Holy Terror

Dor turned back to the machine, waving a hand at Hunt in disgust, in a gesture of go on, get out of here, you bum.

Hunt sat and watched as Dor played the game with grim intensity, playing both sides with both knobs. The score seesawed back and forth, 1-0, 1-1, 2-1, 3-1. Each point took a long time to play and gave Hunt time to think. Why not? His family had done it for centuries. The two stockbrokers, Dalton and Harrow, had talked about Hunt's becoming very wealthy. And why not? Why not? Why not? At that moment, Ferdinand De Chef Hunt returned to the ancestral bosom of his family and decided to become a hit man. And now, goddamit, he was not going to be dissuaded from it by this porky little pig.

"What is that game?" he asked aloud.

"Electronic Ping-Pong," Dor said. "Ever play it?"

"No. But I can beat you."

Dor laughed derisively.

"You couldn't beat me if I wore a blindfold," he said.

"I could beat you if I wore a blindfold," said Hunt.

"Get out of here, will you?" said Dor.

"I will play you," said Hunt.

"Go away."

"My life against the job. The game decides."

Dor turned and looked at Hunt's face. The American rose and walked to the machine.

"You're serious, aren't you?" said Dor.

"It's my life," said Hunt. "I don't fool with it."

Dor clapped his hands. The dot went from side to side on the machine. Unhindered, it kept scoring points for the server.

The door opened, and in it stood the four men who had escorted Hunt into the house.

"We're going to play Ping-Pong," said Dor. "If he loses, waste him." He turned to Hunt. "That all right with you?"

"Of course. But what if I win?"

"Then you and I will talk."

"We will talk in the six-figure kind of talk?" Hunt said.

"Right, but don't worry about it. In three minutes, you'll be among the dear departed." He reached for the red button to cancel out the game and start a new one.

"Don't do that," said Hunt.

"What?"

"This game is fine," said Hunt.

"I knew it. I knew it. I knew there was a hitch. You want a spot. Well, I'm not spotting anybody no seven points. It's eight to one, make it nine to one, already."

"I'll take the one point. Play," said Hunt, putting his hand on the knob that controlled the left vertical line. The ball pinged gently from the right lower side of the machine toward him.

"It's your funeral," said the maharaji. "And I mean that."

Hunt slowly turned the knob. The vertical line moved up. He reversed the motion of the knob, and the line moved down. He ignored the dot, which moved uninterrupted off his side of the screen.

"Ten to one," said Dor. "One more point."

"You'll never score it," said Hunt. He had the feel now of the knob. He touched the hard black plastic gently with his hand, his fingers gripping easily into the ridges around the knob, molding into them as if the knob had been designed for his hand alone. He could sense the speed of the vertical line, its motion, the turn necessary to move it top, to move it bottom. Without thought, with his brain divorced from what he did, Hunt knew these things. The next serve came from Dor's side of the screen, aimed at the bottom. Dor smiled. Hunt moved his vertical paddle slowly downward, and as the dot rebounded upward, his paddle intercepted it, and the white dot went straight back across the bottom of the screen. Dor moved his line downward directly in front of the dot and let it rebound straight back, along its approach line, back toward Hunt.

Hunt's vertical line had not moved since he had returned the serve. Now it was in the same position to return the ball straight back across the screen, but as the dot approached the electronic paddle, Hunt moved the vertical line and the movement hit the dot, as if off a curved paddle, sending it up toward the top of the screen. Dor moved his paddle up to intercept it right at the top, forming an upside down L between paddle and top of screen, but the dot slid over the top of his paddle and the machine pinged.

"Ten to two," said Hunt with a smile. He realized there was a dead spot at the top of the machine from which a paddle could not return a ball. Now to see if there was one at the bottom of the screen.

The serve switched to Dor now. The game went on. There was a blind spot in the bottom of the screen too. Ten-three, ten-four, ten-five.

Dor played in growing frustration, shouting at the moving dot. Hunt stood silently alongside the machine, moving his control knob slowly, almost casually.

When the score reached ten-ten, Dor smashed the heel of his pudgy left hand against the base of the machine. On its face, it registered TILT, and the electronic paddles disappeared.

"Okay," he said to the four men, who stood just inside the doorway. "Okay, okay. Bug off."

As they left, Hunt said, "That was right-handed. I haven't shown you left-handed yet."

"Don't bother."

"How about left-handed with a blindfold?"

"You can't play this with a blindfold. How can you play if you don't see?"

"You don't have to see," said Hunt. "You've never noticed. The machine makes a different sound when a ball is coming in low than it does when it's coming in high. You can hear a siss that tells you fast or slow."

"You know, I don't think I like you," said Dor.

"I could beat you by telephone," said Hunt.

Dor looked at him, at the studied insolence in Hunt's eyes, so different from the look of bland confusion that was there when he first entered the room. The maharaji decided he could ignore the challenge in order to harness Hunt's talent. He said:

"One hundred thousand dollars. Kill them both."

"Their names?"

"All we've heard so far is Remo and Chiun. They're probably in San Francisco."

"Too bad for them," said Hunt, and he enjoyed saying it.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Today, Remo thought, Joleen was almost human.

