It didn't look good. It didn't look good at all. I checked my revolver - only three rounds left. Challenger and Godsend was checkin' theirs too, and I seen in their eyes we was finished, gone gophers. Fotheringay had been right, we was on a fool's errant.
 
And still they kept comin'. The pasty-faced devils was on the stairway now, and our flimsy fortificates wouldn't stop 'em this time. I knew we was all thinkin' the same thing: there weren't no way out - unless... But no one wanted t' be the first to mention the only remainin' hope...
 
How'd I got myself in such a predicate? It seemed like only last week - come to think a' it, it was last week - that the whole thing began. Things started goin' blurry and wavy as I thought back... back... back....
 
* * * * * *
 
"Fotheringay's last report puts him here," said the Major, stabbin' a finger at the map on the big screen. "Damn! I'd give a queen's dowry to know what's become of the poor blighter" he swore, and slashed the air with his ridin' crop, and the room echoed with the sound a' leather strikin' freshly-starched khakis.
 
Which woulda been okay, 'cept they was my khakis he struck; somethin' the Major's gotta habit a' doin' when he gets wound up.
 
I moved a few feet up-range.
 
Colin pointed to another area on the map. "Any word from the spotter-plane station?"
 
"Or from our recon inserts?" added Jeb.
 
"No and no," the Major said sadly, twirlin' his handle-bar mustache in frustration. "I'm afraid we might as well face it, they've been done up a treat, and no mistake. Looks like Fotheringay's misgivings were well-founded."
 
Ever'body in the Big Room in the Basement looked mis'able. Usual the war room is hummin', but now it was dead quiet. And, as usual, I didn't have no idea what was transpirin', but I could see this was big trouble.
 
"Say, what's up, Y'all?" I asked.
 
Colin and Jeb exchanged a look, then Jeb said "Well, if the Major's correct, we're going to have to tell him sooner or later."
 
This seemed to make up Colin's mind. He turned to me and said "I guess you don't know what's going on, George -"
 
"Oh, you can be sure of that," Jeb injected.
 
" - but I'm afraid Cheney's replacement is missing."
 
I was heap-struck. "What d'ya mean 'missin''?" I flustered, "And what's this about a replacement? Has somethin' bad happened to Dick C?"
 
"No, no," Jeb grinned, "He's still dead."
 
"WHAT?" I said, not confirmin' my ears.
 
"Dead," he said, " passed over, taken the midnight train, an ex-Cheney, booked passage on the -"
 
"All right, all right," said Colin, "I think he gets it."
 
I was still unconfirmed. "I can't believe it. Dick, dead!"
 
"Actually dead many times over, old man," said the Major.
 
"W-what?" I shuddered.
 
"Might as well tell him everything, guys," Jeb said, takin' a seat.
 
And then they told me about how Dick had actual expired over his fourth heart attack in August a' '88. But the party - and another group a' people I ain't 'sposed t' mention - had big plans for Dick, and that group wasn't about to let a little thing like him bein' deceased get in their way.
 
I know these people, and I can tell you, dead or alive; ain't no difference to them.
 
So what they come up with is this technicality where they gets robots made up by the Disney company, and they puts clones a' Dick's brain in 'em.
 
Which, when you think about it, explains a awful lot about Dick.
 
Problem is, cloned brains don't last too long, and they has to keep replacin' the robots ever' month or so - 'cause the brains is welded to the bodies, or somethin'. The new Dick gets created knowin' ever'thin' the old Dick knew. Then they put the old Dick up in cold storage.
 
Which means they musta got somethin' like about 150 dead Dicks lyin' 'roun Washington somewheres. What'd got ever'body upset is that alla the robots - and the current Dick with 'em - had sudden disappeared.
 
Sounded bad, but what I wanted to know was, who was the actin' Dick now?
 
"Oh, that," Colin said, with a dismissin' hand, "That's just a whole-body clone from some earlier experiments. They aren't good for much. For some reason no one's been able to create a functioning cloned brain and body together. Which is why we have to install the brains in the Cheney-bots
 
"How'd they make the Dick we got now?" I asked.
 
"The usual way," he said, " using quiescent cells from Cheney's mammary glands, stimulating them with an electric pulse in a culturing solution - just like Dolly the sheep."
 
Which I didn't no way understand, but I could sure see a problem. "My God, man!" I cried out, "You mean if somethin' happened to me the next president would be a brainless boob?"
 
I could tell nobody 'd thought a' that, cause the whole room got silent of a sudden - 'cept Jeb, who seemed to be havin' some kinda sinus fit.
 
