To: RalphGaunt@qnm.com From: RM@qnm.com Subject: Whereabouts Sorry. Did not receive sent message. Had to fly to Paraguay to debug ParaSol 2001. Will return to States in forty-eight hours. All will be explained.
The reply came back almost instantaneously: "Remain in Paraguay. En route."
"Perfect," Bolt said, "I didn't get that message, either."
Then he settled down to do the final damage control. It was pretty bad out there. The press was full of Martian fever and war-scare talk with Russia. As long as the Martian fever stayed hot, maybe the Russians would remain cool. But he couldn't trust to fate. He had to take action-smart executive action. If Reemer Bolt could save the planet, it might be possible to salvage his career.
As he started pounding out a message to Meech down in R ered, "This is almost as bad as that ozone mess back in '85. Why does this crap keep happening to me?"
Chapter 44
Seattle was wreathed in an early-morning fog when the jetliner descended toward the airport. A steady winter drizzle drummed on the fuselage as their landing wheels whined out of their wells.
In coach, the Master of Sinanju stared out of the window, unable to see the wingtips in the fog.
Then, in the near distance, a great saucer of steel and glass became visible, floating above the fog.
"We are too late, Remo," he squeaked.
"What?" asked Remo, returning to his seat after having just locked a hysterical stewardess in the rear rest room.
"The star chariots of the Martian invader have landed. Behold the certain sign of their arrival on earth."
Ducking his head, Remo looked past the Master of Sinanju's concerned face. "Oh, that." He sat down.
"Do not dismiss the evidence of your eyes. It is a flying saucer."
"It's the freaking Space Needle, Chiun."
"And a more fearful spectacle I have never seen. See how it hovers over the vanquished city? Note its chilly grandeur, its utter fearlessness from attack. Tell the pilot to turn around. We will not land in occupied Seattle, lest we, too, fall into Martian hands."
"The Space Needle is a building. You just can't see the part that's holding up the saucer in all this fog."
"It is a trick," said Chiun.
"No trick. Now settle down. We have to hit the ground running."
"Never fear. Our foe is doomed."
"That's the problem," said Remo. "We still don't know who we're supposed to doom."
"We will leave no one standing."
"That could take all day, and there's no telling what that thing up there could hit next."
HAROLD SMITH HAD breached the firewalls protecting the computer links for Quantum Neutrino Mechanics. The difficulty was, there was nothing on the qNM local-area network that referenced the thing in orbit, or ParaSol.
Smith refused to accept defeat. There had already been too many dead ends in this situation.
Downloading the entire qNM file system from hard drives to the magnetic-tape records, he initiated a massive unerase program.
It would take time to process. There was no guessing what it might or might not uncover. But if a corporate cover-up was already under way, this was the only way to unlock it.
THE 747 TOUCHED DOWN. Once they reached the terminal, Remo checked in with Harold Smith by pay phone. By mistake, he fed it a kopeck and had to move on to the next booth when it refused U.S. coin.
Smith's voice was urgent. "Remo. I have uncovered e-mail files that explain much. The man you want goes by the initials R.M. That is all I have. He signs his e-mail 'RM,' but I find no one owning those initials in the qNM personnel files."
"So how do I find him?"
"He interfaces with R uld be 'Research and Development.' Start there."
"Sounds like we're cooking."
Hanging up, Remo told a waiting Chiun, "We're looking for someone, initialed 'R. M.'"
"Ruber Mavors. "
"Coincidence. I hope."
"We shall see," said the Master of Sinanju.
They ran for a taxi and were soon being whisked through the eternal Seattle rain.
BARTHOLOMEW MEECH WAS sweating bullets. It had been three days of no rest, no sleep and too many paper cups of Starbucks coffee.
On the research-and-development floor of Quantum Neutrino Mechanics, he moved from console to console, monitor to monitor, tracking the ParaSol 2001. It was approaching the South Pole now. He wished it would just crash there.
A beep yanked his thin face to the interoffice computer system.
"You have mail!" the system flashed.
And deep inside, Bartholomew Meech groaned.
Accessing the file, he brought up another communication from his immediate superior:
To: R From: RM@qnm.com Subject: Project termination. CNN is reporting Pagan fried. Now is the prudent time to shut down the project before Gaunt gets back from Paraguay.
Here are your instructions:
Target French, Chinese and Japanese space centers, then shut down the project.
Furiously Meech pecked out a reply.
To: RM@qnm.com From: R Subject: Are you insane? We're getting in deeper. More people are going to die. When does this stop?
To: R From: RM@qnm.com Subject: Shut up! It stops after you've programmed in the next target string. Then destroy the controller array and get your resume in order, just as I'm doing with mine. There are greener pastures out there. And once Gaunt parachutes in, you're dead at qNM anyway.