"Anything you say."
Red turned up his collar.
"Okay. Lets get out of here."
He flung the door open and dashed. Moments later, they were in the truck, Flowers in the compartment, Mondamay in the passenger seat.
"Any more bombs?" Red asked.
"All clear."
He started the engine, flicked on the wipers and the lights.
"Why bother with all that manual stuff? I'll drive." He swung out of the lot and onto the road. 'I want to do something. How do you figure that guy found us again?" "I have no idea." "Well ... I know of a quiet little motel around the
middle of C Twelve, off the main drag, on the Byzantine cutoff. Can you think of any reason why not?"
"No."
Red hit the accelerator. The sky grew pearly. The rain stopped. He switched off the lights and the wipers.
Two
Sundoc's flyer deposited him on the laboratory's roof. He entered a hatchway and dropped to the sixth floor. He was met by Cargado, chief .physician-engineer of the establishment, who took him into his office and activated the wallscreen. Sundoc seated himself in a comfortable reclining chair and propped his sandaled feet on a small table. He wore shorts and a dark turtleneck. He clasped his hands behind his head and regarded the image of the man on the screen.
"All right. Tell me about him," he said.
"I have the entire file right here."
"I don't want the damned file. I want you to tell me about him."
"Of course," Cargado replied, seating himself at the desk. "His name is Archie Shellman—the most decorated soldier in World War III and a master of the martial arts. We found him a C and a half back. He'd been an infantryman in a special commando outfit. Lost a leg. Concussion. Major psychiatric impairment—"
"Like what?"
"Depression at first, followed by extreme resentment of the prosthesis. Then paranoia. Finally, manic spells. Went into physical culture in a big way. Extreme de velopment of the upper body, presumably to compensate—"
"I can see that. What then?"
"He finally killed some civilians. Knocked off half a town, actually. Insanity plea. Institutionalized. Manic. depressive cycle controlled by drug therapy. Still paranoid, though. Still lifting weights—"
"Not bad. Better than the others you've shown me, So you liberated him and gave him the pitch?"
Cargado nodded.
"A prosthetic beyond anything he could wish for. He finally consented to having all of his limbs replaced when we assured him we could restore the originals if he wasn't happy. He was, though."
He touched a control panel and the figure on the screen moved. Dark eyes, strong jaw, heavy brows, somewhat pale... The man was clad only in shorts. His movements were extremely graceful as he approached a rack of weights and began a vigorous workout. He increased the tempo until he was moving at a terrific speed.
"You've made the point," Sundoc said. "Special features?"
Cargado worked a control. The gymnasium picture faded to be replaced by another.
Shellman stood quite still. After some moments, Sundoc realized that the man's skin was darkening. He watched for perhaps two minutes, until it was almost completely black.
"Chameleon effect," Cargado said. "Fine for a night attack."
"So's a little shoe polish. What else's he got?"
The picture changed again. This time it was a closeup of Shellman's hands.
Abruptly, they clenched. There followed a momentary pumping movement and they sprang open. Metal fingernails now curved outward for several inches.
"Extrudable claws. Extremely powerful. He could disembowel a man with a single swipe." "I like that. Can he do it with his feet too? "Yes. Just a moment..." "Forget it. He has retained all of his combat skills?"
"Of course."
More pictures. Archie Shellman, looking almost bored, tossing around karateists, boxers, wrestlers with ease and proficiency. Archie Shellman permitting himself to receive powerful blows without changing expression ...
"Is he as big as he seems? That's the first sequence involving other people."
"Yes. A hundred kilos and tall enough to be slim. He can turn over a car, kick down a heavy door, run all day. Has almost perfect night vision. He also has attachments—"
"What about his mind?"
"It's all yours. Built-in gratitude for the new body and a reinforced desire to use it in combat. We've blocked the depression, but the manic response is ready and waiting if you feel you should need it. He considers himself the toughest, meanest thing on two feet—"
"Perhaps he is."
"Quite likely, and he would welcome the chance to prove it and show his gratefulness at the same time."
"I wonder ... Of all the cyborgs you've shown me, he certainly has the most class. I have some pictures of the intended victim. Would you recommend just siccing him on him, or do you think a little hateconditioning might be in order?"
"Oh, some sort of conditioning, to make it into a duty. Then he won't rest until he does it personally.
You know our motto: 'We never let well enough alone.'"
''Very well. I'll give him a try, as soon as I know where to send him. We might have a winner here."
"Uh—none of my business, of course—but what is so special about the man you are sending him after?"
Sundoc shook his head as he passed Cargado the photos of Red Dorakeen.
"Damned if I really know," he said. "Someone, somewhere, just doesn't like him."
One