Finally, Colin said "Well, that certainly is one way to look at it. But the problem is to find and retrieve those robots." He turned to face me, and tapped my chest. "And that's where you come in, George,"
 
"How's that?" I inquiried.
 
"We're pretty sure the expended Cheneys have been stolen by the same scientist who invented the robotic process. We think they've been moved to his secret laboratory in Indonesian Borneo, most likely in the port city of Tarakan, near the Malaysian border," he pointed on the map.
 
"We've got to get in there, locate the robots, and get them out, or destroy them. Your jungle skills are legendary, and we think you'd be the perfect man for the job -"

"Of course you understand that's not necessarily a widely-shared opinion," Jeb added.
 
A little explanation: most a' y'all know about my famous exploitations. The mere mention a' all the places I been adventurin': Pellucidar, Barsoom, Caspak, the Borneo Jungles, will put a knowin' smile in your face.
 
And some a' you know I was for a time raised by a band a' Republicans in the fabled land a' Cathay (that's "China" to you stay-at-homes), and how I grew up as at home in the streets a' Beijing as I was in Midland, Texas. So I am well versus in the ways a' the world. Colin was right, I was the right man for this job.
 
I only had one concern, and it come to me as cold and unwelcome as a July blizzard, "Who's this scientist what made and stole them robots?" I asked.
 
"Oh, yes, I think you know him," Colin said, "A professor from the University of California in Tarzana - used to be at the Niebelung Institute, Rheingold, Doctor Alberich Rheingold."
 
Uh-oh.
 
You prob'ly remember me mentionin' Herr Doktor Professor Rheingold, DAS (Doctor of the Abominable Sciences) before. If you do, you'll also remember that disaster just seems to follow him 'round like a puppy dog.* For example, I sight the Affair a' the Mechanical Tangerines.
 
But this was no time for apprehensitivity, this was a time for action. I looked Colin right in his eye. "I'm your man," I said real simple.
 
Jeb had another one a' his sinus fits.
 
* * * * * *
 
I put together my adventurin' gear, rounded me up a few good men, and was off to Borneo. We had to keep the press outta this, so we got in disguises and took commercial transportation.
 
We flew into Singapore first, then took a direct flight into Balikpapan in Borneo. From there we flew to Berau, then took a boat down the Berau river into the Celebes Sea, and from there to Sangalaki. The boat trip was the worse part. The craft was a' old bucket, with rusty, dangerous fittin's, and a rusty, dangerous crew what looked like they was just itchin' to slit your throat. The air was dank and greasy, and the cruel sea as black as a hanged man's tongue.
 
And I'm from Texas, so I know what I'm talkin' about.
 
We had some omeninous setbacks early on. I had recruited three men: Challenger, Godsend and Quigley. They was all stout lads (I'm guessin' 275 pounds apiece,) but Quigley had a real bad lisp. Unfortunately, I tend to pick up the thoughts and speech a' whoever I'm 'round, and, by the time we'd arrived at Sangalaki, I was sayin' every "s" through my teeth.
 
Well, to make a long story short, Quigley thought I was funnin' him. He got mortal offended and drove off in a Huff. I tried to explain that I couldn't help it, but it didn't do no good. I had spoke too Quigley.
 
And, unfortunately, most a' our maps and provisions was in the back seat a' the Huff.
 
Before settin' off, I attempted to hire some native-bearers, but couldn't find none. So I had t' go back and tell the natives they'd have to walk. They all quit, and now it was just the three a' us.
 
From Sangalaki we made our way by land north to Tarakan. To this day I tremble to remember that gruelin' journey ('count a' all the other food 'd been in the Huff): overland through the underbrush, underneath the overgrowth, over-committed and undernourished, with only my Remington over-and-under - I'm sorry, It's too painful to go over what we undergone.
 
But at long last we was standin' in front a' Rheingold's secret laboratory in the ancient city a' Tarakan. One a' the Dayak guards took us into a big room with odd statues standin' all around the walls, and lotsa candles in wall scones. And sittin' at the end uvva big table in the center a' the room was professor Rheingold.

They say the jungle can enter a man's body and drive out his soul. I looked close at Rheingold. He had a wasted, small, scrawny look about him, and even sittinn' down he was kinda scrunched over. Plus he seemed to be havin' some trouble breathin'. His hands was nothin' but claws. His sweatin' heavy, his face shiny, his scraggly hair matted to his scalp and forehead. His red-rimmed eyes was sunk deep in their sockets, and in them you could see all the fires a' hell.
 
In other words, pretty much normal for Rheingold. It didn't seem like the jungle 'd hurt him any.
 
"Well, Georgie," he said, in a family way, "Zo long zince ve haff seen one another, nicht wahr?"
 
