Doomsday Warrior 19 - America’s Final Defense Read Online Free PDF

Section B and her suite. She rubbed his stubble. “Hmmm . . . you need a shave.”
    “Yeah, I guess we’ll have to go to my room.”
    “You can use my Lady Remington laser razor, honey. I don’t want to go to your mess-of-a-room. Not to make love. It’s better at my place.”
    Rock caught a glimpse of the nurse peeking out the doorway after them.
    She didn’t look happy. Not one bit.

Three
    T wo hours later, Doctor Schecter raced down the hallway toward Rona’s pink-painted door. He’d been sent by the council president to find Rockson. He’d already been to Rockson’s room, and found it empty. Damn! What was the matter with the man? The council had been waiting an hour for Rockson. They didn’t like to be stood up; not one bit.
    Huffing from his exertion, Schecter reached the pink door, knocked loudly with his gold pinky ring on the wood. He didn’t get an answer. No wonder, for someone in there had their stereo all the way up, playing some godawful music. Heavy Metal? He thought that was what they called it. Heavy Metal: a recently unearthed—and better left buried—form of so-called 20th-century pop music. Unfortunately the ancient recording was restored, along with a copy of a beautiful Aaron Copeland piece, uncovered in the ruins of the same radio station.
    Not to be daunted in his mission, Schecter screwed up his face in disgust and tried the doorknob. It turned and he let himself in. The music was now intolerably loud. And there was the fabulous and famous “Doomsday Warrior”—he was dancing around in the altogether; and so was his girlfriend.
    Rona screamed and jumped into bed and pulled the covers up over her pulchritudinous beauty. Rock just stood there, wiggling his—everything. “Hi, Schecty-baby.”
    “Well,” Schecter huffed, turning his face. “Get dressed at once. Unless you want to come to the council in the raw.”
    “I don’t mind,” Rock winked at Rona, who was shouting something about getting Schecter the hell out of her boudoir.
    “Hey Schecty-man, come and join the party,” Rock insisted. “Don’t you like Judas Priest?”
    “HummphI Not at all!” With big strides of his mechanical legs the brilliant old scientist scooted over to the teak wall unit. He reached over to the stereo and turned the volume much lower, though he did not turn it off. Rockson would get very mad, Schecter knew, if he turned it off completely. Then Schecter pulled out the material he had jammed in his belt and waved the sheaf of 8-by-10 photos in the air toward Rockson. “If you can stop dancing and put on at least your skivvies, I have to show you something awesome.”
    Rockson bounded like a ballet dancer to his closet, opened it, and dived in. He emerged in a remarkably short time dressed in red coveralls, the ones with the Century City emblem of crossed comets on its left front pocket. “Hand me those things. I’m ready. What’s so awesome?”
    Schecter handed over the glossies as the Judas Priest “Sad Wings” album ended—at last. “Thank God,” the scientist muttered, and before Rock could start the CD over, Schecter hit the power button. The lights on the stereo unit died. He blocked Rock from the unit, saying, “Just sit down at your desk and study the photos. You’ll see what’s awesome.”
    Rock shuffled through the pack of photos like they were a deck of cards, almost too quickly for the human eye to see. “Astro-photo plates?” Rock asked. “Why show me these? It just looks like some part of the solar system. So what?”
    “You’re a fast study, Rock. Really, I wish the hell I could CAT-scan your brain to see what makes it tick . . .”
    Rockson frowned, “You know you can’t do that to psi-ability people—it screws up their ESP. Besides, even if it wouldn’t mess up my abilities, I’d be afraid you’d remove my brain, put it in a jar for study.”
    “Especially to find out what’s wrong with your sense of music appreciation, Rock. By the way, didn’t you ever