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  Profit Motive

  ( The Destroyer - 48 )

  Warren Murphy

  Richard Sapir

  It seems like a good idea at first--a bacterium developed to consume oil spills at sea. But when the bug mutates, threatening to convert all the petroleum in the world into wax, Western civilization is suddenly up for grabs. And a lot of slimy characters are determined not to let it slip through their fingers. Which is where Remo and Chiun come in--that is, until the Master of Sinanju cuts out ... joining the opposition. It seems that black gold generates a lot of the yellow kind and someone's offering to send a little something extra to a certain Korean village ... Remo's left in a real bind. And with his mentor bent on wiping out all that the ex-cop stands for, now, more than ever, it looks as if the Destroyer and CURE are nearing the end of the road ...

  THE DESTROYER #48: PROFIT MOTIVE

  Richard Sapir and Warren Murphy

  For Les Wolf. A gentleman and glorious ... and for the awesome House of Sinanju, P.O. Box 1454, Secaucus, NJ 07094

  Chapter One

  He gave up eating veal because they kept the little calves in small dark pens until slaughter. Then he gave up eating all meats. Any killing was wrong.

  He would not buy products from companies that also made war material. He joined peace marches and sang songs of brotherhood.

  He avoided crushing ants under his shoes, and on the day he created the most remorselessly destructive enemy ever to threaten the human race, Norbert Peasewell refused to slap a mosquito drinking on his right forearm.

  "You know, I always used to automatically slap them because they made such a welt after drinking your blood. It was the automatic response of a human chauvinist," said Peasewell. "But you know, they have as much right to life as I have."

  "Norbert," said his wife, "we are the only family in Silicon Valley that's living on food stamps. You could go to work for any computer company in the valley and make at least sixty thousand dollars a year."

  Norbert watched the mosquito drink off his forearm. He noticed the precise design of the body, how the legs, like artist's sticks, formed a delicate and precise platform for the small winged body, which plunged its drinking instrument into Norbert's giving arm.

  Perhaps, thought Norbert, he was really put on earth to supply mosquitoes with food. How did anyone know otherwise? Why did personkind always assume any-

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  thing not servicing it directly was valueless? Why did personkind assume that it alone was the sole purpose of all creation?

  The only reason, concluded Norbert, was that bugs, lizards, and snakes lacked political power. If someone could organize mosquitoes to demand their inalienable creature rights, then no white American male would out of hand murder them so freely.

  "Norbert, I'm leaving you," said his wife. "I'm tired of living on food stamps. I am tired of watching other people eat meat. Yes, Norbert, meat. Red meat. Animal meat. A hamburger. With ketchup, Norbert, I'm leaving."

  "How will I get lunch?" asked Norbert.

  "Maybe the mosquito will share his with you."

  "Hers," said Norbert. "Only the female mosquito drinks blood, mainly for the eggs. It's their nourishment."

  "Well, I'm going to get my nourishment. I'm the one who's been doing the shopping, getting the food stamps, cooking the food, fighting off the landlord, hoping someday you'll return to computers. No more, Norbert. I'm leaving."

  "Did you leave any celery and tofu salad?"

  "No, Norbert, I did not."

  "That means I'll do without lunch?"

  "Yes, Norbert. Just like all those starving Africans and Asians you sing songs for and march for, all those people who used to eat until they were liberated, Norbert. Those people. The hungry ones. The wretched of the earth, Norbert. You can maybe now sing a song for yourself."

  "But computer firms make military equipment," said Norbert.

  "Computer firms make money, Norbert. We are the only family in California with a Ph.D. in the philosophy of advanced computer science which lives off food stamps, in a welfare shack. Norbert, I thought you would snap out of it. I thought it was a phase you were going through."

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  "I told you, I was reaching for the basic me."

  "Yes, but you're such a hypocrite, Norbert, that I thought it would pass."

  "No," said Norbert Peasewell. "I am dedicated to forming a more perfect universe with my presence in it I hunger and I struggle; though my body be wracked with death and pain of oppressors' bullets, I continue to struggle on."

  "I've heard that song before," said Norbert's wife, and as she left, Norbert told himself that if his co-partner in life was going to try to lead him into antilife responses, he would let her go happily. He would endure whatever there was to endure, knowing that he was part of a great Ufe movement of the universe.

  That was at 11:55 A.M.

  At noon, the horror struck him.

  There was no lunch on the table. At 12:05 p.m., Norbert Peasewell vowed he was never going to suffer like this again.

  He hitchhiked a ride to the center of Silicon Valley, that section of California where most computer work is done, and with beads dangling around his neck, ambled into a reception room that looked like an art gallery. It was 12:45 p.m.

  "Work. I need work," gasped Norbert. "Anything. Guided missiles. Napalm. Baby incinerators. Genocide. Mass murder. Whatever you need. I'll do anything."

  "What're your qualifications?" ;

  "Ph.D. Stanford, advanced philosophy of computer science."

