would have gotten a real thrill out of the whole thing.
Maude was happier than he had seen her in years.
In fact, he didn't generally eat breakfast at home—
preferring instead to get a cup of coffee and a container of prune-whipped yogurt at Folcroft—but Maude had been so pleased at his brush with celebrity and so eager to do something special for him that he had agreed to eat a rare breakfast at home with his wife.
So here he was, home more than an hour later than normal, chewing in silence, lost in his own thoughts, while Maude Smith scrubbed diligently away at the blackened pans in the sink.
Smith was surprised at his own calm appraisal of the situation.
There was always risk of exposure. CURE had had several crises in the past. But this was nothing. Nothing at all.
Smith sliced away at a fresh sliver of blackened pancake, and raised it to his thin lips, first swallow-ing the wad of gritty, wet dough already in his mouth.
There was a timid knock at the kitchen door.
Maude went to answer it.
Probably the paperboy. Late, as usual.
Smith made a mental note to chastise the boy for his tardiness. But all at once, a thought occurred to him. The paperboy collected his money on Friday.
This was Tuesday.
'Mrs. Smith?' a man's voice asked from the door.
'Yes.'
With worried eyes, Smith glanced up at the door...and nearly vomited his pancakes back up onto his plate.
He recognized the man from the bank. Lothar Holz.
Maude Smith recognized him, too. Before Smith could protest, she had ushered the man into the small kitchen and shut the door. With a quavering voice she announced him as 'the man from the bank' to her seated husband.
'Am I disturbing you?' Holz asked politely, looking from Smith to his wife and back again.
'No, not at all.' Mrs. Smith was clearly delighted to have the cause of her husband's celebrity in her own home. 'Would you care for some breakfast?'
she asked hopefully. When Holz accepted the offer, Maude restarted the burners and retrieved the damp, black pan from the sink. She moved around the stove excitedly, clucking like a proud mother hen.
'May I?' Holz asked. With a nod, he indicated the vacant chair across from Smith.
Through a colossal effort of will, Smith subdued the urge to panic. He nodded stiffly, and Lothar Holz sat down at the tiny table.
'I'm certain you're wondering why I'm here,'
Holz began.
'The thought had crossed my mind,' Smith said guardedly.
A slight smile passed across Holz's lips. 'Indeed,' he said with a look of satisfaction. He intertwined his fingers on the tablecloth and leaned closer to Smith. 'I'm not sure if you realize this, Dr.
Smith,' he said conspiratorially, 'but you are quite a unique individual.'
Smith could see his wife grow more delighted as she fussed about the red-hot burners. He cleared his throat nervously. His mouth felt as dry as dust.
'How so?' he said with a casualness he didn't feel.
'I'm not sure you realize the magnitude of the test you unwittingly participated in yesterday. Yes, the Dynamic Interface System is able to integrate with that part of the brain controlling voluntary movements...'
'The cerebellum,' Smith offered.
Braun shrugged. 'So my experts say. Truth be told, Dr. Smith, I know very little about the function of the brain or of the device that was demonstrated yesterday, for that matter. I am not a scientist. I am more of a research coordinator.'
'I see,' Smith said, nodding his understanding.
Holz was the corporate front man. He probably had only the vaguest idea of the incredible technology PlattDeutsche America had developed.
'But there is something we did not reveal to the world. Our device is also able to duplicate the patterns within a human brain. As it was explained to me, the process we've come up with is now as simple as copying the contents of one computer floppy disk to another.'
Smith began to get an odd ringing sensation in his ears. It was the increased flow of blood from his desperately beating heart. When he swallowed, his mouth was as dry as the dead center of a sack of flour. 'Did you use this aspect of the interface system yesterday?' he asked. His voice sounded as if someone were strangling him with his narrow neck-tie. Unblinking, Holz stared at Smith. 'We did.'
Smith flicked his glance away to his wife. Must keep the conversation going, the director of CURE
thought. Must not allow Maude to become suspicious.
'It was my understanding that such technology was years away,' Smith said weakly. His breathing was coming heavier. The more he attempted to quell it, the more urgent it became. His heart was pounding in his chest.
'It was, actually. Our scientists were able to duplicate all of the raw data. Everything from memories, both conscious and subconscious, to actual acquired learning, such as things learned in school and things long since forgotten. Even glimpses of synaptic images as far back as the prenatal state or as far forward as the last thoughts at the moment of transfer. But in spite of the fact that we were able to duplicate everything, we had a near impossible time accessing everything. That much was true even going into the demonstration at the bank.'
Smith allowed himself some cautious relief. He tried to will his heart rate to slow. 'So you are unable to crack all the codes.'
'Were, Dr. Smith. Were.' Holz smiled warmly.
'And we have you to thank. Your mind is so remarkably orderly that we have been able to use it to access others. Our technology has taken a mighty leap forward in a single day. And we have you to thank.'
'Really.' To Smith, his own voice sounded as if it were echoing up from the empty, dark bottom of a long- abandoned well. 'Will you excuse me a moment?' He rose stiffly from the table and went down the hallway to the small half bathroom. Flushing the toilet to mask the sound, Smith proceeded to vomit the meager contents of his stomach into the white porcelain bowl.
When he returned to the table, his skin was drained of what little tinge of color it usually possessed. He had gone from sickly gray to ghostly white in a matter of minutes.
Holz was still seated at the table. He picked at a few syrup-smeared pancakes with the edge of his fork as Mrs. Smith watched him expectantly. He seemed relieved to see Smith.
'Is there something wrong, Harold?' Maude Smith asked as her husband retook his seat. She was wiping her damp hands on a sopping wet dish towel.
Her brow furrowed in concern when she saw her husband's pallor.
'I am fine, dear,' he assured her. 'I believe I might be developing a slight head cold.'
Maude Smith rolled her eyes. 'Honestly,' she said to her new confidant, 'he works so hard it's a wonder he isn't always sick.'
'Could I have my coffee now?' Smith interjected, lest she tell Holz any more than he might already know. With a tiny shrug, Maude went dutifully to a rear cupboard. The shoulders of her paisley frock rose precipitously as she dug in the back for the least-cracked mugs. Smith attempted a smile.
'So, Mr. Holz, what is it you wish from me?'
It was a feeble, time-wasting question. But alone at the table, helpless in the face of an unknown enemy, Smith was at a loss for what else to do. His gun was at Folcroft. In a shoe box far back in his desk drawer. Remo and Chiun were too far up the coast to be of any help in an immediate crisis. And besides, he had no idea how much the man actually knew.
In another instant, his worst fears were realized.
Maude Smith had pulled out a pair of almost matching mugs and was scrubbing the sticky coating of dust