She had spent the previous evening sitting quietly, listening intently, as Chiun had gently lectured the girls of the San Francisco Divine Bliss Mission; then late at night she had tried to join Chiun on his sleeping mat in the large bedroom that had been given to Remo and Chiun.

But Chiun had flitted her away with a swish of his hand, and she had settled for Remo and climbed into his bed, and because he was tired and wanted to sleep, Remo serviced her, just so that he did not have to listen to her talk.

The cab episode yesterday had weakened her insane devotion to Maharaji Gupta Mahesh Dor, and their sojourn in bed last night must have weakened her even further, Remo decided, because today she was talking like a human being and not like a recorded announcement.

Chiun, meanwhile, had spent the morning complaining that insects had bothered him all night, while he tried to sleep, and when Remo said they had not bothered him, Chiun had suggested that they would not bother one of their own.

Now they sat in the front seat of a rented car, Joleen sandwiched between Chiun and Remo.

"I do not understand," said Joleen.

"Hear, hear," said Remo.

"If you are a Master," she said, "what then is the maharaji?"

"For small people there are small things," said Chiun. "For large people, there are large things. It is the same with masters."

Joleen did not answer. She clamped her mouth tightly and thought. Chiun looked across her body toward Remo.

"Where are we going?" asked Chiun. "I did not know we could reach Sinanju by automobile."

"We are not going to Sinanju. Now knock it off."

"I think this one is cruel," Joleen said to Chiun, nodding her head toward Remo.

"Ah, how well you know him. See, Remo. She knows you. Cruel."

"Don't forget arrogant," said Remo.

"Yes, child," Chiun said to Joleen. "Do not forget arrogant. Or, for that matter, slothful, inept, lazy, and stupid."

"Yet he is your disciple," she said.

"To make beauty from a diamond is given to many men," said Chiun. "Ah, but to make beauty from a pale piece of pig's ear is something else. That takes the skill of a master. I am still trying to make him seem human. Beauty will come later." He folded his arms.

"Could you make beauty of me?" she said.

"More easily than of him. You have not his bad habits. He is a racist."

"I hate racists," Joleen said. "My father is a racist."

"Ask the racist where we're going," said Chiun.

"Where are we going?"

"I'm taking us out for some fresh air. All that incense and bowing and scraping was getting me down."

"See. He is an ingrate too," Chiun confided. "People willingly open their doors to him, and he downgrades their gift and their hospitality. What an American. If he tells you he will take you back to Patna, do not believe him. White men never keep their promises to others."

"Hey, Chiun. She's as white as I am. She's from Georgia for Christ's sake."

"I don't think I want to go back to Patna anymore," Joleen announced suddenly.

"See," said Chiun. "She is different from you. Already she grows in wisdom, while you have learned less than nothing in the last decade of your years."

Remo pulled the car to the curb. "All right, everybody out. We're going to walk."

"See," said Chiun. "How he orders us about. Oh, perfidy."

Chiun stepped onto the sidewalk and looked around. "Is this Disneyland?" he asked aloud.

Remo, surprised, looked around him. A small carnival to benefit St. Aloysius Roman Catholic Church had been erected on an asphalted parking lot a half-block away.

"Yes," said Remo. "It's Disneyland."

"I forgive you, Remo, for being a racist. I have always wanted to visit Disneyland. Forget everything I said," he told Joleen. "Who brings the Master to Disneyland is not all bad."

"But…" Joleen started to speak. Remo took her elbow. "Quiet, kid," he said. "Just enjoy Disneyland." He squeezed. She understood.

Chiun's body meanwhile was moving up and down as if he were jumping in joy, while keeping his feet planted firmly on the sidewalk. His long saffron robe looked like a pillow case into which shots of air were being jetted, causing it to rise, then deflate, rise, then deflate.

"I love Disneyland," said Chiun. "How many rides can I go on?"

"Four," said Remo.

"Six," said Chiun.

"Five," said Remo.

"Agreed. Do you have money?"

"Yes."

"Do you have enough?"

"Yes."

"For her too?"

"Yes," said Remo.

"Come, child. Remo is taking us to Disneyland."

"First, I've got to make a phone call."

Ferdinand De Chef Hunt drove slowly back into San Francisco. The city confused him with its mazelike streets that seemed to run from hill to hill and then vanish.

With help he found Union Street and with more help found the building that housed the San Francisco Divine Bliss Mission. If these two targets, this Remo and Chiun, were looking for Dor around San Francisco, they had probably stopped at the mission.

They had.

"They were here. They were here," said the arch-priest Krishna. "He had a badge," he said.

"Where are they now?"

"They just called. They're at a carnival down near Fisherman's Wharf."

"Do they know where Dor is?"

"Man, how could they know? I don't even know."

"If they should return tonight, don't let them know that I was here," said Hunt. "With luck, they won't be returning."

"Am I supposed to be taking orders from you?" asked Krishna.

Hunt extracted a folded piece of paper from his wallet.

Krishna opened it and read the handwritten message from Dor, introducing Hunt as his chief emissary.

"Heavy, man," said Krishna, handing back the note. "Have you seen him?"