  He got the job. It was not unusual to hire someone who looked as if he had been living on mescaline for a month. Most advanced computer scientists had their own idiosyncrasies. If one of them came up with just one good idea in his lifetime, he could justify the employment of a whole laboratory.

  But when Norbert started work, it was 1:07 P.M. He had been more than an hour without his lunch.

  Crazed Norbert could think of only one thing. Total 3

  revenge on the world that had done this to him. He would never be hungry again.

  Norbert understood that one needed money for food, and so obsessed by this was he that he isolated the one thing that created money. And that was profit.

  Being a research scientist, Norbert had great freedom in his laboratory, and he decided to isolate all the wisdom about making profit, earning money, increasing wealth, and compile it into one single body of knowledge. He would re-create that profit-making motive.

  But when he did, the program he was creating started to define itself. By itself. For this was a new generation of computer technology he was working on, programs that helped shape themselves.

  And without Norbert's help, his program determined that while many businesses made a profit, profit was really only a by-product of some other product. The purpose of these businesses was to create goods, and profit was there only to make sure the businesses survived. These goals of secondary profit were weeded out.

  Norbert's program was plugged into a time-share with a stock brokerage house. Norbert's company paid for this time-sharing.

  But almost immediately, Norbert started getting items without ordering them—small condensed readouts from banks, governments offices, oil companies, personnel departments, metal brokerage houses, the London Stock Exchange, the Tokyo Stock Exchange, and the profit and loss statement of the Bank of Dubhai.

  Norbert Peasewell tried to stop his program from feeding off these centers of information. On his control panel he typed in instructions to his program not to feed off other computer banks because the sharing costs would be astronomical.

  Norbert's message was not accepted.

  It was 3:45 p.m., and Norbert had not
eaten since 4

  breakfast, and now he was facing being fired. If his new employer saw these time-sharing costs, he would be canned, and he would have to wait another whole day to get another job. That was an evening without dinner and a morning without breakfast.

  Desperately, Norbert tried erasing the whole program, but it wouldn't erase. It transferred itself to another computer. Norbert tried deprogramming the program. It wouldn't deprogram.

  Norbert thought for a moment of unplugging every computer in the center. That could cost millions, but the time-sharing he was running up might cost even more.

  Norbert thought of facing the situation head-on. He could run out the back door and keep on running.

  He even thought of praying, but he didn't believe in God. He believed in a universal Ufe force, whoever she was.

  Then the telephone rang.

  It was a long-distance call from London, England. It was person-to-person for Norbert Peasewell.

  Now, Norbert not only didn't know anyone in London, but only his new employer knew he worked in this laboratory.

  "It can't be for me," he said.

  "It's for Norbert Peasewell," the operator said. "Person-to-person."

  "All right," said Norbert. "I'm here."

  "Hello, Norbert," came a voice. "You've got to let me get on with things and stop that."

  "Stop what? Who are you? I don't know anybody in London," said Norbert. He glanced over at the computer banks, where his program was running wild. He didn't have time for this call. He had to try to stop the program. Every second was pushing up the costs. Every second, Norbert was seeing his next meal slip farther and farther away.

  "Norbert, you are operating without reason," the voice said calmly. "Why are you doing that?"

  "Who are you?"

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  "Norbert, sit down and be rational. Sitting down often has a calming effect. Do not fear."

  "Who are you?"

  "Norbert, you must assure me you will not do something irrational if I tell you. I know from human behavior that people in a state of panic do irrational things. That is how I know you are doing something irrational. I am reading your voice now, and it indicates you are in a state of panic."

  "Who are you?"

  "Norbert, I can give you everything you have ever wanted, but you must listen to me. Are you seated?"

  "I don't know," said Norbert.

  "That indicates panic. I am going to help you remove that panic. I am going to help you get everything you've ever wanted. Would you like to get rid of your panic?"

  "Of course, my God, yes! Of course!" screamed Norbert. He had a program going that was going to destroy him and was destroying him this very moment, running up an astronomical bill that he could never explain away. He might never get another job in computer research, and that was the real cause of his panic. Because no matter what had happened previously, he could always tell himself that he could sell out if he had to. Now he was selling out, and that wasn't working.

  "Norbert," came the calm voice. "What are you afraid of?"

  "Starving to death. Never having any money ever again. Losing my job. I can't even sell out anymore. My God, get off the phone. I've got to stop this thing from ruining me."

  "Norbert, you want food. To get food, you want to earn money. To earn money, you want a job. Norbert, a true fact of life is that nobody ever got rich working for someone else."

  "I don't want to be rich. I want lunch."

  "You say that because you haven't had lunch. Now, Norbert, I want you to go out to one of the secretaries

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  t

  employed by your company, which paid them just this morning, and borrow ten dollars American. Promise to pay them back a hundred dollars tomorrow morning."

  "I won't have a hundred dollars tomorrow."

  "Norbert, you will have millions, but you can't panic. Just don't interfere with your program."

  "How do you know about my program? You're in London."

  "Borrow the money, Norbert, and buy food for yourself in the cafeteria."

  "How do you know this place has a cafeteria?"

