"At this point I don't know what's going on," Remo said. "Hell, maybe they're part of the spidertraining team. Those Halloween getups could be their way of hiding in the open."
"Perhaps," Smith said. "In any event, they are likely connected, given the nature of their attack on you. I will have Mark look into them."
At the assistant CURE director's name, Remo suppressed a thin smile. "There's something in the envelope I sent for him," he said. "Give it to him when it shows up, okay?"
"Very well," Smith agreed slowly.
"For now, I'm gonna find a motel. I'll call you once we've seen the show."
Turning, he hung up the phone.
When he glanced at the Master of Sinanju, the old man was nodding sadly.
"You will listen to Smith's fairy stories but you dismiss the tale of Master Shiko," Chiun said.
"The yeti guy? How can I dismiss it? Unless you've been beaming radio waves into my head, I haven't even heard it yet."
"If I thought there was a chance you would actually listen for once, I would try that method," the Master of Sinanju replied. "I will inquire of Smith if radio signals can penetrate solid granite."
"Yeah, okay. I get it," Remo said. "I've got a thick skull. Ha-ha. Can you give me the Reader's Digest version? I'm kind of in a hurry." He palmed the car keys.
Chiun shook his head. "No. I will tell you when you are ready to make a true effort to listen." Turning, he padded away from Remo to their rental car.
Remo was relieved, grateful to dodge an ancient Sinanju legend.
"Just as well," he said, trotting to the driver's side. "We've got to find a TV. Besides, no offense to Master Shiko, but no matter what I think about this spider thing anymore, I sure as hell don't believe the abominable snowman exists."
Climbing into the car, the Master of Sinanju's papery lips formed a sad smile. "Master Shiko was just as certain that it did, my son," he replied somberly. And in a voice only he could hear, he whispered, "You are both wrong."
Chapter 14
Colonel Zipp Codwin had come to NASA the hard way. While still a pup, he'd paid his way through college flying crummy little biplanes for cash. Barnstorming, crop dusting, anything he could do to turn an honest buck. Sometimes, when things got tight and he was really strapped for cash, the bucks turned less honest. But he'd done it. Zipp Codwin had paid his dues and succeeded.
College led to the Air Force. Air Force led to a spot at NASA.
During the days of the post-Sputnik space race, when the United States was locked in its most desperate competition with the Soviet Union, Zipp had proved he had the right stuff a hundred times. A hundred times a hundred times. Yet he always seemed to come in a day late and a dollar short.
Sure, he'd circled the Earth a couple of times. But he wasn't the first man to do it. In a twist of fate that still ate through his belly like acid, that honor went to a Russian. A damn-blasted Russkie had beaten Zipp to space.
The moon belonged to Neil Armstrong and a couple other brownnosing pissants who knew how to suck up to brass. Plain and simple. Thanks to his give-'em-hell personality, Zipp never even made it there at all.
He hadn't even had the good fortune to be blown up with Gus Grissom or lost in space with Apollo 13. Good Lord-in-a-laundry-basket, they made a goddamn movie out of that one. With Tom Hanks, for Christ's sake! Tom Hanks!
The fabled decade of exploration ended with less than a whimper. All the Mercuries, Geminis and Apollos became ancient history and Zipp Codwin's beloved NASA surrendered the front page to pantywaist civilian groundlubbers.
It was pathetic. The one agency that had stood toe to furry toe with the great Russian bear and made that goddamn Bolshoi bruin blink was surrendered to a passel of nerds who thought that space exploration meant flinging a couple of blinking tin cans called Voyager out of the solar system. By the time the Challenger went boom, ol' Zipp Codwin had long since hung up his helmet and space suit.
Zipp drifted. For a time he became an aeronautics consultant for Lockheed, Boeing and a few of the other giants. Pure window dressing, of course. As one of the dinosaurs from the old days, he was pretty much relegated to the status of cocktail-party curiosity.
That life was hell for a man who had been trained to strap a rocket to his ass and fly screaming into the smarmy, smirking face of God himself.
In a quirk of fate, Zipp was sent to Washington by one of his bosses during the big defense-industry mergers. He happened to find himself in front of a committee chaired by one of his flyboy buddies from the old days. Turned out there was an opening at NASA, his pal put in a good word and before you could say strafe the weasel, Zipp Codwin found himself back at the agency he'd left two decades before.