"Yes."

"Hail to his Blissful perfection."

"Sure, sure, sure. When did they leave?"

"An hour ago. If you see the Blissful Master again, tell him our mission joyously awaits his presence in our city."

"Right. He'll really be impressed," said Hunt.

Hunt went back down the high stone stairs of the building. In a parked car across the street, Elton Snowy watched him carefully.

"What do you think, Elton?" asked one of the two men in the back seat.

"I don't know, Puling, but I think we ought to follow him."

Hunt got into his old MG and pulled smoothly away from the curb.

"Well, then, let's follow him," said Puling. "If it turns out that he's nothing, this here building'll still be here."

"All right," said Snowy, starting the car and pulling into the street.

"Follow that car," giggled Puling. The man next to him let out a Dixie war whoop.

"We gonna stomp that kidnapper." said the man next to Snowy.

Snowy sighed and drove.

Hunt saw the big black car behind him but attached no significance to it. His mind was busy with the prospect of what was ahead, and he felt a pleasurable tingle of anticipation suffuse his entire body. He was on his way to a carnival to do what his family had done so well for so many years, and he looked forward to it. It seemed as if his whole life had been pointed toward just this moment.

"I want to go on the boats."

"You can't go on the boats. That's a kid's ride."

"Tell me where it says that," said Chiun. "Just show me where it says that."

"Right there," Remo said, pointing at a sign. "Kiddy Village. What do you think that means?"

"I don't think it means that I may not ride on the boats."

"Aren't you afraid of looking foolish?" said Remo. He looked toward the boats, four of them, bathtub length, in a circular moat, two feet wide and holding six inches of water. The boats were connected by iron pipes to the motor in the center of the moat. A carnival worker with a dirty, ripped T-shirt and a leather band around his thick right wrist operated the motor from the gate four feet away, at which he also doubled as ticket seller and collector.

"Only a fool looks foolish," said Chiun, "and only a fool twice over worries about it. I want to ride on the boats." He turned toward Joleen. "Tell him I can ride on the boats. You two are both white, maybe you can make him understand."

"Remo, let the Master ride the boat."

"He doesn't want to spend the 25 cents," said Chiun. "I have sometimes seen him waste whole dollars at a time, and he begrudges me 25 cents."

"All right, all right, all right," said Remo. "But we agreed on five rides. This is your fourth."

"Remo, I tell you this as absolute truth. If you let me go on the boat, I won't even ask for the fifth ride."

"Okay," said Remo.

Remo went up to the ticket seller and fished a quarter from his pocket. "One," he said.

The ticket man smiled a gap-toothed grin at Remo. "Sure it won't be too fast for you?"

"It's not for me, sweetheart. Now let's have the ticket before I tell the police of thirteen states that I found you."

"Okay, wiseass," said the ticket man. He ripped a ticket from a thick roll. "Here." He took the quarter.

"Do yourself another favor," said Remo. "When this ticket is used, don't say anything."

"Huh?"

"Don't make any comments and don't try to be a smartass. Just do yourself some good and keep your big mouth shut."

"You know, I don't like you. I think I'd like to work you over."

"I know, except you're worried I might be related to your parole officer. Just do what I said. No remarks."

Remo walked away and handed the ticket to Chiun who looked disappointed.

"None for her?"

"She didn't say she wanted one."

"Do you want one, girl? Do not be afraid," said Chiun. "Remo is very rich. He can afford it."

"No, that's all right," she said.

Chiun nodded, then walked toward the "Splashy-Washy," Remo at his side. "I'm kind of glad she didn't want to ride," he confided. "Screaming women annoy me."

Chiun handed his ticket to the ticket taker, who looked at the frail old Oriental, then at Remo. Remo raised his right index finger to his lips, suggesting silence.

"Be sure to fasten your seat belt, papasan," said the ticket taker. "Wouldn't want you falling out and drowning."

"I will. I will," said Chiun. He stepped forward past the ticket taker and walked around the shallow moat. He got into a blue boat, carefully arranging his robes around him on the narrow seat, then quickly got out and walked toward a red boat. Heading toward the red boat at that moment was a five-year-old girl, her face smiling, long golden hair splashing about her face, short dress bobbing up behind her rump as she skipped. Chiun saw her coming and broke into a run.

They reached the red boat at the same time.

Each paused.

Chiun pointed toward the sky. "Look! Look!" he said in a voice of astonishment. "Look up there!"

The little girl followed Chiun's finger and looked up. As her head went up, Chiun darted by her, jumping into the red boat. When the girl looked down, he was already settled in the seat.

Her face wrinkled up, and she seemed about to cry.

"The blue boat is nicer," said Chiun.

"I want to ride in the red boat," she said.

"Go ride in the blue boat."

"But I want to ride in the red boat."

"So do I," said Chiun, "and I got here first. Be gone with you."

The little girl stamped her foot. "Get out of my boat."

Chiun folded his arms across his chest. "Try the blue boat," he said.

"No," she said.

"I will not force you to ride in the blue boat," said Chiun. "You may stand there forever if you wish."

"Get out of my boat," the little girl cried.