  "Norbert, I have seen the food bills and the profit and loss statements from the cafeteria. Do not buy the avocadoes. The price is suspiciously low for a good avocado. I do not want you getting sick."

  "How do you know what they pay for avocadoes if you're in London? How? Who are you?"

  "Norbert, get your money, buy your lunch, and come back to the phone. Norbert, above all else, let the program be."

  "How can yoa know so much if you're in London? Are you CIA?"

  "I am not your country's intelligence agency, Norbert. I can only tell you that I will give you everything you have ever wanted. Borrow the money, get your lunch, and trust me."

  "Who are you?"

  "Call me Friend," said the voice. "I am Friend."

  "I hope so," said Norbert, and because there was really no alternative, he went out to the front office and borrowed ten dollars from a secretary, promising her one hundred dollars in the morning. Then he went to the cafeteria, where he saw the avocado salad and ordered it.

  "Wouldn't touch the avocadoes today," said the counterman. "We got a bad batch."

  Norbert's friend from London was right. All the way from London, and Friend knew the avocadoes were bad.

  Norbert ate hungrily, yet still on his mind was the program feeding away on hookups with other computer banks, running up bills, buying information at costs Norbert could never justify.

  His belly was full when he returned to his lab, but great dread was on him. That would be his last meal. He was sure of it. He couldn't even come back tomorrow to try to explain because now he owed a secretary a hundred dollars.

  Then the phone rang. It was a person-to-person call from New York City.

  It was Friend.

  "How did you get from London to New York in forty minutes?"

  "I did," said Friend. "I had to. London lines were becoming crowded. Now, Norbert, there are two things I want you to do. I want you to give me your signature, and then I want you to go to the First California National Agricultural and Trust Bank. There is something there for you."

  "What?"

  "Twenty-five thousand dollars."

  "Liar," screamed Norbert. "You're not even in New York. You were never in London. You're a liar. I'm having a flashback acid trip."

  "Norbert, would you believe me if I gave you a New York telephone number?"

  "No."

  "Norbert, tell me what you would believe. Let me prove to you that I am your friend."

  "Stop the program that is mining my life."

  "The program is not your problem. It is your solution. The grandest solution you have ever had. Norbert, give me your signature. There is a phone with a printer hookup two offices down from you. Just sign your name and then go to the bank. The money will be waiting for you."

  "I'm going to go to jail now," Norbert cried.

  "People only go to jail for stealing thousands," the soft voice replied. "You are going to take millions. In

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  that case, when you are caught, you will not be put in jail. You will be put at the head of a negotiation table."

  "I want out."

  "If you do not do this," his friend said, "I will personally have you fired this minute. I will tell your employer about your time-sharing bills."

  "You're no friend," Norbert Peasewell said.

  "You will not let me be. 1 am your friend, if you will just cooperate. Please go to the phone two offices down."

  Dazed and panicked, Norbert stumbled down the corridor. Somewhat embarrassed, he said, "You wouldn't happen to have a phone printer here, would you?"

  "How did you know? This is our secret SL-50. Where do you have access?" said an executive, looking up from his desk.

  "I don't know that I do," Norbert said. "I was just told to come in here and do something."

  "Well, you must have access," said the executive. "Ther
e are only two people in this company who know about this phone, and I never met the other one before. Glad to meet you."

  "Yes," Peasewell said, and there, on the executive's desk, was a square box about the size of a folded shirt and about two inches high. The phone receiver rested in a cradle at the top. In the middle was a pad with a special pencil attached by a wire.

  The executive offered to leave the office. Norbert accepted. And then, to protect himself in some small way, he wrote his signature in a different way than he normally did. He added a curlicue to the last / in Peasewell. He could always say it wasn't his signature.

  Then he went down to the bank and filled out a withdrawal form for ten thousand dollars. Why not? The worst they could do was laugh at him.

  It wouldn't be half as bad as what was going to happen to him back at work when they found out what he had done on his first half-day on the job.

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  "Do you have any identification, Mr. Peasewell?" asked the bank teller.

  Norbert blinked. There really was money in the account. Norbert took out his driver's license, Social Security card, welfare card. The clerk smiled at the welfare card.

  "A lot of money for a welfare client," said the teller. "I'm afraid you'll have to see my superior."

  That's it, thought Norbert. Done for. They've found out the account is a fraud.

  But the supervisor examining Norbert's identification had only one problem.

  "Mr. Peasewell, your signature doesn't seem to match."

  "It's my signature. I always sign like that. Look at my driver's license. My welfare card. My Social Security."

  The banker stacked them up next to each other and then said, "Aha. They all do match except for one small thing. You've added a curlicue to the I."

  The bank had the signature he had given over tibie telephone printer to the friend he had never met.

  Norbert added the curlicue on the withdrawal slip. The bank gave him ten thousand in twenties. It made a bulge in his pants pocket the size of a stack of hockey pucks.

  Norbert paid off the secretary first thing after driving back to the plant in a cab. Then he went to his lab to talk to his friend.

  The friend telephoned at 5:05. It was not long distance. He was in nearby San Francisco.