The Wrong Stuff td-125 Read online

  At least, that had been his thinking at the outset. Of course, he had abandoned such thoughts early on. He was Zipp Codwin, after all. He was a larger-than-life hero from another age who had truly gone where no man had gone before.

  As the night hours had crept toward dawn, a plan had begun to take shape. It wasn't perfect, and it might not work. But it was an old-fashioned NASA-style plan.

  Of course, Gordons might not approve. Zipp was bracing himself to bear the terrible wrath of the android when something far worse than being throttled by a pissed-off robot happened. That idiot Clark Beemer had returned to Canaveral. Alone.

  Something had gone wrong with the latest robbery, and the public-relations asshole had beat a hasty retreat, abandoning Gordons at the scene. Zipp didn't even have time to wring the little coward's neck, so desperate was he to get to a TV.

  The news coverage about the latest spider sighting was bland and uninformative. No mention of Gordons being captured and, most important of all, no mention of NASA.

  Zipp breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

  The agency was safe. At least for now. But the most valuable asset he'd had in his corner since assuming the top spot at America's space organization was MIA.

  Without Gordons he was dead in the water. He couldn't go forward with his plans to refinance NASA, and he couldn't help eliminate the android's enemies.

  His problems were held in stasis for a few hours, postdawn. They had worsened a few short minutes before.

  He had just been informed that a pair of FBI agents was on the base. Fearing the worst, Zipp refused to allow anyone else to speak with them. He ordered the men brought to his office.

  He was sitting in the smothering sunlight at his desk when a sharp rap sounded at his office door. "Come!" Zipp called.

  His secretary peeked her head inside the room. "Those men you wanted to see are here, Colonel," she said.

  "Yes, yes," Zipp waved impatiently. "Let 'em in."

  When the two men entered his office, Colonel Codwin was sure someone somewhere had gotten their wires crossed. There was no way these two could be FBI.

  The first one was a skinny young guy in a T-shirt. The other was a wrinkled Asian in a kimono who looked older than the man in the moon. When they got to the desk, the young one flashed his laminated FBI identification at Codwin.

  As Zipp carefully inspected it, the contents of the NASA administrator's desk caught the eye of the Master of Sinanju.

  The desk was an ultramodern teardrop shape. Arranged before the blotter were dozens of model rockets. They seemed poised to launch an invasion of some tiny plastic planet.

  His eyes trained with laserlike focus on the display, Chiun pushed his way past Remo. Slender fingers scooped up one of the small models.

  The toy was divided into three stages. When Chiun pulled at it, two of the stages separated. When he pushed them together, they clicked back into a single unit.

  Behind the desk, Zipp finally turned his nose away from Remo's ID, nodding acceptance.

  "Welcome to NASA, gentlemen," he said. Standing, Zipp extended his hand. He offered a smile so strained it looked as if his underwear was six sizes too small.

  Chiun ignored the administrator. He was too busy studying the rocket in his hand.

  "Yeah, yeah," Remo said, interested in neither Zipp nor his offered hand. "Where do you keep your vans?"

  There was a flicker at the far edges of Zipp's painful smile. "Vans?" he asked. "I think you're mistaking us for General Motors, son. We're your space agency. We don't do vans, we do shuttles, rockets and satellites."

  "Look, Flash Gordon," Remo said to Codwin, "I saw the size of this joint on the way in. Unless you pinheads zoom around here in portable jetpacks, you've got to use cars to get around. Where are they, and are there any missing?"

  Zipp bristled at his words. "You sure you're FBI?" he questioned suspiciously.

  "We're from the less tactful branch," Remo explained. "We're the part that uses toy rockets for suppositories when we don't get the answers we want."

  Zipp glanced at the Master of Sinanju. The old man had just removed the nose cone of his rocket. Chiun blew on the module, simulating wind, as he lowered the capsule for splashdown in an invisible sea.

  "You gentlemen are making it difficult for me to be polite," Codwin warned.

  "Look, I've met three of your vans so far," Remo said. "One blew up on me, one caused that highway pileup yesterday and the third one almost ran me off the road as it left a multiple-murder scene last night. We tracked its plate to here. Polite went out the window the minute those loons in the first van tried to barbecue me. Now what's the deal?"

  Zipp's smile collapsed. "I was afraid of this," he said in somber tones as he sat back in his chair. He steepled his fingers under his razor-sharp nose. "A couple of our vehicles have turned up missing recently. I ordered an investigation. At the faster, better, cheaper NASA we do not tolerate any wastefulness when it comes to taxpayer dollars."

  When Remo snorted at that, Zipp bit his tongue. "No matter what anyone might think," Codwin said, barely containing the acid in his tone, "NASA has undergone some severe belt tightening these past two decades. These days Congress is so cheap when it comes to our budget we can't afford to lose any equipment at all. Even vans."

  Beside Remo, Chiun let out a whooshing sound. Guided by a sure hand, his rocket strafed the armada that was arranged for launch on Zipp's immaculate white desk. Most of the other toy models failed to survive the attack. As those few that remained upright teetered like wobbly bowling pins, the NASA administrator jumped across the desk, sweeping up the rolling rockets in both arms. A few clunked to the floor.

