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Smith looked at Remo, helpless, for an explanation.
"Astrophysics," Remo said. "Chiun thinks that's something like Ex-lax. So do I, for that matter."
"Astrophysics is the study of physics as it applies to outer space," Smith said. "It is the basic science of the space program."
"Of course," Chiun said. "And you want us to dispose of this pretentious woman who masquerades as a real doctor, tampering with people's innards."
"No. No, no, no," said Smith. "She must be protected. She is very important to America."
Chiun looked away, suddenly bored. "Remo," he said, "be sure to pay careful attention to what the emperor tells you."
"All right, Smitty," said Remo. "Who's Dr. Holmes?"
"Payton-Holmes," Smith said. "She's won two Nobel prizes. When she was twenty-eight, she formulated the graphs which outlined the space route of Explorer One. It led the satellite into a an unknown band of radioactive material. The Van Allen belt."
"Why didn't they call it the Payton-Holmes belt?" Remo asked.
"They might have," Smith said. "But when they announced it, she didn't show up. She was in the laboratory using NASA equipment to make a liquor out of coffee. She drinks." "She still drink?" Remo asked. "Yes. Constantly."
"Good. It's nice to know someone is having fun," Remo said.
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"Periodically, she disappears. We're always afraid that the Russians have her, but she always turns up in a jail cell somewhere, sleeping off a hangover. The last time, they found her in the dormitory of a visiting Italian soccer team."
"What has she done now?"
"For the last few years, she's been working on a special project at UCLA. You see, we got wind of a special Russian project called Volga. We don't know much about it except that it's some kind of space plan involving satellites that they think will give them control of space."
"She's defected?" Remo said.
"No," said Smith.
"Dammit, Smitty, then get to the point."
"She designed a computer—it's called LC-111—which can take over control of any satellite or spacecraft. In other words, the Russians could launch a satellite and with LC-111, we could make it ignore the Russians and do whatever we tell it to do."
"Good for her," Remo said.
"The LC-lll's missing," Smith said. "And we don't know where it went. We want you to find it."
Chiun came back to life. "Is there a reward?" he asked.
"The thanks of a grateful people," Smith said.
Chiun sniffed and turned away again.
"This Payton-Place-Holmes doesn't know where it went?" Remo said. "Or you think she sold out to the Russians?"
"I don't think so," Smith said. "I have to warn you, Remo, she's very difficult."
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"How?"
"She'll go to any lengths to get a drink. She apparently also has some strong ... er, biological desires. She is very difficult."
"I'm used to dealing with difficult people," Remo said, looking at Chiun.
"So am I, Emperor," said Chiun.
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CHAPTER FIVE
Dr. Frances Payton-Holmes was sobbing. She had been sobbing for an hour and a half, from the moment she had walked in the door to the software lab and found the gaping hole in the row of computer terminals, their lifelines to the absent LC-111 cut and poking out uselessly.
"My baby," she moaned again and again, rocking wildly on the floor, curled up into a miserable, white-coated ball. "My precious baby."
"It'll be all right, Professor," Ralph Dickey said, patting her uncertainly on the shoulder. "The police have already been here. We've all talked to them. I've called NASA, too. The President of the United States is supposed to be sending a special investigator here to—"
She whacked his arm away. "You! You're supposed to see that things like this don't happen. Ten years of work and love, the finest distillation
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of my genius. Gone in one night, you cretinous pansy!" she screamed.
"Now, Professor," Dickey began, his lips pursing. "Everything was shut up like a drum when I left."
"You shut up like a drum, do you hear me?" She pummeled him with her fists. Dickey tried to shield himself from her blows as two other technicians pulled her off him. "Get away from me," she screamed. "Get back to your cages, all of you. In fact, go home. I don't want to see any of you here today. Scram."
The technicians backed off and silently exited the lab. The professor pulled herself off the floor, dusting herself off. "Shitheel Commie," she muttered loud enough so that Dickey, checking the circuitry on the three remaining terminals, could hear.
"I am not a Communist," Dickey said with dignity. "And I've told you a dozen times that I'm not responsible for this."
"Yeah? Well, how come you needed somebody to let you in today. What happened to your magnetic passcard?"
"I misplaced it," Dickey said.
"Yeah. Probably right in the hands of some Russian, you Communist fairy."
"You were here when I left last night, lady," Dickey said. "Whoever took it probably walked right by you in your drunken stupor and, hell, dear, you probably helped him carry it to his car."
The professor sank down slowly in a chair, her face ashen. Dickey looked at her, sitting Eke a