"Yeah, old-timer, get out of her boat," said the ticket taker.

Remo tapped the ticket taker on the shoulder. "You forgot already, pal," he said. "Remember what I said? No talk. Do yourself a favor. Butt out."

"I'm running this ride. He should get out of the red boat."

"You going to tell him that?"

"You bet your ass I am," said the ticket taker, standing up.

"Where do you want the remains sent?" asked Remo.

The ticket taker stomped off, and took a place alongside the little girl, looking down at Chiun.

"Get out of that boat."

"She can ride in the blue one," said Chiun. "And you can ride in the yellow one."

"She's riding in the red one."

Chiun turned sideways in the seat so he did not have to look at the man's face. "Start the ride," he said. "I'm tired of waiting."

"Not until you get out of there."

Chiun called, "Remo, make him start the ride."

Remo turned his back so no one would know he knew Chiun.

"You whites all stick together," grumbled Chiun.

"No snotty cracks either," said the ticket taker. "If you don't like this country, go back where you came from."

Chiun sighed and turned. "That is good advice. Why don't you follow it?"

"This is where I came from."

"No, it is not," said Chiun. "Does not your book say, 'From dust you came, to dust you go'?"

Remo heard that and turned in time to see Chiun rise up in his seat, his saffron robe swirling about him. Before Remo could move, the ticket taker was spread-eagled across the bow of the small fiberglass boat, his face under the water.

"Chiun, knock it off already," said Remo, moving toward the boat.

"That's right, take his side," said Chiun, still holding the flailing man's head under water.

"Let him go, Chiun," called Remo.

"No."

"Okay, that's it," said Remo. "No more rides." He turned his back.

"Wait, Remo. Wait. See. I let him go. See. He is all right. See. Tell him you're all right." Chiun slapped the man's face. "Stop your stupid choking, and tell him you are all right."

The ticket taker caught his breath and pulled back from Chiun in fright. He looked at Remo who shrugged an I-told-you-so shrug. "Better start the ride," he said.

The ticket taker went back to his chair and turned the knob to the on position. The engine chugged and the boat started. The five-year-old shouted in anger. Remo took a dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to her. "Here," he said. "Go buy yourself some ice cream, and you can have the red boat on the next ride."

The girl snatched the bill from Remo's hand and raced away. Chiun's boat floated gently past Remo. "I see you got rid of that sniveling little wretch," he said. "Good for you."

"Better make it a long ride," said Remo as he walked back past the ticket taker, to rejoin Joleen.

By the time Ferdinand De Chef Hunt reached the amusement park, he was sure the black car behind him was following him. So he carefully parked his car in a restaurant driveway a block from the carnival, darted into the side door of the restaurant, through the dining room, and out the door on the other side of the building.

He carefully made his way along the wooden and concrete piers for another half block until he was opposite the carnival. Glancing behind him, he saw no sign of his pursuers and walked casually across the street toward the park.

Now to find those two men, what were their names?… Remo and Chiun.

Chiun leaned over the wooden railing and carefully rolled a nickel off his fingertips. It arced forward, turning over-exactly one revolution, then landed absolutely flat on a platform slightly raised above the asphalt floor. The nickel stopped in the direct center of a small red circle, one of hundreds of red circles painted on a large piece of white linoleum. The circles were only slightly larger in diameter than a nickel. A player won a prize if his nickel landed fully on a red circle, and did not overlap into the white border.

"Another winner," called Chiun.

The concession operator looked skyward as if asking for mercy.

"This time I want the pink rabbit," said Chiun. Behind him stood Remo and Joleen, their arms filled with plush toys, small games, stuffed animals. Remo precariously dangled a goldfish bowl, complete with occupant, from the fingers of his right hand.

The operator took a small pink stuffed rabbit from a shelf in the rear of the booth and handed it to Chiun. "Okay, here you are. Now why not go someplace else?"

"Why not is because I want to play this game," said Chiun.

"Yeah, but you're wiping me out," said the operator. "You've won nineteen prizes in a row."

"Yes, and I'm going to win more."

"Not here, you're not," said the operator, his voice rising with his temper.

Chiun spoke over his shoulder. "Remo, talk to him. Threaten to report him to Mr. Disney."

"Why don't we leave?" said Remo.

"You don't want to see me win either," said Chiun. "You're jealous."

"Right. I'm jealous. All my life, I've wanted my own goldfish, three yellow rubber duckies, seven stuffed pussycats, a plastic checker game, and two armfuls of slum."

The operator looked up at Remo, recognizing "slum" as the in-carnival word for junk prizes.

He looked at Remo questioningly. Remo nodded and winked as if sharing a fraternity secret. The operator understood now. Remo was a hustler, preparing to pluck this old yellow pigeon. He nodded back imperceptibly.

"Sure, old man," the operator said. "Go right ahead."

"Watch this, Remo," said Chiun. "I will do it with my eyes closed." He screwed his eyes tightly shut. "Are you watching, Remo?"

"Yes, Little Father."

"Can you see me?"

"Yes. Your eyes are closed, not mine."

"Good. Now watch."