When he arrived, he found that it was worse than he thought. Geeks prowled the halls of Canaveral as if they owned the joint. In the old days they were there, sure. But damn if they didn't know enough to keep their voices, eyes and technobabble down when in the company of their superiors-their superiors being the men who were willing to risk their cullions in the cold heart of space.
But even that was another story. Some of the men these days were women. Real, honest-to-Jebediah gals of the female persuasion. And the men weren't real men, either. They were all studious, bookish types. Not a Tailhooker among them. The nerds were running the asylum. And thanks to them, the program suffered.
All that was happening at the best damn space agency on the face of the bluest damn ball of rock in the solar system was a couple of moldy-oldy shuttle missions a year.
Shuttle flew up. Shuttle puked out some crummy weather satellite or half-busted telescope. Shuttle flew back down.
If there was real excitement on a mission, the shuttle would have to wait an extra day because of some damn farty windstorm out in California.
It was awful. But the money just wasn't there anymore for anything grand. Zipp had hollered himself hoarse looking for more scratch from the miserly buttwads on the Potomac, but they stubbornly refused to surrender an extra damn cent.
Zipp had been forced to use extreme measures every now and again in order to boost cash flow. In this regard, the slew of PR flacks he kept around came in handy.
Clark Beemer was a good one. Dumb as grandma's mule, but dang if he couldn't come up with a winner. The rock he'd used as proof of life on Mars was a classic. Netted a healthy chunk of change there. And the fact that the public had fallen for it was proof enough to Zipp Codwin that there was still an appetite for the junk NASA was peddling.
The next project would have been just as ambitious. In a few months' time it was going to be revealed that one of NASA's cosmic listening posts had intercepted coherent signals of extraterrestrial origin. Men in the bowels of the Kennedy Space Center were currently working to create those alien signals by splicing and overdubbing old 8-tracks. With a mathematical symbol buried in the recording, ol' Zipp Codwin had intended to stand on the dais in front of a roomful of reporters and, with a straight face, swear to the Lord God Almighty and all his children in the choir that the signals were real and that all NASA needed was a few extra million to decipher exactly what they meant. By the time the world found out they consisted of nothing more than old Carpenters songs played backward, the cash would be in the bank and NASA and Zipp would be moving on to the next scam.
Of course, that was what the plan was. With the discovery Pete Graham and his Virgil probe had made in that Mexican volcano, all bets were off.
Mr. Gordons was the score to end all scores.
The uncreative android with the survival craving had blown completely off the radar everything else Zipp Codwin might have had in mind to solve NASA's fiduciary concerns.
Sure, the initial meeting had been rough, what with Gordons trying to strangle him and all. But after that encounter in the hallway outside Graham's lab, things had begun to drop into place for Colonel Zipp Codwin.
"Will you help me find a way to destroy my enemies?" Mr. Gordons had asked once he'd allowed himself to be escorted-in spider form-back to Graham's lab.
"Sure thing, sonny boy," Zipp had said. "Anything you want. That's what family's for."
The truth was, he would have promised that monster the moon if it kept it working on behalf of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration. With only a vague promise of assistance from the head of NASA, Mr. Gordons had gone about securing the infusion of cash that would help haul the space agency out of its thirty-year doldrums.
Zipp had started him out small. Just to see if he could hack it. To Colonel Codwin's delight, the android inside the Virgil probe was more than up to the challenge.
"This is beautiful!" Zipp Codwin had exclaimed as he pawed through the nine hundred thousand dollars in cash Gordons had liberated from a newly opened supermarket.
"Beauty is not a concept that I recognize," Mr. Gordons had said. In the guise of the Virgil probe, he stood before Zipp's desk, his long legs tucked beneath his body.
They were in Codwin's spacious Kennedy Space Center office. Model replicas of capsules and rockets from various ages in NASA's history were mounted in glass-lined cases all around the walls.
Colonel Codwin held up a hundred-dollar bill. "Then let me explain it to you," he beamed. "This, my boy, is beauty at its most pulchritudinous."
By this point an entire face had formed on the front of Virgil's thorax. Zipp had gotten used to talking to the head that stuck out of the probe.