"Now, see here," Dickey said, jumping out of his corner. "This is really going too far."
Mr. Gordons tossed the empty bottle at Dickey, hitting him squarely in the midriff. Dickey slid to the floor with a whoof. "I warned you not to move," Gordons said. "The next time, I'll have to kill you."
"Forget him," the professor said impatiently. "Go on with what you're doing. And this had better be worth my while."
"It is, I assure you." Then he took a piece of blank white paper and stepped on it. He took the paper with the imprint of his foot on it and handed it to the doctor.
She stared at it in disbelief. In the instep of the footprint, in mirror image, read the legend:
PERSONAL PROPERTY OF DR. FRANCES PAYTON-HOLMES, UCLA
"Can you help, identify me?" Mr. Gordons asked.
But the professor didn't hear him. She had crumpled the paper into a ball and fainted.
Remo knocked at the sliding doors to the software lab. At his touch, the doors opened effortlessly. He walked through, feeling for the tracking that should have held the doors closed and locked. They had been torn off the frame. Something of tremendous power had been used to enter the building.
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The scene in the lab was odd: a blonde woman was lying in a dead faint on the floor beside a man in a uniform from the Hollywood Disposal Service whose one bare foot was stained navy blue. At the other end of the room, a young man wearing a white lab coat and clear nail polish stood immobile and trembling.
"Are you the man from Washington?" the man in white asked.
"Guess so," Remo said.
"Arrest this person," Dickey shrieked, pointing a shaking finger at the unshod garbageman.
'What for?"
"He tried to kill me with this ink bottle," Dickey said, holding up the evidence.
Remo stared at the man with the ink bottle, then at the unconscious woman on the floor and the garbageman beside her. "Maybe we'd better start over," he said. "Who's Dr. Payton-Holmes?"
"She is," Dickey said, gesturing toward the woman.
"What's she doing on the floor?"
"How would I know?" Dickey snapped. "That man barged in here, threatened my life, stepped on a piece of paper, and the next thing, the professor passed out."
"Maybe you ought to keep your shoes on, buddy," Remo said to the garbageman. He walked toward the professor as she was coming to, and clutching frantically at the garbageman's trouser leg.
"What's going on here?" Remo asked.
The professor's hand slipped over the crumpled
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wad of paper bearing the garbageman's footprint and held it closely. "Nothing," she squeaked.
"What are you talking about?" Dickey shrieked from across the room, still afraid to move. "He's from Washington. He's here to.help us find the LC-111."
"He's a friend of mine," the professor piped quickly. Dickey sucked in a gulp of air in surprise.
"Professor—"
"Shut up! Go to one of the other labs. Leave us alone."
"But I was only trying—"
"Get out of here, Dickey. Now!"
The assistant slinked out of the lab, his face a mask of bewilderment.
"Look, whoever you are . . ." the woman said.
"Remo. Call me Remo."
"Hi, Remo," the garbageman said happily. "Did you like that?" he asked.
Remo winced. Something was stirring in his memory, something long forgotten except for a faint twinge of an emotion something like . . . He searched his mind for what it was, but it had escaped him. Still, there was something familiar about the man in the garbageman's clothes. Familiar and ... dreadful.
"Your voice sounds familiar," Remo mused aloud.
"I feel I know you, as well," the garbageman said, his eyes riveting on Remo's. His voice sounded strangely flat.
"Listen, Remo," said Dr. Payton-Holmes. "If you want to find that LC-111, you talk to that
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goddamn faggot, Dickey. He didn't have his entry pass when he showed up today. He probably gave it to some other fag in a leather bar, and they sneaked in here to take my computer and do unspeakable things to it." She lowered her voice. "The little pansy's a fellow traveler. Find out whose toes he was sucking last night and you'll find my LC-111. Hurry. Before he escapes."
"Okay," Remo said. He walked to the door. Outside in the hallway, Ralph Dickey was waiting for him.
"Something fishy is going on here," Dickey said.
"I had the same idea," Remo said.
"Look, let's go someplace and talk," Dickey said.
"Sweet," said Remo.
Dickey took Remo to the university cafeteria. Shouting above the din of rock music, clanking plates, and a food fight at the next table, he told Remo that he didn't trast the professor and he didn't trust that garbageman.
"And another thing. The garbage is always picked up around here on Wednesday. That's today. But somebody took it last night."
"Where's it go?" Remo asked. "The city dump?"