Chiun leaned forward over the railing, his eyes shut tightly. He flipped the nickel off the fingernail of his right thumb, high into the air, almost up to the canvas roof over the game. The nickel spun rapidly, flipping all the way up, flipping all the way down, made one final turn, and landed flat on its side, directly in the center of a red circle.

Chiun kept his eyes closed. "I can't look. I can't look. Did I win?"

Remo nodded toward the nickel. The concession operator put his toe on it and slid it off the red spot, half onto the white.

"No, you lose," said Remo.

Chiun opened his eyes in shock. "You lie," he said. He looked at the nickel, half on the red, half on white. "You cheated me," he said.

"What's worse," said Remo, "you have to give back all the prizes."

"Never. Never will I part with my goldfish."

"All except the goldfish," said Remo. He gave the operator back the prizes he and Joleen held. The operator happily put them back on the shelf. Remo still held the goldfish bowl.

"You cheated," said Chiun, surprisingly even-voiced. "Tell me the truth. You cheated, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because we don't need all that junk."

"I agree. You may need your arms free." Chiun's eyes were narrowed, and he seemed to be sniffing the air. "What's wrong?" asked Remo. "Nothing," said Chiun, "yet. Don't drop the goldfish."

When he saw the young white man holding the prizes and the elderly Oriental leaning over the nickel toss game, Ferdinand De Chef Hunt knew. He knew that these were his targets. He felt a strange sensation in his throat, a lump of flesh that would not go up or down. It was a new feeling: Was it the feeling that generations of DC Chefs had felt when they were on the prowl?

While they played, Hunt stopped at a booth across the way. He paid a quarter and was handed three baseballs. He had to knock six wooden bottles from the top of a barrel. Hunt backed off and tossed the first ball underhand. The operator smiled. Like a fairy, he thought. The ball hit the center bottom bottle, knocked all bottles to the top of the barrel. The ball skidded around, bumping against bottles, and knocking all of them off onto the ground.

The operator stopped smiling when Hunt did the same thing with his second ball. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the two targets and the girl in the pink sari moving away. He tossed the third ball softly toward the concession stand operator.

"Your prizes," the operator said.

"Keep them," said Hunt, following the three at a stroller's pace.

He let them get twenty yards ahead of him. They were heavy into conversation, but he knew they had not realized that he was following them.

In fact, the conversation was, from Chiun's standpoint, much more important.

"I only had four rides," Chiun said. "You promised me five."

"You said if I let you ride the boat, you wouldn't ask for the fifth ride."

"I don't remember saying that," said Chiun. "And I remember everything I say. Why would I say I would be satisfied with four rides when you promised me five? Can you think of a reason I would say that?"

"I give up," said Remo.

"Good," said Chiun. "There's the ride I want to go on." He pointed ahead of them toward "The Flying Bucket," then leaned to Joleen. "You can ride with me. Remo will pay for it."

"Anything you say," said Remo wearily. With Chiun leading the way, the three walked into a narrow corridor between concession booths, toward "The Flying Bucket," a Ferris wheel type of ride in which riders sat in a plastic bucket, attached to an overhead wheel by two steel cables.

As they turned the corner, Hunt lost sight of them. He walked faster toward the corridor they had entered.

Just then, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to look into a red-fatted angry face. Behind it stood four other equally red, equally angry faces.

"Here he is, boys," said Elton Snowy. "Here's the kidnapper now. Where's my daughter?"

Hunt recognized the man as the driver of the black car that had followed him from Divine Bliss headquarters. He shrugged. "I don't know what you're talking about. You must have the wrong man."

"Don't lather me with that, sonny," said Snowy. He grabbed Hunt's arm tightly. The other three men moved up, also grabbing Hunt, and quickly they pushed him between tents into a surprisingly quiet grassy area, deserted of people, yet only a dozen feet from the main midway.

"I don't know anything about your daughter, sir," said Hunt again. He would not spend too much time here; he did not want to lose track of his targets.

"Boys, what do you say we work him over to loosen his tongue?" said Snowy.

The four men lunged into Hunt and bore him to the ground with their weight.

Two were on his legs, and two more on his arms, pressing them down into the mushy turf.

"Now we make the sumbitch talk," said Snowy.

The fingers of Hunt's left hand snaked out and curled around one of the triangular metal stakes used to anchor a tent rope. With his fingertips he plucked it from the ground and curled it into his palm. He felt his face being slapped from side to side.

"Talk, you kidnapping bastard. What you doing at that Blissy Mission? Where's my little girl?"

Hunt's right fingers scratched at the ground. He came up with a handful of dirt and a rock the size of a grape. He let the dirt trickle through his fingers.

"It's all a mistake. I don't even know your daughter."

Snowy, who had been holding down Hunt's left arm, while slapping him, now released the arm with a cry of rage and sprung with both hands toward Hunt's throat to strangle the truth from him.

His arm freed, Hunt whizzed the tent peg through the air, catapulting it with just a flip of the wrist.

"Aaargh," came a scream from behind Snowy. He turned to look. The man anchoring Hunt's left leg had a tent peg driven deep into his right bicep. It seemed as if an artery had been severed. Blood stained the man's white short-sleeved shirt and pulsed out of the wound with each heartbeat. Horrified, the man grasped his right arm with his left hand and staggered to his feet.

