"What is it?" Smith asked, brow creasing.
"Little Father, Smith isn't out grazing on Folcroft's back lawn," Remo said.
A look of dark anger settled on the old Korean's weathered face. "Of course he is not," Chiun said. "A shallow grave awaits the dastard who would suggest such slander. Emperor Smith is clear of eye, mind and spirit. Hail Smith. Sinanju serves on bended knee the ever wise guardian of the Eagle throne."
A hint of embarrassment colored Smith's ashen cheeks. "Thank you, Master Chiun," he said. Clearing his throat, he returned to his work.
When Smith's head was bowed once more, the Master of Sinanju turned angrily to Remo.
"Are you as mad as this one?" he hissed in Korean. "Never tell the lunatic that you think he is a lunatic."
"I don't think he is," Remo insisted, also in Korean.
"Do not make me question your sanity, as well, Remo Williams," the old Asian said.
"Give it a rest, Chiun. Smith isn't, wasn't and never has been crazy. If you think I'm going to ditch him like Songjong ditched Nebbitynuzzle, you can forget it. Smith's going to have to keel over for me to leave."
"Bah," Chiun said, waving a bony hand. "That time has passed."
Remo frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Listen," the Master of Sinanju instructed, nodding to Smith.
Confused, Remo pitched his hearing toward the CURE director. He heard the tapping of Smith's fingers on the keyboard. Beyond that he detected the strong heartbeat, a congenital heart defect having been corrected by a pacemaker implant some six years previous. There was nothing more.
"I don't hear anything," Remo said.
"Precisely," Chiun replied. "A year ago it was there. Two years ago it was stronger still. The dark cloud of life's end had settled. Once there were the creaks and sputters of a man ready to welcome death. Now that is all gone. Look at him toiling like a man ten years his junior."
Remo had noticed it before. Smith had seemed infused with new vigor. He had assumed it was wishful thinking.
"It's the kid, isn't it." It was a statement of fact, not a question.
Chiun nodded tightly. "At this rate Smith will last many more years. I might not be here when comes the time for you to choose your next emperor. Of course, we could remove the mad middleman by having this modern Nebuchadnezzar committed to his own asylum. Smith could live out his remaining years in dignity, safe under the watchful gaze of Sinanju here in Fortress Folcroft. In the meantime, the Regent could assume his throne with us at his side."
"A perfect plan." Remo nodded. "Except Smitty won't go silent into that good straightjacket, his wife would have to have him committed and wouldn't, and I won't go along with it and neither will Howard."
"Yes," Chiun agreed. "The Prince is aggravating in his lack of ambition. I blame the old one. They are like two white peas in a pod." He sighed unhappily. "Thanks to his presence, Smith's natural end is now many years away. I can only hope that if I am not here when the time comes that you do the right thing."
"Right thing will be to leave, Little Father. No Master shall work for an Emperor's successor. It's in the rule book, loophole or no loophole."
Chiun's papery lips thinned. "Do not be certain," he said cryptically. "Thank the gods I had foresight to anticipate your obstinacy."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means the loophole, as you call it, is already set. It is up to you only to not mess everything up." And with that, the old man picked himself up on two long fingers. Still cross-legged, he turned from Remo, resettling on the threadbare carpet. As he studied the dust dancing in the shadows of Smith's office, there was a look of hard resolve on his weathered face.
Remo could see there would be no further questioning of his teacher. Wary now of what both the immediate and distant future held in store for him, Remo turned his attention back to Smith. To await news of Judith White.
Chapter 15
The leggy anchorwoman was gushing over some new movie. On a stool across the Newsfotainment Now! set, a reporter for the program flashed a set of teeth as white as angel wings while nodding his agreement.
"Absolutely," the reporter enthused. "This is simply the greatest movie I've ever seen, Mary. Last night's star-studded L.A. premiere was the hottest seat in town for the film that already has Hollywood talking Oscar."
In the cluttered GenPlus Enterprises office, Mark Howard grunted at the small television.
"The Academy Awards are a year away," he muttered.
Mark hadn't brought his laptop with him. Dr. Smith's work ethic was now Mark Howard's own. These days, without his computer to occupy him, he was completely lost.
For a while he had picked through some of the books in the office. But they were virtually all dedicated to genetics, a subject Mark barely understood. He had finally given up on the books and snapped on the TV.
On the screen, the reporter's teeth were polished ivory.
"Producer Barry Schweid denies it, Mary," he gushed, "but the rumor mill is already talking sequel."
Eyes barely registering the TV screen, Mark shifted in the chair. He was going stir crazy.
He had been alone in this room for hours. In addition to the water samples from the Westchester Golf Club, which he had personally collected, Mark had made arrangements for samples of other bottled-water brands to be brought to New York's GenPlus facility. It was necessary to see if Lubec Springs alone was the source of the genetic mutation. The last sample of commercial springwater had arrived at the White Plains genetic-research facility at the same time as Mark. All had been whisked off for immediate testing.
Now, hours later, Mark drummed his fingers on a desk that was not his own and stared blankly at the television.
The office belonged to Dr. Andrew Mills, the top research scientist at GenPlus. A plastic toy that looked like a spiral staircase sat at the corner of the desk. The steps of the toy were colored in reds, yellows and greens.
Leaning forward, Mark picked up the DNA model. It was incredible to think that he lived in an age when the basic building blocks of life could be disassembled and reshuffled.
Mark had read news stories in recent years detailing cases of strange genetic experiments. There were the various cloning stories. These had been most prominent. But just one year before there had been the one about the spider-goat.
In a story straight out of science fiction, goats had been genetically crossbred with spiders. The resulting creature was only one-seventy-thousandth spider, but in its milk it produced a thin web. Researchers claimed that the web was proportionate in strength to that of a spider. Clothing spun from the web would be lighter than cotton and three times stronger than Kevlar. The military applications were obvious.
It was strange. Research of this kind-meant to benefit mankind-was not fundamentally different from that conducted by Judith White. How many other Judith Whites were toiling out there right now in dusty corner labs, waiting to release who knew what horrors on a human race that had put perhaps too much of its faith in science?
Mark was thinking wary thoughts about the future when the office door finally sprang open.
A breathless, middle-aged man burst inside, jowly face flushed. A white name tag pinned to his lab coat identified him as Dr. Mills.
Mark rose quickly to his feet.
"Good news, Mr. Marx," Dr. Mills announced, using the cover alias Howard had given him. He thought Mark was a special FBI agent. "The other samples checked clean. The contamination is limited to the Lubec Springs batch."
"You're sure?" Mark demanded.
"We tested twice. There were the usual impurities in the rest-most springwater isn't much different from ordinary tap water. But the transgenic bodies are present exclusively in the Lubec Springs samples you brought in."
Mark didn't need to hear more. He grabbed the phone from the desk. Shielding it with his body, he stabbed the 1 button repeatedly. Smith picked up on the first ring.