The Destroyer - 47 - The Destroyer 047 - Dying Space by Warren Murphy & Richard Sapir

Author:Warren Murphy & Richard Sapir [Murphy, Warren & Sapir, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Pulp Action
Publisher: PINNACLE BOOKS
Published: 2010-03-19T14:52:04+00:00

CHAPTER TEN

At nine o’clock at night, the lights in the pro­fes­sor’s soft­ware lab were still blaz­ing.

“Hi,” Re­mo said. “You free?”

The pro­fes­sor turned back from an ar­ray of liquor bot­tles and de­canters she was ar­rang­ing on top of an odd-​look­ing met­al ta­ble against the wall. “Dirt cheap, any­way,” she said. “Have we met?”

“I’m Re­mo,” he said. “The guy who’s sup­posed to check out your miss­ing com­put­er.”

The pro­fes­sor’s eyes dart­ed back to the ta­ble hold­ing the liquor. “Uh, it’s gone,” she said dis­tract­ed­ly.

“I know. That’s why I’m here. Hey, are you feel­ing all right?”

She wished Re­mo would go away. It would make things so much sim­pler. The LC-111 was back, in what­ev­er form Mr. Gor­dons felt like be­ing, and there was no more na­tion­al emer­gen­cy. Still, Gor­dons didn’t want to re­veal his iden­ti­ty to this Re­mo per­son un­til he re­mem­bered who Re­mo was. The pro­fes­sor didn’t think it mat­tered much who Re­mo was, but he had some fine pecs on him, and if he didn’t leave soon, she was go­ing to jump on his bones.

“You’re aw­ful­ly cute,” she said, try­ing un­suc­cess­ful­ly to fight off the waves of lust that were over­tak­ing her. Those dreamy brown eyes, the fine, hard body. The thick wrists. Oh, that mouth.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Re­mo said. “Well, I guess we ought to start.”

“Ready when you are, babe,” the pro­fes­sor said, whip­ping off her lab coat. In the span of 58 sec­onds, she had shed the rest of her cloth­ing as well, and stood be­fore Re­mo, stripped to the buff.

“I meant we ought to start talk­ing. About the com­put­er.”

“Talk, talk, talk. Doesn’t any­body screw any­more?”

Re­mo shook off one of the pro­fes­sor’s arms, which had be­come en­twined, snake­like, around his thigh. “I’d re­al­ly rather talk,” he said. “With your clothes on, if you don’t mind.”

“Com­mu­ni­ca­tion is what mat­ters, young man. Not talk­ing,” she pant­ed as she came at him in a fly­ing tack­le. “Just see how much bet­ter we com­mu­ni­cate once your pants are down. Whee.” She slid his belt out of his pants and twirled it above her head like a las­so. “How’s about a lit­tle drink, gor­geous?”

“No, thanks,” Re­mo said, catch­ing the belt in mid-​swing and re­plac­ing it around his waist. The pro­fes­sor slinked over to the ta­ble and poured some gin from a de­canter di­rect­ly in­to her throat, which she had primed with an olive.

As she gulped, a small voice seem­ing­ly from out of nowhere whis­pered to her, “Get him on this ta­ble.”

“What?”

“On this ta­ble. On his back, if pos­si­ble.”

“What for?”

“Please, Mom,” the ta­ble said. “Get his back on the ta­ble.”

“Okey doke,” she said, gig­gling lewd­ly.

From across the room, Re­mo shook his head as he watched the No­bel-​Prize-​win­ning sci­en­tist stand­ing stark naked, guz­zling gin and talk­ing to her­self. She was even nut­ti­er than Smith had warned him.

“Come and get it,” she called. All the charms of mid­dle-​aged spin­ster­hood were on dis­play as she un­du­lat­ed to Re­mo in in­vi­ta­tion. Re­mo sup­pressed a shud­der.

“Hop to it, big boy. I’m hot­ter than an É-C 135 on tar­get range, as they say at NASA.

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