At almost the same instant, the grape-sized stone curled off Hunt's fingertips. It whistled through the air, then struck the left eye of the man holding Hunt's right leg. The man shouted and fell back heavily, both hands clutching his face.

Snowy, confused, then angry, turned back and plunged downward with both hands toward Hunt's neck. But both legs and the left arm of the intended victim were now free. He rolled his body to the right. Snowy's hands drove into the dirt. At the same moment, Hunt again filled his right hand with dirt and flipped it upward into the face of the man still holding onto his right arm. The man coughed and gagged and released his grip, and Hunt rolled to the right, curled his legs up and flipped up into a standing position.

The bleeding man was in a state of shock. The man hit by the stone still knelt, both hands over his face. The third man was still trying to cough the dirt from his lungs. Snowy knelt on the ground as if terrorizing an invisible victim. But the victim was behind him, and now he put a foot against Snowy's butt and pushed. Hard. Snowy sprawled face forward into the earth.

"Last time," said Hunt. "I don't know your daughter. If you ever bother me again, you won't live to tell about it."

He brushed himself off and walked away, hoping that his intended victims had not escaped him. Behind him, Elton Snowy looked at Hunt's back, groped in his mind for something to shout, something to say that could show the frustration and rage he felt at that moment. His lips moved. Mentally, he rejected words without knowing he did. Then finally he spoke, more of a hiss than a shout: "Nigger lover."

Ferdinand De Chef Hunt heard the words behind him and laughed.

"Whee," said Chiun.

"Whee," said the pretty blond girl with him.

And "wheeze" went the twin cables holding up their fiberglass bucket as it slowly turned upward on the converted Ferris wheel superstructure.

"Let us spin the bucket," said Chiun, his eyes alight in merry excitement.

"Let us not spin the bucket," said the girl. "They do not allow us to spin the bucket."

"That is not nice of Mr. Disney," said Chiun. "Why does he have this nice bucket and not allow people to spin it?"

"I don't know," said the girl. "There is a sign down there that says do not spin the bucket."

"Oh," said Chiun.

"Oh," said the girl.

"Oh, oh," said Chiun.

"Oh, oh," said the girl.

"Funny, funny, Mr. Disney," said Chiun. "Wheeee," he added.

Finger hooked in the goldfish bowl, Remo waited patiently below for the ride to end. His attention was fixed upward. Behind him stood Ferdinand De Chef Hunt. His pockets held nothing to use as a weapon. He looked on the ground, but it was asphalted and there was not a stone, not even a pebble he could use.

Hunt turned. Behind him was a concession booth, "The Discus Throw." For a dollar, a player got four thin metal plates, and the chance to scale them frisbee-like through a small hole in the back of the tent. Two plates through won a prize, but few won because the plates were not uniform, and a toss that would send one plate through the hole would send another plate flying skyward toward the roof of the tent.

Hunt pulled a clump of bills from his shirt pocket and tossed them on the counter, grabbing three plates in his left hand.

"I want to buy these," he told the operator, who shrugged. The plates cost him ten cents each. Hunt turned and began walking slowly toward Remo, whose eyes were still staring upward. It would be simple. First the white man, and, then, when he came down, the yellow man.

One plate for each. And a spare. No way to miss. He was twelve feet from Remo now. Another step. He was ten feet away.

Up above, Chiun had stopped "wheee"ing. He saw the man move toward Remo. His eyes narrowed into slits. There was something wrong; he could feel it; just as he had felt before that someone was following them. But then the Ferris wheel spun up over the top and the wheel assembly was between Chiun and Remo, and he could see Remo no more.

Remo relaxed. The ride was slowing down. It would soon be over. Then he sensed movement behind his right shoulder. He turned casually.

Flashing at him, like a flying saucer, was a metal plate. It spun, noiselessly, at his head, directly on a plane with the ground, its hard cutting edge moving straight for his two eyes.

Damn, and here he was with a goldfish bowl that he couldn't let get broken. The best he could do was slip his head to the right. His left arm crooked at the elbow, and then his hand shot forward like a spear. Its hardened fingertips caught the center of the plate just before it buzzed against his head. The plate shuddered, its metal center crumpled, and dropped at Remo's feet.

Now he looked up. Ten feet away, he saw a thin young man holding two more plates. Remo smiled. He had called the Divine Bliss Mission to let them know where he was, just so that anyone sent by the Maharaji Dor would be able to find him.

Hunt smiled and waited as Remo moved another step closer. The fool. By chance, he had gotten his hand up and stopped the first plate. He would not be lucky this time.

Another step by Remo, who was being very careful and moving slowly, so as not to spill any water from the goldfish bowl.

The plate in Hunt's right hand curled back under his left elbow, then shot forward toward Remo's throat. At eight feet it could not miss.

But, damn it, he was lucky again. He caught the edge of the plate, sliding off his left wrist, and the plate spun off its course, down into the asphalt pavement, where it dug a six-inch-long gouge before stopping.