  "I keep those here as souvenirs," he snarled at the Master of Sinanju. "Why don't you just take that one."

  "They are free?" Chiun asked craftily.

  "Sure," Zipp barked. "Take it."

  Bending at the waist, the old Asian snatched up two of the rockets that had fallen to the floor. These disappeared inside the folds of his kimono. The first remained clutched in his hand. Spinning from the desk, he began flying it around the room. It attacked the fronds of a potted plant that sagged near a bookcase in the corner.

  "You sure he's with the FBI, too?" Zipp asked.

  As he spoke, another rocket tipped out of the pile in his arms, dropping to the gray carpet.

  "He meets the Bureau's quota for odd-couple pairing." Remo nodded. "I had my choice between him, the superskeptical female doctor who never believes my crazy theories or the black guy who's always two weeks from retirement."

  "Huh," Codwin grunted. His eyes still trained on Chiun, he drew the models across the desk, dumping most of them into a half-empty drawer. "If that's all, I have work to do. Space doesn't explore itself, you know."

  "Actually, there's something else," Remo said. He dug in his pocket, removing the envelope he'd picked up at the Roadkill. Taking out one of the larger black fragments, he dropped it in Zipp's callused palm. "You have any idea what this could be?" he asked.

  Codwin studied the jagged object carefully. When he touched the surface with an exploratory finger, a gunmetal-gray eyebrow rose on his lined forehead. "Where did you get this?" Zipp asked.

  Remo hesitated. Even after the previous day's news reports, he was uncomfortable admitting his mission. "It was left at a crime scene," he said.

  "Hmm," Zipp said, handing the fragment back to Remo. "We're not exactly a forensics lab here, but we're not lacking in brilliant scientists. I think I've got someone here who might be able to help you." He stabbed a finger on his intercom. "Mitzi, I'm bringing my guests down to see Dr. Graham. Tell him they've got some stuff they've collected from a crime scene they'd like to have examined."

  When he looked up at Remo there was a glint of something new in his pale blue eyes. A kind of knowing smugness. His tightly smiling mouth displayed a line of barracuda teeth.

  "Come with me," the NASA head offered.

  Chapter 18

  "By the way, Zi
pp Codwin's the name."

  They had crossed the broad expanse of a tarmac to enter another big building on the Canaveral grounds. The NASA head let his famous name hang heavy in the air between them.

  As they walked, Remo was supremely disinterested. "Blame your parents," he said, not looking Zipp's way.

  The eyes beneath the steel-gray hair darkened. "Zipp Codwin," Zipp Codwin pressed. He pointed at his own chest. "The Zipp Codwin."

  Remo glanced at Chiun. The Master of Sinanju was keeping pace with both men.

  "Don't look at me," the old man said, his eyes downcast. He was studying a tiny window in his plastic rocket. "I do not even know what a Dipp Codpiece is."

  "You ain't alone," Remo muttered.

  "You don't remember me," Codwin growled, his painful smile collapsing to a more comfortable scowl. "Damn that whole shuttle program. Kids around the country remember the name of some blown-up schoolteacher who wasn't anything more than a piece of glorified luggage, but they don't know the names of the real pioneers who built the whole damn program."

  "Okay, Piss-" Remo began.

  "That's Zipp," Zipp interrupted coldly.

  "Whatever," Remo said dismissively. "I get the drift. You were some kind of astronaut when the moon was still in diapers. Now let's just aim your rocket boosters into the current century where you can help the nice men who don't give a crap in a hat what your life story is."

  Zipp's scowl grew so tight it threatened to cave in on itself like a collapsing dwarf star.

  "Son, there used to be a time when folks'd go ass over knickers at the chance to meet a bona fide spaceman."

  "We're thrilled," Remo said, deadpan. "Aren't we, Little Father?"

  Chiun wasn't even listening. Plastic rocket in hand, he was soaring skyward. "Whoosh," the elderly Korean said.

  "I suppose I shouldn't keep getting ticked that folks don't remember me," Zipp muttered. "It's been thirty damn years since we've done anything significant around here." He instantly regretted speaking the words aloud. "Not that we're not still important," he quickly amended. "It's just that our purpose has changed over the years."

  "I'll say," Remo agreed. "You've changed from an extravagant waste of money that used to do stuff once in a while to an extravagant waste of money that doesn't do anything at all ever. NASA's just a black hole the government shovels tax dollars into."

  "That isn't true," Codwin insisted hotly. "NASA is a vital and, I might add, underfunded agency. And thanks to me, you can be certain that your tax dollars are wisely spent."

  "Not mine," Remo said as they walked. "Don't pay 'em."

  "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 hitc
hed 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."

  Spinning sharply on one hard heel, Colonel Zipp Codwin marched boldly from the research lab.

  Chapter 19

  Stewart McQueen knew that it was the intervention of Old Scratch and all of his hellish minions of evil that brought him safely back home to Maine. The front door accepted the writer's key, and the security system-which was wired around the entire mansion-yielded to his special access code.