"I know an excellent mechanic," said Smith. "Now, what was so urgent that you insisted I come here personally?"
"This guy is somehow connected with the car wash. He says his name is Tex Trailer."
"He's lying," said Smith. "His name is Earl Armalide."
"How do you know?" Remo demanded.
"I recognize him from TV reports. He's a federal fugitive, wanted on a number of charges, not excluding murder of law-enforcement officers." Smith leaned down and broke the man's dog tags from under his camouflage collar. He glanced at them briefly.
"See?" he said, showing them to Remo.
Remo read the tags. "You're right. It says Earl Armalide, serial number 334-55. What branch are you with, buddy?" Remo wanted to know.
"No comment."
"Turn it over, Remo," said Smith.
Remo read the other side. Stamped on the reverse were the words "Compliments of Survivalist's Monthly."
"They give them out as a subscription promotion," Smith said. He walked over to the car-wash entrance and examined the exterior carefully. With a penknife taken from his vest pocket, he pried loose one of the white tiles covering the outer walls.
"Interesting architecture?" asked Remo when Smith returned.
"No, but the construction materials are unusual."
"You should see the washing mechanism itself. It'll kill you."
"It's unusual to see space-age plastics and top-secret alloys used in the construction of a commercial car wash," said Smith levelly, looking Earl Armalide straight in the eye.
Earl Armalide wanted to look down to avoid Smith's stern gaze, but his neck would not move.
"What are you saying, Smitty?" Remo asked.
"This is no ordinary tile. It is one of the expensive heatproof tiles used to protect shuttle hulls. They are easily identified. They resist extraordinarily high temperatures, but are so brittle that they would shatter under heavy rain." To demonstrate his point, Smith broke the thick tile between two fingers. "I believe Ms. Chutesov was right all along," he added, dropping the pieces at Armalide's feet.
"I am glad someone here can think," said Anna Chutesov. She, too, was giving Earl Armalide a hard stare.
"Where are the crewmen?" asked Smith.
"Search me. I never saw them. I think they're dead."
"Of course they are dead," said Anna dully. "They were brave men. They would never let one man take control of their craft without fighting to the death."
"I had nothing to do with that," said Armalide. "The ship was empty when I climbed aboard."
"At Kennedy?"
"Yeah. I figured it was a Russky invasion trick and if I stormed the shuttle I'd be a hero and get a pardon from the President. "
"Idiot male," spat Anna Chutesov.
"If the ship was empty, pal, who flew it?" Remo demanded. "You don't look like you could fly a paper airplane if you had the rest of your life to practice."
"This is gonna be hard for you folks to swallow."
"Try us," Remo said.
"There wasn't anyone inside."
"It took off automatically?" asked Smith. "No, not exactly."
"What, exactly?" Remo prompted.
"The ship flew itself," Earl Armalide said.
The Master of Sinanju drifted up behind the crouched figure of Earl Armalide. "Did I mention that this was the creature who worked at the evil car wash? No? As such, he is partly responsible for the unspeakable thing that has befallen the House of Sinanju. As reigning Master, I claim the right to deal with the wretch as I see fit after this interrogation is over."
"And I claim the right to kill him in the name of the brave Soviet cosmonauts who lost their lives," returned Anna Chutesov.
"The ship flew itself" said Earl Armalide frantically. "You gotta believe me."
The Master of Sinanju reached for Earl Armalide's left ear and gently rubbed it between thumb and index finger. He continued rubbing it even after Earl Armalide gritted his teeth against the rising heat friction. Smoke drifted past his nostrils. He was sure the old Oriental was cooking his earlobe with a match, but there was no flame visible. And Earl Armalide had spent years training his peripheral vision in simulated combat. He could tell if his sideburns lined up without using a mirror. But he could not see any match.
"What say you now?" said Chiun.
"The ship flew itself," Earl Armalide moaned through watering eyes. "It was alive."
"Okay, the ship flew itself," said Remo, who knew that no one ever lied under the fierce pain the Master of Sinanju could inflict. "Tell us more."
"I climb into the ship, you understand? Only there's no one aboard. I'm in this airlock thing and suddenly the walls start closing in. You know, like in an old movie when the hero is locked in a secret room by the bad guy."
"Impossible," scoffed Anna Chutesov. "The airlock has no such function."
"Don't I wish," said Earl Armalide. "I was this close to becoming a bouillon cube, when-"
"Did you say cube?" asked Smith, suddenly thinking of the objects found on the Kennedy Airport runway. "Yeah, cube. The walls were coming in and so was the roof. I figured if they didn't stop, I'd be cubed. But they did stop. In fact, the ship asked me a question. I look up and there's an eyeball sticking out of a wall. It's looking at me, and it wants to know about this magazine that fell out of my pocket Survivalist's Monthly."
"What did the ... er ... ship want to know?" Smith asked.
"It wanted to know what a survivalist was. It was interested in survival."
The hair on the Master of Sinanju's face suddenly trembled, but there was no breeze to stir it.
"What did it ask?" Chiun wanted to know.
"About survival stuff mostly. It wanted to compare notes. It said it was a machine, a survival machine." Smith, his face ashen, looked at Remo. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" he said hollowly.