Remo took another step forward. Hunt realized plates would not do. He needed a sturdier weapon, and he had no stomach for hand-to-hand combat. He heard another "whee" from the Flying Bucket.

Time to split.

He looked up. The car carrying the Oriental had reached the bottom point of the ride and was now on its way up again. Hunt's right hand again snaked back under his left elbow and then sent the third plate silently screaming toward the ride. Remo turned to watch, then moved toward the ride. The plate flew toward the car Chiun and Joleen occupied. Its front edge bit through the thin steel cable holding up the right side of the car, hacked through it, before the plate clattered off the side of the car toward the ground.

The car started to drop.

"Wheeee," said Chiun, giggling. His left arm reached up and grabbed the frayed strand of cable. His left toe found a crevice inside the car and hooked itself into it. His right hand grabbed the safety bar. His left hand overhead, and his left foot and right hand below, prevented the car from plunging, and still shouting "wheeee" with all his might, Chiun held the car together as it rode up, around, and over the top of the wheel, with Joleen huddling in panic on her side of the compartment.

"Stop that damned thing," Remo yelled at the operator, who instantly pushed the heavy lever that tossed in the clutch of the motor, then squeezed the hand grip that acted as a brake. When the cars came around, the operator saw the broken cable and the old Oriental holding the car together. Expertly the operator brought the ride to a stop just as Chiun's car reached the wooden boarding platform. Chiun released his left hand grip on the cable. The car dropped four inches and settled against the wooden platform.

Chiun's face was framed in a smile. "Wheeeee," he said. He jumped out of the car. "What a wonderful ride. Do you have my goldfish?"

"Yes, I have it. You all right?"

Chiun smirked and looked toward Joleen, recovering from her shock and rising slowly to her feet.

"Of course, we're all right," he said. "These rides are safe. No one ever gets hurt. Mr. Disney would not let that happen."

Remo turned. The young man had gone. Following him now would be a waste of time.

Later, outside the carnival, Chiun confided, "There is one thing, Remo, I do not understand."

"What's that?"

"When Mr. Disney shoots the plate at the cable and breaks it, how many people have the control to grip the cable and hold the vehicle together? Do not some fall?"

"No," said Remo, his right index finger hooked into the goldfish bowl. "That's the first thing we Americans learn. How to grab the cable and hold the ride together."

"A very curious thing," said Chiun. "Here you are, a nation of people who cannot talk and cannot run and cannot move well, who eat the flesh of every sort of beast, and yet you can do that."

"It is easy," said Remo.

"Another thing. Did you see someone following you in the park? A thin, young man?"

"No," said Remo. "I didn't see anybody."

"Typical," said Chiun. "You never notice anything. Don't drop the goldfish."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Although he fled the amusement park, Hunt had a smile on his face that would have been hard to ascribe to failure.

The young American had been able to block the plates, and Hunt would no longer call it luck. So this Remo was exceptional. So? So it did not matter. Hunt had been warned years before by his grandfather that there were some such people.

In recollection now, it seemed as if his grandfather had been trying to prepare him for the life of the assassin, but that too was immaterial. What was important was that his grandfather had told him of the way to deal with people who had physical skills that were out of the ordinary. A simple technique, but foolproof. Next time, there would be no swift hands blocking plates.

Hunt smiled again as he drove out toward the lower edge of San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge. He knew how he would handle this Remo the next time they met, and he looked forward to the meeting.

Meanwhile, Elton Snowy had other things on his mind.

He stood at the counter of the sporting goods store on Market Street.

"I want a gross of shells. Double O buck."

"A gross?" asked the clerk, smiling faintly.

"A gross. That's one hundred forty and four."

"Yes, sir. Big hunting trip, eh?"

"You might say that," said Snowy. He paid cash and angrily signed his real name and address to the register kept in the gun department. The clerk noted the name as Snowy left the shop, then, recalling the look of grim anger on the big man's red face, walked toward the telephone.

Snowy's next stop was another sporting goods store at the farthest end of Market Street, where the street dissolves into a maze of crossing streets and highways and trolley tracks, seemingly always under repair. There he purchased a .38 caliber revolver and ammunition, again paid cash, again signed a register, and again, a clerk, noting the set to his jaw, waited until the man had left and then called the police department.

Snowy's last stop was a bar across the street from a railroad yard, where he drank bourbon, struck up a conversation with a drunken off-duty switchman, and finally wound up buying a dozen railroad detonating caps for fifty dollars cash.

While no report of that transaction reached the police, the first two reports had set them in motion. Two city detectives got a description of Snowy but could not find him registered in any motel, because by now Snowy was in a furnished room under an assumed name, carefully opening shotgun shells and pouring the powder into a plastic bag.

The detectives dutifully reported their failure to find Snowy. Their report went to the detective commander and was routinely picked up by an FBI messenger. The agent-in-charge of the San Francisco office read the report. Normally, he would have flipped it into an outbasket full of other inconsequential matters. But today was different.

For the past week, there had been a highest-priority order that any unusual activity in arms buying should be reported cross-channels to the CIA in Virginia, just outside Washington, D.C. The agent-in-charge did not know why; he suspected it had something to do with that guru coming to San Francisco and the CIA wanting to avoid an international incident, but it was no real business of his until someone told him it was a real business of his.

