Mr. Gordons blinked in confusion. "I don't understand, Mom. What will happen?"
The professor took a step back to admire her work. "Why, you'll start developing creativity, bird brain. What do you think I've been slaving over these transistors for?"
"Creativity?" Mr. Gordons's hands began to tremble. "I can have creativity? Really?"
"Maybe. No promises. But your memory banks—that's a definite. You should be able to remember everything now."
"Oh, Mom," Mr. Gordons said. "You're the genius. Did you know that the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg has a population density of 360.36 persons per square mile?"
The professor stared at him, dumbfounded. "So what?"
"I remembered. I'm remembering all kinds of things. Cheddar cheese has a food energy count of 115 calories per ounce. Julius Caesar subdued the native tribes of Gaul from 57 to 52 b.c. The cube root of 1,035 is 10.12, to two decimal places. French explorer Jacques Cartier is gener-
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ally regarded as the founder of Canada. I have to kill Remo Williams."
"What? Who?"
"That's the name of that man I thought looked familiar. Remo Williams. He threatens my survival. Therefore, I must kill him. Thanks for the memory."
She snapped the wire out. "Look, you're a nice little robot that tracks missiles. Period. If you keep going around bumping off people, we're not going to have any time to monitor the Volga. Just forget all this murder business."
Mr. Gordons snapped the F-42 wire back in. "No," he said coldly. "I cannot forget, now that my memory banks are repaired. Remo Williams is a dangerous man. He and another named Chiun twice dismembered me. The last time, they burned my parts."
"Commie bastards," the professor said.
"They are not Communists. They work for— shhh." Suddenly Mr. Gordons shot out of his chair and stood bolt upright. "He is traveling."
"That's a relief," the professor said. "Now maybe the little nebshit'11 leave us alone, and we can all get to work. He was awfully cute, though," she remembered wistfully.
"The transmitter I planted in his back is broadcasting from the air. He is moving very quickly. Far away."
"Well, easy come, easy go."
"I must seek him out," Mr. Gordons said. On, come on.
"I must kill him."
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His words sent shivers up her spine. "But you can't leave," she cried.
"I must."
"You are a robot, do you hear me? My robot, my LC-111. I am not letting you out of my sight again. The Volga's due to launch any day. I've got to be with you to adjust the coordinates."
Mr. Gordons's voice was cold and chilling, and for the first time since he had walked into her laboratory, Dr. Frances Payton-Holmes felt a tinge of fear.
"I am not your LC-111. I am a survival machine, created to assimilate all materials necessary so that I may prevail. This Remo Williams is a threat to my survival, and so I will follow him to his destination and I will destroy him. I will do it now before he knows of my existence and is expecting my attack. I think this is a very creative approach to this problem. If you insist upon monitoring me, there is only one possible solution. You go with me. I will let you watch me pull his arms out of his sockets. Mom."
"Oh, no," the professor said, backing away. "I'm not taking off on any wild goose chase. He's probably just on vacation, anyway. Be back in a day or so."
"Then I must go alone."
The professor exhaled deeply. "I'll go pack," she said.
"You're the greatest," Mr. Gordons shouted, rumpling her old-lady hairdo affectionately. The professor choked on the swirling talcum. "Go to bed, Gordons."
"But we have to leave."
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"Tomorrow. I'm beat."
"Now."
The professor looked at her watch. "It's after midnight. I've got all this mother crap on me. I haven't even had my evening cocktail yet."
"Then I must go alone," Mr. Gordons said for the second time in thirty seconds.
"Sheesh," the professor said, rolling her eyes. "Okay. Just let me get my bag." She took one look at the lab, a blizzard" of papers and spilled concoctions since the death of her assistant, then abandoned the idea of retrieving her purse; it was a lost cause. She grabbed a bottle of Tanqueray instead and tucked it under her arm. "Let's go, you spoiled brat," she said.
In the parking lot of Los Angeles International Airport, Mr. Gordons looked to the sky and turned one full revolution, his arms spread wide like a radar tracker. "He is headed due northeast," he said. "He is headed for Russia."
"How can you know that?" the professor said.
"His speed and altitude rule out a nearer landing. And if he were going anywhere else in Europe, he would not be following so northerly a path."
Dr. Payton-Holmes chugged three fingers from the gin bottle she held and belched. "I want to know how we are going to get on a plane going due northeast or anywhere else," she said. "There are things in there called metal detectors." She waved the bottle toward the main international terminal. "You're 97.6641 percent stainless steel, you know. Their detection systems will light
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up like Christmas trees when they see you coming. Not to mention the fact that we have no money for tickets."
"We have no need for tickets," Mr. Gordons said. He took her hand and walked with her to the far end of the terminal building. A heavy chain-link fence sealed off the outside world from any connection with the runway area. As she watched in horror, Mr. Gordons extended his right hand toward the fence. Before her eyes, his fingers seemed to shudder and then change from apparent flesh and blood to two hard steel claws. Faster than she could follow, he used the snippers to cut through the links of the fence. When there was a hole big enough for them to walk through, the clippers changed back to a hand.
"I don't believe it," she said. "I saw it but I don't believe it."
Up ahead, a Laker Airways DC-10 was slowly pulling away from the terminal building.
"You wait here for a moment," Mr. Gordons said.
A moment later, she saw Mr. Gordons walking along the wing of the DC-10. So did the pilot because the plane screeched to a stop.
"My God," she gasped, clutching at her hair with both hands. Clouds of white billowed from her head.