Programmed for Peril

very much gone off half-cocked.
    That feeling didn’t leave her, even after a postmortem; with Samantha during the ride home. Her saleswoman took the positive approach: “Trish, you served notice on him! That’s the important thing. He’ll think twice before he tries any other cute stuff. He knows if he does, you’ll call the cops.”
    “What if it wasn’t him?”
    Samantha snorted. “Who else could it be? Who else would sabotage our business?”
    “Nobody I can think of,” Trish said.
     

5
     
    OH, GLORIOUS MARSEILLAISE! ALLONS, ENFANTS... An anthem worthy of the name, whether blasted out by a Parisian brass choir, sung at Casablanca’s Rick’s, or whistled as it was now by perfectly pitched Melody, eternal sweetheart of Carson’s rodeo. The sound reached Champ’s ears with the presence and fidelity that only state-of-the-art Japanese bugs and speakers allowed. How long had it been obvious who really won World War II? He pressed a plate on the compact control panel. That minute adjustment further sharpened Melody’s whistle to you-are-there presence. He conducted, waving broad hands. He was Pierre Boulez on Bastille Day! His anticipation rose. Would Melody hearken to the tune’s dynamics, this wonder child who had never beheld the score? Yes, yes, forte, as the anthem soared to... Marchons! Her whistle grew in amplitude. Champ the music director kept pace. He grunted with delight, hands fanning the air like paddles. Too soon she warbled the last tote. “Encore, encore!” he shouted, words echoing from the walls of the two small rooms he called Resurrection Headquarters. “Vive la France!”
    Carson would be so pleased to hear that the girl had only grown in talent. Vive Melody!
    He cocked his head, his hunger for even one more sweet note strong as an addict’s craving. Maybe she would pick up one of her instruments! No, he heard only uninteresting thumpings. She was fooling with clothes, cleaning her room, or carrying on with some other nonsense. Her gift to the world was sound. She needed to be heard—not seen. So he had hidden the two minicams where they would do the most good, one peering into the living room and the other, of course, into Queen of My Heart’s bedroom.
    It had taken two months to complete the move from the coast. Carson had been so particular about which equipment, components, and tools should be carried and which could safely be purchased in the new city. He issued instructions about where Champ should set up his headquarters. Charged and gleeful with the unexpected opportunity to recover Queen of My Heart and his child, he had phoned Champ daily to check on progress and issue the next measure of directions, as though his servant’s capabilities were unequal to too many tasks at once.
    Champ knew his talents were equal to anyone’s—save Carson’s.
    He had slipped in swiftly to Queen of My Heart’s home to install the bugs in the rooms and phones on a sunny Sunday afternoon, after which she and the Loathed One returned laden with strawberries. The sleek cameras with their optic wonder lenses and built-in transmitters required more time and care. He had stolen a PC-Pros’ van and used it to haul his own tools and equipment. No neighbor would remark on a van parked in the business owner’s driveway. He had wheeled in bold as a thieving politician, tool belt around his waist. Wonderful old house, filled with wasted space, nooks, crannies! A thousand and one sites from which to spy on his Scheherazade. Cunning Champ’s interior carpentry skills hid the tiny optical eyes as the most adept curbside three-card monte gamester concealed his jack of diamonds among queens.
    Business finished, he had driven off and later smashed the computers and printer—Carson’s instructions. Hadn’t his master kept him busy since his arrival! He had ordered that PC-Pros’ phones be bugged and that a loaner computer be inoculated with a virus. No problem for Champ to enter the building in the wee hours using his Tumbler Tickler, another of Carson’s patentable throwaways. He had never found a tumbler lock it wouldn’t open. No problem, either, coding in the “Reconsider” message on Queen of My Heart’s PC or phoning it in to her computer on Sunday. And phoning her sweet self!—twice on that same Sunday afternoon—and saying nothing. Orders carried out to the letter, General Carson, sir!
    Champ sat in a padded chair facing the control panel. The monitors for the two cameras