The metallic hands seemed to shudder. And before their eyes, the fingers on each of the android's hands compressed into single units. The new hands flattened and lengthened until they had grown into familiar shapes.
"There was an element of my program that once allowed for the incorporation of organic material," Mr. Gordons explained. "That has been damaged irreparably."
Pete Graham liked the sound of that. Especially given the fact that Mr. Gordons now seemed to have two long, curving knives in place of hands.
Near the stacks of money was a sofa. The android turned his attention to it now.
It was an old leather number that had been kicking around the lab for years. When he had first taken over this NASA lab, it reminded Pete Graham of the couch he'd had back at his dorm at MIT. He had fought off multiple attempts by the staff to remove it.
Mr. Gordons leaned into the sofa with his hands. The blades became blurs. Slicing turned to tearing, and before Pete knew what had happened his old sofa had been stripped of every last bit of leather. It sat on the floor like a skinned fish, all stuffing and springs.
When he stood, Mr. Gordons's hands had resumed their human shape. In them were clasped the strips of leather.
As the three men watched, Gordons folded his hands over his chest, pressing the upholstery to his body. With a soft hiss the leather disappeared.
Just like that. Disappeared. Absorbed into the metal frame like water into a paper towel.
"What the ding-dang?" Zipp said. "How did he-?"
Before he could complete the thought, the leather reappeared.
It showed up first on the forearms. Bleeding up from below the metal surface. Digested and assimilated, it was softer now. A perfect carbon copy of human skin. It had lost its faded brown, resurfacing in a bland baby pink.
Rapidly, the thighs and torso were covered. The rest of the arms, legs, hands and feet followed. Last was the head.
When the metamorphosis was complete, Mr. Gordons stood before the three NASA men, naked and whole.
"Oh my..." whispered Clark Beemer.
Zipp Codwin's mouth hung open wide. "How-how does he have hair?" he asked Pete Graham.
Mr. Gordons answered for the scientist. "Threads contained within the sofa material provided adequate source material." A mechanical facsimile of a human hand brushed back the sandy blond hair. "It is quite lifelike. I require clothing to complete my disguise. Yours will suffice."
He pointed at Clark Beemer. The public-relations man didn't even argue. Terrified eyes focused squarely on the man before him, he began stripping off his clothes. He handed them to the android. Gordons put them on.
"I am now fully functional," Mr. Gordons said once he was dressed. "It is time."
There was a long pause during which none of the men said a thing. It was Zipp Codwin who finally realized that Gordons expected something of them.
"Um, time for what?" he asked. He had grown strangely comfortable talking to Gordons in his spider form. This human thing was going to take some getting used to.
"To implement your plan," Gordons said in his smooth, mechanical voice.
Zipp glanced at Beemer and Graham. "My, um, plan?"
"Please do not tell me that you have not developed a plan of attack I might use against my enemies," Mr. Gordons said. "I do not wish to have to rip your medulla oblongata from your skull as an example." His lips were parted in something that was almost but not quite a smile.
"Whoa, there, son," Zipp said, hastily throwing up his hands. "I gotcha. Wrong wavelength before. Plan. You want the plan I've come up with for you. Well, about that. See, I haven't had the time to fully flesh it out."
"You have had six days, eight hours and twelve minutes in which to complete your task," Mr. Gordons said. "In the meantime I have done all that you wish. I have stolen one million, thirty-four thousand, seven hundred eighty-seven dollars and thirty-three cents for you to use as you wish."
"For science," Zipp stressed, lest anyone get the impression that he was in this for personal gain.
"How you make use of it is irrelevant. I have held up my end of our bargain. It is time for you to reciprocate."
Zipp shot a look at Graham. "Help me out here," he whispered sharply.
Graham jumped. "Me? Oh, ah, well..." His eyes darted around the room as he tried to come up with an answer Mr. Gordons would find acceptable. "Maybe you don't have to face these enemies at all. You're just looking for safety. To survive. We could, um, send you to someplace where you're sure to be safe. You-that is, the Virgil probe-are designed to survive in an inhospitable alien climate. If we send you to Mars or a Jovian moon you'd be safe."
"Are you out of your mind?" Zipp Codwin snapped, smacking Graham on the back of the head. "I need him."
"Negative," Mr. Gordons said to Graham. "Mars will likely be inhabited by humans within the next three hundred years. It is possible that the descendants of my enemies will come there. While colonization of Jupiter's moons is unlikely, they are not suitable to my needs. I am a mechanical being. Were I damaged somehow, the parts to repair me would not be available on an uninhabited world. Even if replacement parts were sent with me, they would not last long enough, since it is not possible at the present time to ship supplies from this planet on such a vast scale. Remember, my life span is far greater than that of humans."
"Life span?" Beemer asked. He was shivering in his underwear.
"I am self-aware," Gordons said. "Therefore I live." His mechanical voice turned even more cold as he looked back to Zipp Codwin. "What is your plan?"
Zipp gulped. "It's such a good plan, I don't want to ruin it by blurting it out too soon," he dodged. "Gimme another day to think. Just one more. Is that good for you?"
Gordons's blue eyes were ice.
"You had better think fast," he warned. "During each of the robberies you have involved me in I left a small piece of the Virgil probe. When discovered, the fragments will be traceable back to NASA. As a result of my very creative plan you will soon have enemies like mine. In your case it will be the authorities. If you do not aid me, I will leave you and this agency you revere at their mercy."
Zipp Codwin felt as if he'd been kicked in the gut. The room spun around him. "Not NASA!" he gasped. If it was possible for an android to display smugness, Mr. Gordons did so now.
"I calculated an eighty-three percent probability that the agency for which you work was more important to you than your own life," Gordons said. "I am pleased to know that I was correct."
"You were correct, dammit," Zipp snapped. "Okay, okay. These enemies you keep blabbing about. Who are they and where are they?"
"Some of my memory degraded while I was inactive. I do not know where they are located, but their names are Remo and Chiun. They are practitioners of an ancient martial art that, as far as I have been able to ascertain, predates and surpasses all others. These two men are unlike any I have ever encountered and have caused me to cease functioning at full capacity six times before. I would further caution you that they will most likely be alerted to the participation of the Virgil probe in your illegal activities not long after the normal civilian authorities uncover the clues I have left. This, Administrator Zipp Codwin of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration, makes it all the more imperative that you help me sooner rather than later. That is, assuming you wish to keep this agency from being dismantled by the United States government piece by piece."
And with that, Mr. Gordons turned on his heel and walked from the room.
The way he moved was unnerving. There was a deliberate, gliding slowness to his newly formed feet. No uncertainty, no experimentation. He just slid forward and was gone.
When the door closed gently behind Mr. Gordons, a shell-shocked Colonel Codwin turned to Beemer and Graham.
"Cold, calculating son of a bitch," Zipp muttered. "Hate to say it, but he's a man after my own damn heart."
"What do we do?" Clark Beemer asked nervously. Zipp shook himself from his trance. He looked at Beemer.
"First thing, go and get some pants on," he said to the half-naked PR man. "For God's sake man, this is NASA." He took a deep breath, crossing his arms. "Second, we figure out how to help our friend Gordons kill those two pals of his. All in the name of good old-fashioned American interplanetary exploration, of course."
Chapter 15
Remo found a hotel near City Point, fifteen miles south of Yuletide. After calling Smith to give him the number, he and Chiun settled down in front of the TV.