"NIcht - I mean 'yes'. Listen, Professor, I didn't come here for no social chitchat. I wanna know why you absconded with genuine U.S. Federal Government property. That's what I wanna know."
 
"Ah, Georgie," he said in a disappointed kinda way, "I fear you are laboring under a misconzeption. You appear to believe zat I abducted your robots and brought zem to zis place," he said, shruggin', "Ven quite ze opposite is true."
 
Then he explained how one a' the robots - number 13, I think he said - had figured out how to reactivate hisself in cold storage, and then freed the others. Together they'd kidnapped the Professor and made him bring 'em here. Through some miscalculation (surprise!) Rheingold's method had made 'em all insane, and now they was plannin' to carry out some kind of nephertite plot - I don't know, take over the world, kill all the humans, somethin' like that, whatever it is demonic monsters like to do.
 
As he was talkin', I noticed that Rheingold was a little nervouser than usual. He seemed awful detracted and his eyes kept dartin' around the room. Usin' my many experiences as a soldier of fortunate, and my keen senses, I immediately suspicioned that we was bein' watched - a conclusion greatly aided by what I now noticed to be a note pinned to his lapel, readin', "WE ARE BEING WATCHED!"
 
But this was no time for readin', this was a time for action - time to let my trigger fingers do my talkin'. Sudden as a bunny, I employed my famous cross-handed technique and cross-drew my two revolvers - unintentionally pistol-whippin' the professor in the process, but this was no time for first-aid, this was a time for shootin'.
 
Without even takin' time to aim, I un-airingly shot out all the candles - which mighta' been nifty, only it was still daylight and all the windows was open. Plenty a' light to see that what I'd thought was statues was actually Cheney-bots!
 
And as if they was one, they opened their eyes and looked straight at me! Then they started comin' at me- their arms out stiff in front a' em', klumpin' in giant, stilt-legged steps.
 
How can I describe the horror a' that moment? Their monstrous bulk; those faces straight from hell; the odd snakey-like smiles on lips as thin as orange peels; the pasty, nearly transparent skin; the colorless wisps of hair light as dandelion fluff; the eyes as cold as a banker's heart.
 
Exactly like Dick C, only not as cuddly.
 
Challenger and Godsend n' me started pumpin' lead into the robots as fast as we could, but it didn't do no good. They just kept comin'. When bullets hit 'em they didn't stop, they just leaned back and screamed in a way that reminded me a' the bull elephant I run away from once in India. Sometimes they'd rear up and revolve on one foot, like a stallion doin' a wheelie, then they'd come back down and continue comin' at us, their feet thunderin' on the wooden floor like kettle-drums.
 
The professor was swallowed up in their rush forward, but the three a' us managed to get past 'em and made it to the stairway at the back a' the room. We high-tailed it up the steps towards the roof, shootin' down at the 'bots all the while. But the insane devils kept comin'. Once we got to the roof, we shut and barred the door to the stairs, and pushed a few crates in front a' it. There wasn't much else useful up there.
 
'Cept for the one-man helicopter.
 
The Cheney-bots was right behind us. We pumped more lead into the door, but it wasn't no use, it was already startin' to give way.
 
Bein' a quick thinker, I realized what hadda be done. Them two 'ole boys didn't have no pilot trainin' like I did (I was in the Air National Guard, y' know). I knew there was only one thing to do, and I knew them boys would be too modest to suggest it, so I took the initiation. I shouted "Lookout, there's some more behind you!" And when they turned, I cold-cocked 'em both with the butt a' my revolver. Then I hopped into the 'copter and cleared the roof just as the door exploded in splinters.
 
* * * * * *
 
That was a week ago. The next day, Tommy Franks and some a' the Delta Force boys hit Rheingold's laboratory. Looks like we got all the robots, but there wasn't no trace a' Rheingold.
 
I'm bettin' he made it out though, cause my luck don't run no other way.
 
Ever' now and then I wonder how Challenger and Godsend got on. They was brave lads. I bet they stood shoulder to shoulder, fightin' to the last. Or somethin' like that.
 
Whatever.
 
Our biological fellas is workin' day n' night to come up with a solution for the Cheney clones. In the meantime we pretty much keep his brainless substitute outta sight, proppin' him up and runnin' him with a remote control and voice tapes when he has to make a appearance. The press ain't tumbled to it yet, and Lynne says their marriage is never been better.
 
The biology boys says they're right on the edge a' makin' a workin' Dick C. But until they do, I'm makin' sure nothin' happens to me. This country's in enough trouble as it is, the one thing it don't need is a leader whose a idiot.
 
______________________________________________
" Cellmates" and "13 Dazed."