"I don't know what it is about you," she said. "It's sure not your brain, but something turns me on. Make love to me." Her wired wrists pulled open the front buttons of her blouse, then slid her skirt up the few inches necessary for it to clear her hips.
"I turn most women on. But you got enough wires on you to turn yourself on and off like a lamp."
"That's your civilian review board. For when you fail like every other man. Get on with it."
Remo reached a hand between them, began working it gently, and then jumped from the table when a voice boomed: "A little to the left." The booming sound reverberated throughout the room. Remo looked around. The room was empty.
"What the hell was that?"
"Our computer, Mr. Daniels. He's going to keep you posted on how you're doing."
"Oh, crap," said Remo.
"Get back up here," said Dr. Carlton.
"Your soft compliant ways are really the way to a man's heart," Remo said.
"Do your duty. Who do you work for anyway?"
"The government. The Secret Service," Remo lied. "We're after Gordons's counterfeiting operation."
This time he put his right hand between them again but he would not be dictated to by a computer so he moved his hand not left, but even farther to the right.
The computer did not complain this time. Instead it seemed to hum plaintively.
"To the left, huh?" Remo mumbled under his breath. "We'll see."
He moved his hand even farther right. The computer's humming became a moan. Remo brought his left hand up around under Vanessa Carlton's satiny flanks. The moaning increased. The computer's muffled roar said, "Oh, yes. Oh, yes."
Remo joined with Dr. Carlton on the table. Roaring over all came the computer's metallic voice saying, "That's wonderful. That's wonderful. Magic. Magic."
Remo was uncomfortable. It was like performing in front of witnesses. And the fact that Mr. Daniels, the computer, had a baritone voice didn't help either. Annoyed, Remo set to work.
"Magic, magic, magic, magic," said the computer. Its voice began to change. From baritone to tenor.
"Magic, magic, magic, magic." From tenor to soprano, then going faster and faster. "Magic, magic, magic, magic." So fast some syllables became indistinct.
The word "magic" was repeated over and over again and then the machine began to babble. "Ma-ma-ma-ma-gic-gic-gic-gic. Gic-ma. Gic-ma. Magic-ma Gic-ma-gic." Then it giggled, a high squeaky castrati giggle that grew longer and higher and more shrill and changed into a wail.
"Oh, balls," said Remo and yanked the tape electrodes from Vanessa Carlton's temples. The computer stopped in mid-shriek, replaced by Vanessa Carlton's very authentic soprano moan and babble.
"Magic-ma, Gic-magic… giggle, giggle… gic-magic-ma."
And then he felt her spasm and moan and he felt like smacking her around and her smartass computer, too. He raised himself and backed away from her, and she said, "Oh, Remo. Such pleasure. It's never been like that. Oh, wow. That might replace alcohol, if you're not careful. Such pleasure."
Remo turned to begin straightening his clothes and looked up to find Mr. Smirnoff standing silently inside the door, his robot's eyes fixed on Dr. Carlton who lay, well-pleasured on the table, babbling: "Wonderful, I'm so happy, wonderful, magic, happy, pleasure."
Clothes straightened, Remo turned back to her. "All right, now where does Mr. Gordons keep his counterfeiting equipment?"
The question started her laughing. "I don't know anything about counterfeiting," she said. Her laugh did not sound authentic. Remo chose not to press the subject any further. For now.
"Any tips? How do I get him?"
"Remember. He can't create any better than a five-year-old. Flashy but inconsistent." She sat up and began smoothing her clothes. "That's his weakness. He would've been easy for you if those idiots in Washington hadn't given him the creativity program."
Remo nodded and turned to leave. Vanessa called him back. "Remo?"
He turned.
"What does he look like anyway?"
"Mr. Gordons?"
She nodded."
Remo described Mr. Gordons. His height, over six feet, sandy blondish hair, thin lips, the blue eyes. Halfway through, she began to laugh.
"I had wondered where he got his model."
"And?"
"He got it from a picture on my desk. Mr. Gordons copied my father's looks."
CHAPTER SEVEN
"I don't like this," said Remo, looking out the window of the 747 racing eastward toward New York.
"What is this thing you do not like?" asked Chiun, sitting peacefully in an aisle seat, his hands holding onto the leaden lump strung around his neck. "Keep an eye on that wing," he added quickly.
"Smith calling us back east. It must be important."
"Why? Because Emperor Smith calls? What does that mean? It might just be that he has gone mad again. He has taken leave of his senses before, if you remember. When he was in the place called Cincinnati and you were trying to find him in the place called Pittsburgh?"
"All right, all right, all right," said Remo. "Let's just drop it. I'm glad anyway that you've agreed to go back to work for him."
"Was there ever any doubt? You and I must attack. He will pay us to attack. We should not take his gold? We would be as mad as he probably is, just as he was when he was in the place called Cincinnati and you were trying to…"
Remo tuned Chiun out and stared out the window again.
When they met Smith, several hours later, he had not gone mad. He awaited them in a basement vault beneath New York's largest bank building. His face was drawn and pinched, more lemony than usual.
"What's up, Smitty, that's so important?" asked Remo breezily.
"Have you gotten any lead on where Mr. Gordons is printing the money?"
Remo shook his head.