Fastbinder stared at the boy in disbelief. The kid exploded into hyena howls of hysteria. “I’m kidding, you dope!”
“I see.”
“Wow, Pops, you have got one humungous stick up your butt!”
“I suppose I do.”
“You need somebody like me around to help with butt-stick removal.”
“And to assist in butt-sling avoidance,” Fastbinder added. “By zee way, I like zee haircut.”
The grinning kid felt his new crew cut. “Had to do something. I had a big empty patch. Can I move in with you? Cause Carla is heading for Vegas.”
The kid moved in and Fastbinder went through culture shock, but the rewards far outweighed the annoyances. Jack Fast was as independent as they came. Fastbinder found himself with a son he didn’t have to be responsible for.
Fastbinder also discovered his kid was brilliant— like no other Fastbinder before him. “All of us were nothing but reverse engineers. You’re the first creative genius we’ve ever had,” he told Jack a few months later.
“Aw, jeez, Pops,” Jack said. “I just like fiddling with stuff is all.” He closed the small aluminum door on the power unit. “It’s just a proton beam chisel, really. Not even an accurate one.”
“This could be the greatest leap in portable power technology in decades,” his father insisted. “No one knew that proton beams could be used for this. They are too busy using zee technology to carve computer chips out of old porcelain teacups.”
“Let’s see if it works before you get all gushy,” the kid protested. But the proton beam generator worked very well. That was the thing about Jack—whatever he set his mind to create, he created. He told Fastbinder how, when he was eight, he had formed a boys club that played unbelievably sophisticated jokes on the townsfolk. The other boys couldn’t hold an interest in the club and girls at the same time, so it all fell apart when puberty hit the group. Jack had been more or less a highly sociable loner since seventh grade.
With access to Fastbinder’s desert workshop, Jack went into creative overdrive, churning out amazing— and sometimes amazingly useless—technological creations. Like his father, he loved old mechanical junk.
Fastbinder had brought all of the marvels from the old family home in Cologne, and for years he had been accumulating more antique apparatus through a global network of buyers. His collection was vast.
When Fastbinder saw the potential in the boy, he started coming up with funding. He even bought the boy a proton beam chisel, an obsolete experimental model that had to be shipped from Singapore. The shipping cost was more than the device, which the National University of Singapore Research Center for Nuclear Microscopy considered to be scrap.
The research center had enabled a whole new realm of microscopic chiseling to be performed with its research, but Jack Fast made it into something else entirely. His miniaturized devices, based on the technology from Singapore, created a microscopic burst of high-speed subatomic particles channeled into a tiny electric generator, converting it into large quantities of available electricity for extended periods.
“Will you patent it?” his father asked.
“Nah ” Jack said. “I’m keeping it a secret.”
“For what purpose?” his father asked.
“Pops, think about it. Ironhand will run for months with this baby inside him. Think what he could do. He could walk all the way to White Sands without needing a battery change. All the way and back.”
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.”