he tells me—he was left at the dump in Hollywood. Apparently that's where the LC-111 was taken when it was stolen."
"By a Russian agent."
"I wouldn't know. It didn't matter, once I got the computer back. By then, though, Gordons had already assimilated it. That's why I couldn't talk to you. Gordons didn't want you to know who he was. The LC-111 and Mr. Gordons are the same thing."
"That's why you couldn't let the guards shoot him," Remo said.
"I suppose, partly. I didn't want them to shoot Gordons, really, now that I've grown to care for him. But I suppose Gordons can repair his arm
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himself within an hour or so. He assimilates very quickly. He's quite indestructible, you know." "So it seems."
"But the LC-111 isn't. It would take years to reassemble if the Commies deeided to blow Gordons apart. I've destroyed my notes for security purposes. That computer is one of a kind. It simply must be saved. The future of our country depends on it."
"I thought it was just a missile tracker."
"It's not the tracker that's important," she said. "It's the missile. The Volga is the most advanced Soviet missile ever designed. It sends out high-frequency emissions that disperse after the vehicle leaves our atmosphere. The signals scramble themselves automatically. The Volga can't be tracked by conventional methods. Once NASA got this information, I began work on the LC-111."
"Where's the Volga going?"
"To the moon," the professor said.
"The moon? It's not even going to hit us?"
"If the Russians succeed, the Volga moon drop will be worse than any bomb," she said.
"But we've already been to the moon."
"That's exactly it. Since the Apollo moon landing, the U.S. has been making extensive plans for moon mining, satellite construction on the moon, weigh stations for future transport vehicles, things like that. The moon is our springboard into space. It's all been planned so that by the time we build the vehicles for space travel, we'll be prepared to conduct operations from the moon."
"So what do the Russians want with it? None of
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that stuff's up there yet. There's nothing to destroy."
"Wrong, darling. There is something. They're going to destroy our chances of ever working the moon." She sighed in anguish. "Oh, it's all so terrible," she said. "They've developed a strain of anerobic bacteria that can breed in space. It's small enough 'to penetrate the fabric of spacesuits, and hardy enough to reproduce in a near vacuum. With this bacteria on the moon, no further exploration there will be possible."
"They're out to spoil the moon," Remo said, rolling into an involuntary headstand.
"Exactly. They want to get back at us for reaching the moon first. And the only thing that can stop the Volga is the LC-111."
"Well, he's still Mr. Gordons," Remo said, "so just keep him off my back."
"He's my poor baby," the professor wailed.
The gold balls suspended from his necklace clicked softly as Mikhail Andreyev Istoropovich entered Dr. Payton-Holmes's cell through a section of the steel and concrete wall, which swung heavily away.
"Finally. We meet," he said.
"I could have waited," Dr. Payton-Holmes said.
"We need some information from you."
"Sure, you goddamn Bolshevik. I was born in Madison, Wisconsin, the only child of a prosperous dairy farmer...."
"I have come to speak about the robot," Istoropovich said, "and I have neither the time nor the inclination to listen to your jokes. You very nearly
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damaged my position with Moscow Central. It was my responsibility to get the LC-111 back here."
"Well, they should fire your ass. You never got it back here. We brought it ourselves."
"We will discuss the robot."
"Gordons? Why? One of you Commie faggots want to go out with him? He makes his own dates."
"You will repair him."
"What's in it for me?" the professor asked.
"Anything you want."
"How about a double martini delivered by a naked weight lifter?" she said.
"That too, if you cooperate."
She looked at him archly. "Can't fix him, can you?" she taunted.
His back stiffened. "The scientists of the Soviet Union do not waste valuable time tinkering with mechanical toys."
"Bet you've never seen a toy like Gordons before."
"Never mind that. I am here on behalf of the high commander to demand your services for the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. You will reprogram the robot so that he can track American missiles, not the Soviet Volga. For this you will receive asylum in Russia and freedom to work in your chosen field."
"Freedom to work until you reds decide to bump me off, you mean," she said. "No thanks. Gordons stays as he is."
"We will destroy him."
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She smirked. "You can't destroy him. He's a survival machine. Nothing can destroy him."
"Then you will render him inoperative. Otherwise you will suffer great pain, Professor. Greater than you have ever known."
"Quit the dramatics, will you?" she lunged for his trousers again. "What you need is to lie down for a while. Get your mind off things. There's a bed right in here." She indicated her bunk.
"Come, come, Professor."
"I'd be delighted," she said, slipping a hand into his shorts. "You may be a Bolshie, but you're still kind of cute."
"Get away!" he shrieked, repelled by the touch of her. With a shove, he managed to get her off him and slip out of the cell. Istoropovich pressed a button and the door slid shut, muffling the professor's lewd encouragements.
"She's crazy," the agent said, panting to his two assistants who waited outside the cell.
Gorky scratched his bald head. "Da," he said. "She drive Edsel."
"She wasn't even interested in her robot," Yuri said, picking a piece of lint off his creased jeans. "As soon as she gets around a man, she forgets about everything else."
"She got around wrong man, huh, boss?" Gorky said, smirking.
"Shut up, rubber lips," Istoropovich said. He stood up slowly. 'Tve got an idea."
Five minutes later, the steel and concrete door to the professor's cell slid open again.
"Oh, what is it now?" the prisoner said. Then
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her mouth hung open, and her eyes glazed over and she was silent.
Before her stood the most sexually inspiring man she had ever seen. He was over six feet tall and built like the Kremlin. Huge, majestic, a monument to the possibilities of the male physique, he had wavy blond hair, crystalline blue eyes, and muscles like boulders. He was wearing only a pair of tight black trousers, and on his bulging bare chest, hairless and gleaming, was a giant, torso-length tattoo of a mermaid that bumped and ground with every rippling breath he took.
"Me Ivan," he said, sending the mermaid into frenzied activity. "Who you?"
The professor buried her face in Ivan's chest. Call me Comrade," she said.
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CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"You are getting worse, Remo," Chiun said quietly.
There was a long silence. "I'm sorry," Remo said.
"You should be. We should never have come to this place."
"I said I'm sorry."
"Your professor has gone with the Russians. The robot is missing. Your body has all the control of a camel's bowels. With you in this condition, we can never leave this place."
"You can get out alone. Find your way back to Smitty and tell him what happened. He'll see that you're sent back to Sinanju."