“So why couldn’t somebody one hundred years ago have come up with a robot that could do genuinely amazing things? If he was brilliant enough?”
Remo tapped the screen, on the picture from the World’s Fair, on the face of Archibald Slate, creator of Ironhand.
“Why not this guy?” Remo asked.
Chapter 19
It should have been impossible, but it was true. In the one brief moment Remo Williams had been using Mark Howard’s laptop computer he had somehow commanded it to dedicate all its hacking resources to downloading the vast library of video and photography from the website with the shameless lady who said, “I want to feel your iron hand.”
“Eight thousand JPEGs, six full-length AVI movies, holy Toledo,” Mark said.
“All with the same woman?” Remo asked. “She wasn’t that hot.”
The flight attendant must have been waiting for her cue, because she walked into the passenger area and sneered, “You wouldn’t know a hot woman if she buried your face between her breasts.”
She reached for Remo’s head and tried to illustrate her point, but Remo was out of there. The flight attendant thrust an un-asked-for glass of water at Mark and retreated to the galley. Remo emerged from the aircraft washroom to find Mark Howard absorbed by a new screen of data.
“I like it better when there were pictures,” he told the assistant director of CURE.
“Remo, listen,” Mark said. “Archibald Slate, indentured to the United States Army, 1905. Released 1928.”
“Indentured?”
“This is government stuff, still classified after all these years,” Howard said. “Nobody is supposed to know about this. Whoever is supposed to know must be long gone.”
“But does it say what he did?”
“No. These files are sparse. He served in an engineering capacity, to be expected, since he was an engineer. Says he succumbed to dementia and retired. He was memorialized in August 1932.”
“Meaning?”
“A memorial service, for the dead.”
“Shall I be remembered when I am dead?” wailed a pitiful old man in the back, whose pride and joy in Remo had been short-lived.
“Maybe, but not in a good way,” Remo said. “So did he die then or what? Why didn’t they just say he died?”
Mark searched again. “Birth and death records, Providence,” he explained. “No death certificate on file for Archibald Slate.”
“But there’s a lot of other Slates,” Remo noticed. “Look at them all. Look at how many lived at the same address. I bet she still does.”
He pointed to a birth record. It was just a name, Sarah Slate, born twenty-one years ago.
“Hold on,” Mark said, then did some key pounding and window swapping. “That’s the address for Archibald Slate in his military file in 1905.”
“Family house. Maybe they still own it.”
“Hold on. Yes, Sarah Slate’s address is the same.” Mark looked at Remo. “I’ll call Dr. Smith and let him know we’re diverting to Providence.”
“I have to go to the bathroom again,” Remo announced. He’d had enough of Harold Smith for the time being.
Chapter 20
The homes in Providence, Rhode Island, felt old. They dated back a few hundred years—new construction compared to the ancient buildings in some parts of the world. But in America, this was ancient, and it felt ancient. Every forgotten year from the Colonial era to the twenty-first century seemed to weigh heavily on these buildings, no matter how fresh the paint
“No wonder a lot of people had this address,” Remo observed. “It’s a big house.”
“It is also quite open,” Chiun noted.
Remo looked down the street, where a number of fine big Colonial homes stood proudly, side by side, just a few feet separating them. The Slate house was different, a vast red-brick home on several open acres.
“Hello!” said the woman in the apron when they rang the bell. “I’m so pleased to meet you!” When she got a look at the guests she was taken aback. They had faces that were reddened and marred, as if both had recently been in an accident with a sandblaster.
“Ms. Slate?”
“Oh, no, I’m Mrs. Sanderson, the housekeeper. You’re Mr. Remo Dexter, right? Hello. And you are Moses Chiun! So happy to have you here. We get visitors so seldom these days.”
Mrs. Sanderson ushered them through a parlor to a living room, where the air smelled musty and aged despite a fresh breeze through the open window.
“This is Sarah Slate,” Mrs. Sanderson said as the woman rose from her chair.
Remo expected her to took twenty-one, not seventeen. At the same time she seemed old, weary, as if in mourning. She was somehow graceful beyond her years. Her long brown hair was tied carelessly in a ponytail in a red band. She had tossed on her peach sweater and faded jeans. She wore no makeup, but she was stunning.
“I’m so pleased to meet you.” She took Remo’s hand, and if she noticed his unusually scarlet complexion she didn’t show it. Remo enjoyed the sensation of her skin, but she pulled away and nodded to Chiun, who nodded curtly and strolled to the wall to examine one of several hundred framed photographs.
“Holy moly,” Remo said. “Look at them all.” He stepped up to one of the pictures and found himself staring at a faded image of an airship. “Franklin Slate/Agnes Slate, 1909,” said the neat pencil legend.
“I guess that explains why you need all the yard-space,” he mentioned. In the picture, the airship was tied up outside the house.
The next photo was of a man on a mountain, his beard ice-encrusted. “In 1954 Orville Slate Successfully Scaled Mount Everest, Dying Whilst Descending.”
“Are all these pictures of your family?” Remo asked.
“Of course,” said Sarah.
“I knew of a Slate,” Chiun said in a singsong of realization. “Randolph Slate was known among the royalty of the British.”
“Yes,” Sarah nodded. “He was an uncle.”
“He claimed to have many famous exploring siblings and ancestors,” Chiun recalled.
“Yes. A lot of good it got them,” Sarah said. “There were thirty Slates a century ago. Now the line is all but wiped out because of their foolishness. I’m all there is.”
Remo looked around the room with fresh eyes. “All these people?”
“Almost all of them died on some ridiculous venture or another. Airships, mountain climbing, polar exploration, deep-sea exploration. But I don’t understand— don’t you know this? If you have not come, to write about my family, what have you come for?”
“We’re not reporters. We came to talk about Archibald Slate,” Remo said. “Your great-grandfather.”
Sarah Slate smiled again, looking sadder. “You came to find Ironhand.”
“Well, yeah. Is he home?”
“Of course not. Are you from the government?”
“Yes, but the government hasn’t been keeping really good records, believe it or not,” Remo said. “Fact is, some of us aren’t sure if Ironhand ever existed. I mean, if he ever existed as a real walking, talking robot. We know only that Archibald Slate was employed by Army as an engineer.”
“He was enslaved. He was imprisoned. It was despicable what America did to that man.”
“Why’d they want him so bad?”
“You know why.”
“No.”
She sat back in her chair and looked at Remo as the housekeeper came in with a tea set, pouring three cups. Remo took his. Chiun, who had never bothered to sit down, left through a back door.
“Very insecure around women. He is habitually rude to those he finds attractive,” Remo explained to Mrs. Sanderson, who blushed crimson and hurried out.
“What agency?” Sarah Slate demanded. “DOE? FBI?”