Unpopular Science

“The Department of Defense is in a unique state of high alert. Vital military research projects all over the country are being relocated, but the emphasis is on secrecy. The President insists on it. If the American people come to think die highest levels of their military are worrying about burglars—public faith in the government would suffer.”

“And the President’s popularity would go into the toilet,” Remo added. “Up for reelection, isn’t he?”

Smith didn’t acknowledge the comment. “There is one research project that has not been relocated. It is FEM, the Full-spectrum Environmental Monitoring.”

“Kind of girly name,” Remo noted.

“It protects the White House. It is made up of thirty miniaturized mobile units, patrolling the grounds in shifts of fifteen and relaying data to command computers and into the subterranean command centers. They have sound, motion, thermal, vibration and atmospheric sensors. They’re Gee-DAM controlled, of course, but also have a high degree of information processing and the ability for independent decision-making. If they detect intruders with guns, they can call for ground troops. If they detect biological or chemical agents, they can call for HAZMAT. One of the units can perform any and all these functions.”

“How come we’ve never seen them?” Remo asked. “We’ve been to the White House.”

“It has been up and running just a few weeks,” Smith explained. “The units still call in a number of false alarms, but the programming is being tuned daily. It could emerge as the most capable defensive system for any sort of a secure site.”

“If the White House shares it,” Remo clarified.

Dr. Smith slid an eight-by-ten photograph onto the desk, appearing slightly sheepish. “The current FEM unit configuration.”

Remo examined the photo.

“A robotic rodent?” Chiun sniffed.

“It’s a cyber-squirrel,” Remo observed.

“Its a FEMbot,” Smith explained.

“Say again?”

“Full-spectrum Environmental Monitoring robot. FEMbot.”

“1 see.”

“To the casual observer, the only way to distinguish it from a genuine White House squirrel is the markings. All the FEMbots have the same forehead markings.”

Remo noticed that the mark was a series of white streaks in the brown squirrel fur, and the streaks formed a lopsided W. “Somebody at the DOD is brown-nosing big-time.”

Smith scowled. “I agree it’s foolish. I pointed out to the President that one of these units might be photographed by a White House reporter or visitor and surely attract attention. The President believes the units will keep themselves so well camouflaged there will be little opportunity for such a thing to happen.” His words trailed off, full of doubt, and he added, “The President does not believe the White House is threatened. He also does not believe that the two of you will be able to penetrate this new security perimeter.”

Remo and Chiun both stiffened.

“I think he is wrong on both counts, of course.”

Remo nodded. “You want we should keep an eye on the place?”

“For tonight, yes,” Smith said.

“Fine. We’ll go stake out the White House.”

Remo pushed Mark out of the office.

“Really, Remo, I can do it myself.”

“This is a cool set of wheels. Junior,” Remo said. “Wanna go down and try it out in one of the first-floor corridors? I bet I can get this baby up to eighty.”

“No, thank you!”

“I’ll take that” Mrs. Mikulka was out of her chair the moment they left Dr. Smith’s office and she muscled Remo out from behind the wheelchair with unassailable determination. Chiun chuckled.

When Mark Howard’s office door swung open, it almost grazed the front of the massive desk that dominated the room like a hippo in a hot tub. The floor space was narrow. Mark usually had to shuffle sideways to get behind the desk to work.

Experimentally, Mrs. Mikulka wheeled Mark inside. The foot rests wedged against the front of the desk while the rear wheels were still sticking out the door.

“This will never do,” she decided.

“No, no, it’ll work. It will just take a little jimmying.” Mark began wiggling the wheelchair back and forth, inching it around.

Mrs. Mikulka huffed. “This will not work, Mark.”

“Sure, Mrs. M. Just another minute or so and I’ll be inside.”

‘Then what? You’ll never get behind your desk.”

“I’ll work on the front.”

“There’s no room for your legs to get under. You’ll add a bad back to your medical problems.”

“I’m sure it will be—”

“Not another word from you, Mark Howard. I’m calling maintenance.” Mrs. Mikulka strode away. After a few more tiny movements, Mark realized he was completed wedged in. His front wheels tight against the desk, his back wheels jammed at an angle in the door frame.

That was when he realized he needed to go to the men’s room.

Remo was pretending to hold a cigar in one hand and a telephone in another. “Hello, room service? Send up some more room.”

“That was the worst Groucho Marx of all time,” Mark said.

“Seriously, who did you not sleep with to rate this closet? Aren’t there empty offices on both sides of you?”

“They’re no bigger than this one.”