ROOTE WAS AWAKE AGAIN. The private's eyes appeared to be more focused now as he took in his squalid surroundings. After scanning the entire one-room structure, his gaze finally settled on the eager face of Arthur Ford.
"You're looking a lot better," Ford enthused. Roote closed his eyes wearily.
The Army private had seen the many batteries lying in the dirt of the shack. Apparently too weak to speak, he beckoned Ford to bring one of the batteries over to him.
Ford was eager to oblige. He shoved the heavy object through the dirt to Elizu Roote's makeshift sickbed.
Once the battery was in place, Roote opened his tired eyes. Struggling at the effort, he lifted one hand from the sand at his side and dropped it atop the battery.
The hum was loud and abrupt. As it had been the first time Ford patched into Roote's system. There was a brief blue sparking around the private's metal fingertips. As soon as it started, it was over. The battery was dead.
The change was instantaneous. A glow suffused Roote's pale cheeks. He closed his eyes once more, a smile playing at the corners of his thin lips.
Panting, Elizu Roote said but one soft, nearly inaudible word: "More."
FROM THE PARKING LOT of a lonely desert gas station, Remo and Chiun watched the helicopters soar out of the thin red twilight clouds in the east.
It seemed that everything from Fort Joy still capable of flight had been thrown at the Caballo Mountains. Almost thirty aircraft of several different types flew in formation. The collective sound was deafening.
"Smitty isn't taking any chances," Remo commented as the choppers raced overhead.
The aircraft soared off toward the mountains, black in contrast to the brilliant setting sun. "Learn from your Emperor's lesson," Chiun said. He was looking up at the passing aircraft, face impassive.
Remo sighed. "I promised to give you first crack at Roote," he said.
"Do not forget," Chiun replied.
"If I did, would you let me live it down." Remo asked.
"No," the Master of Sinanju replied simply.
"So there we go," Remo surrendered.
"Assuming you were alive afterward," Chiun added somberly.
His hazel eyes were unreadable slits as he watched the helicopters rattle off into the nearby hills.
HE WAS ADDICTED. There was no doubt in his mind.
Roote hadn't been certain of it until now. But he felt the change come over him with each successive battery.
He had tried a few different drugs in the past, but never really liked them. Alcohol had been his mind-altering substance of choice. And the buzz he was getting right now was not unlike the feeling he got when drunk.
The squalid room seemed to rise up from the shadows around him. It was as if with each successive battery someone were gradually turning a dimmer switch higher.
But there was no switch. He was the only source of true power in the tiny metal shed.
An addict. A freak. A monster.
They had made him like this. When his power was drained, he had collapsed. A marionette without strings.
A fail-safe? Probably not. They had never expected him to be careless enough to allow himself to be grounded.
Lying in the dirt, Roote dropped a hand onto yet another battery. The jolt was immediate. Even pleasurable. It was taking time, but his capacitors were slowly filling up once more. His implanted systems were coming back on line.
The dizziness and nausea he had been experiencing since regaining consciousness were gradually receding. And as the sickness fled in the growing light around him, the voices scurried up out of the darkness of his mind.
There was panting somewhere near the door of the shed.
Roote rolled his head to one side, seeking the source of the sound.
Arthur Ford was breathless from his exertions. He was scurrying around the interior of the shed, hauling the remaining batteries over to where Roote lay.
Roote had enough power stored already. He could satisfy the killing urge within him.
But Ford was a male. There wouldn't be much pleasure there. When the chorus of voices began their song of death, Roote found that women were always preferable to men. The difference was that between simple fun and pure rapture.
Besides, he needed Ford. For now. "Give me another," Roote commanded.
With his returning strength, his voice had gotten stronger.
"There aren't many more," Ford puffed. When the inhabitants of Camp Earth had brought their initial supply of car batteries to the shed, those that wouldn't fit inside were left out front. Over the course of the past hour, the ufologist had brought all of the remaining batteries inside.
The private had an unquenchable thirst for electricity. Ford could see that they weren't going to have enough to bring him back to full power. He had dragged the last of the drained batteries outside and deposited the final fully charged batteries just inside the door.
Roote pushed himself up to a sitting position. Ford had removed the jumper cables from his neck as soon as the private had been able to use his gold finger pads.
"Help me up," Roote insisted.
Ford hesitated. "Are you sure you're okay?" Roote didn't respond. Verbally.
He aimed a single index finger in Ford's direction. Eyes locking on target, he sent a small bolt of energy toward the door beyond Ford. The brilliant streak of lightning struck the metal frame and instantly coursed all around the interior of the metal shed.
Ford cowered beneath the blue glowing tin. He felt like a turkey on Thanksgiving day, trapped inside a massive oven.
The electricity abruptly sought its way to the floor, pounding harmlessly into the dirt at their feet.
Ford didn't need to be asked a second time. The UFO aficionado immediately hurried over to Roote. Grabbing him around the back and up under the armpits, he hauled the Army private to his feet.
"Over there," Roote said, nodding to the door. Ford helped him across the room. He thought they were leaving, but Roote had him pause just inside the doorway.
The private lowered his hands, palms flat, over the remaining fresh batteries. There were only about ten left.
Ford felt the hair rise on his forearms as a powerful burst of bluish electricity leapt from the tops of all the fresh batteries at once, surging up into Roote's finger pads.
Ford watched in wonder as the batteries rose slowly off the ground. Roote was like a magician doing some remarkable levitation trick. But the sleight of hand was real.