"Hear! Hear!" Chiun sniffed at his elbow. As they continued down the long, sterile hallway, his rocket flew parallel to the floor.
Codwin's steely eyes narrowed. "Are you telling me that neither of you pays taxes?"
One hand still flying the model, Chiun used the other to stroke his thread of beard thoughtfully. "A tax collector visited my village once when I was a boy"
"Uh-oh," Remo said. "You never told me that. What'd those money-grubbing villagers do, boil him in a pot?"
"Of course not," Chiun frowned. "We are not barbarians. My father allowed him to leave in peace. He merely kept his purse." He tipped his head. "And his hands. I believe he had them bronzed and sent them along to Pyongyang. We weren't bothered by another tax collector as long as my father lived." There was a tear of pride in the corner of one hazel eye as he resumed flying his rocket.
"Even so," Zipp droned flatly, suspicious eyes trained on the old man, "taxes are our lifeblood. Without money this agency couldn't function."
Remo snorted. "Said the head of the agency that can't even land a Tinkertoy on Mars."
Zipp's face clouded. "The media likes to dwell on the negatives," he said through tightly clenched teeth, "but the truth is we've had many great successes lately. There was the ice that might or might not be on the surface of the moon that we almost found, some close-up pictures of a big rock in space and a new generation of space plane that could be off the drawing board by the year 2332. And don't forget, we even sent Senator Glenn back into space."
"Yeah, but then you had to ruin it by bringing him back down," Remo said. "And we're not here for the sales pitch."
Nostrils flaring, Codwin only grunted.
They took an elevator to a lower level, exiting into an antiseptic hallway. Down the corridor and around the corner, Zipp led them through a door marked Special Project Director, Virgil Climatic Explorer, Dr. Peter Graham.
The man inside, a twitchy twenty-something with shaggy hair and pasty skin, was perched on a lab stool. Graham's tired eyes jumped to the door when the three men entered.
"Pete, these men are with the FBI," Zipp announced. "They have something they want you to examine for them."
"Yes," Graham said, his eyes shifting back and forth from Remo to Chiun. His nervous voice cracked. "Some crime-scene evidence?"
Remo handed the scientist the envelope. "You know what this stuff is?" he asked.
"Nope," Graham insisted with absolute certainty. "You wanna try looking inside the envelope first?" Remo suggested.
"Oh." Pete Graham dumped a few of the black fragments into his hand. "Nope," he stated once more.
Beside the seated scientist, Zipp Codwin's lips thinned disapprovingly. "Pete here's the best in the business," he said tightly. "If he says nope, I gotta believe it's nope."
One of the benefits of Remo's Sinanju training was the ability to detect when someone was lying. Heart rate, perspiration, subtle mannerisms-all helped determine if a subject was being untruthful. It was clear to him that these two men were lying about something. Given what he'd seen of their operation, he was willing to chalk it up to the lies men told to cover up rank incompetence.
He was about to press further when a muted electronic beep issued from the pocket of Zipp's jacket. When the NASA head answered his cell phone, his angled face grew puzzled.
"It's for you," Codwin said, handing the phone to Remo.
"Hello?" Remo asked with a frown.
"Remo, Mark," Howard's familiar voice said excitedly. "Someone thinks they saw the spider. She saw someone helping it into the back of a car. Weird thing is, she says it looked like a man, but with a bunch of arms like a spider."
Chiun had grown bored with his toy. At Howard's words, the plastic spaceship vanished inside his robes. His face serious, he listened in on Remo's call. "Where's Smith?" Remo complained.
"He asked me to call," Howard said. "Remo, I know this woman's story sounds kind of out there-"
"No, Zitt Hatpin is kind of out there. You're lightyears past him. Let me talk to Smith."
"Hush, Remo," Chiun admonished.
"Whatever it was, she swore she knew the guy who helped it get away," Howard pressed. "It was Stewart McQueen."
A shadow formed on Remo's brow. "Stewart McQueen? Isn't he the guy who writes all those crackpot horror books about killer clowns and possessed farm equipment?"
"He used to," Howard said. "Until he got hit by a car. I heard on TV he's got writer's block. Anyway, because of the stuff he writes and the fact it's almost Halloween, the cops didn't believe her story. Didn't hurt she was at a bar. But I had a hunch so I did some digging. Turns out a car was rented down there last night under one of McQueen's pseudonyms. He's already turned it back in. And he bought an extra ticket for the plane ride home."
"You think he managed to sneak a giant spider into first class?" Remo said doubtfully.
"He snuck something on," Howard insisted. "He's back at his home in Bay Cove, Maine, by now. Dr. Smith wants you to check him out."
Remo felt someone pressing in close behind him. Hot breath whistled from pinched nostrils.
Zipp Codwin was leaning in, straining to listen to what was being said. Beyond him, Pete Graham cowered in the corner, chewing nervously on his ragged fingernails.
Remo turned a withering eye on the NASA head. "How'd you like a trip back to the moon?"
Zipp hitched up his belt with both hands. "Well," he said proudly, "technically I was never on the moo- Oh."
Crossing his arms huffily, the NASA administrator turned away from his visitor.
"Is there a problem?" Mark Howard asked.
"No," Remo grumbled. "Tell Smitty we're on our way."
"I'll have the tickets waiting for you at the airport," Howard promised. He cut the connection.
Remo handed the phone back to Codwin. "Looks like you clowns are off the hook," he said. "You and the rest of NASA can go back to pretending to work while the rest of us have to do the real thing."
Turning from Codwin and Graham, Remo and Chiun quickly left the lab.
When the ping of the elevator doors closing issued from far down the hallway, Pete Graham finally worked up the nerve to speak.
"Did I do okay?" he asked weakly.
Zipp responded by cuffing the scientist in the back of the head.
"You're as big an idiot as that Beemer," the NASA head growled. "Not that it matters. Thanks to those two, we know where Gordons is now. The capsule's splashed down. We just have to go retrieve it."
"But the FBI's involved," Graham argued. "How are you going to get by them?"
For the first time, Dr. Pete Graham saw something that approached a genuine smile on the face of Zipp Codwin. It was like some demonic grinning ice sculpture come to life.
"NASA has resources that you don't know about," Codwin said malevolently. "And dang-blast it to all high heaven, it's not like they don't deserve it. I mean, they don't pay taxes." His voice was flirting with the quivering edges of outrage. "I mean-Lord God Jeebus Almighty-tax cheats. At NASA there's nothing lower. No wonder Gordons wants them dead. Well, that tin can's about to get his wish."