He picked up the safe line and called Washington.

A house in Mill Valley, across the bay from San Francisco, resounded with "Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping."

"In other words, you failed," said Maharaji Gupta Mahesh Dor.

Hunt smiled and shook his head. "In other words, I sized them up. They're tough, that's all."

"I tell you, man, I'm not going to put my ass in a sling by having any Bliss rally with those two nuts around."

For a moment, he looked like a frightened little boy.

Hunt rose from his chair and put a hand on the fat teenage shoulder. "Don't worry about it," he said. "I'll be there. If either or both of them come, they're gone. That's it."

Blaring in the corner of the room was a television set. The announcer's voice cut into the automatically ignored music of the singing commercial with a bulletin: "Three men wounded in an outbreak of violence at an amusement park. Details at six o'clock."

Dor turned to Hunt. "You?" he asked.

Hunt nodded. "They were bugging me."

The Blissful Master looked at Hunt's cold face for a moment, then smiled. "All systems go, man. We're gonna bliss 'em to death tomorrow night."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The reports on Elton Snowy's ammunition purchases were, within hours, on the desk of the high CIA official who had asked for them.

His name was Cletis Larribee and he was fifty-one years old and a native of Willows Landing, Tennessee, where he had been for many years elder and Sunday deacon and lay preacher and president of the Men's Club of the Monumental Baptist Church.

Larribee had failed to distinguish himself with the OSS during World War II and had also failed to distinguish himself during postwar service with the fledgling intelligence operation that was a spinoff of the wartime OSS and would someday grow up to be the CIA. He had further failed to distinguish himself by never getting into any trouble, and this had so distinguished him in latter-day Washington that when the post of number two man at the CIA had opened up, the then president had said, "Put that Bible-thumping characterization omitted in charge. At least we know he won't expletive deleted up."

Cletis Larribee had no intention of expletive deleting up. He wanted to serve America, even if sometimes America did not seem to want serving. It was becoming godless and revolutionary, casting aside old values, with nothing to replace them. Cletis Larribee never cast aside old values without replacing them with something.

It fell into Larribee's province to know that the Maharaji Gupta Mahesh Dor was in the United States to hold a Blissathon, and as he had explained to his superior, "All we need is to have this holy man knocked off in America, what with the state of the world and all," and that argument had won him the right to get domestic police reports on arms purchases in San Francisco, and now he studied the Elton Snowy reports with deep and growing worry.

He decided to call a friend of his, a high official in the FBI, for advice, but his friend's secretary told him that the FBI official was in the hospital. "Oh, no, nothing serious. Routine checkup, that's all."

Larribee telephoned another close friend in the State Department, India desk.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Larribee, but Mr. Volz is in the hospital. No. Nothing serious. Just his usual physical."

Three hospitalized friends later, Cletis Larribee began to suspect that something might be wrong. He confided this to his two closest friends at lunch at an inexpensive restaurant outside Washington, D.C. Perhaps the maharaji's life was in danger, he felt.

"Nonsense," said Winthrop Dalton.

"Double nonsense," said V. Rodefer Harrow III. "Nothing can imperil the Blissful Master's plans."

"He is truth," said Dalton.

"He is perfect truth," said Harrow, not wishing to be outdone.

"He is mortal," said Larribee, "and he can die at the hands of an assassin."

"Nonsense," said Dalton.

"Double nonsense," said V. Rodefer Harrow III. "The Master's security arrangements are like he is. Perfect."

"But against an assassin with a bomb?" said Larribee.

"I am not at liberty to discuss them," said Dalton, "but the security arrangements are more than adequate. We made them ourselves." He looked to Harrow for reassurance.

"Right," said Harrow. "Made 'em ourselves." He signaled the waiter to bring another free tray of cellophane-wrapped cheese crackers, one of the reasons he had always liked this restaurant.

"Maybe I should alert the FBI," said Larribee.

"No," said Dalton. "You should simply follow instructions and be at Kezar Stadium tomorrow night—prepared to show America the right way. Do you have everything you need?"

Larribee nodded and glanced down at his tan leather briefcase. "I've got it all. Cuba. Chile. Suez Canal. Spain. The whole works."

"Good," said Dalton. "When America sees you join with the Blissful Master, all America will flock to his side."

"And don't worry," said Harrow. "The Blissful Master is protected by God."

Larribee smiled. "The Blissful Master is God."

Dalton and Harrow looked at him, and after a pause Dalton said, "Yes, he is, isn't he?"

And three hundred miles north of Washington, D.C., in a sanitarium on the shores of Long Island Sound, Dr. Harold W. Smith read a sheaf of reports that failed to quell his uneasiness.

The highly placed people that Remo had named to him as followers of the maharaji had been placed into hospitals, at least until Dor had left the country.

But there might be more, and Smith had no line on who they were or what they might be planning. Add to that the absolute blank drawn so far on the maharaji's whereabouts. Add again Remo's report that someone had tried to kill him that day in San Francisco.

The sum total was trouble. The "big thing," whatever it was, was coming, and Smith felt powerless. Not only could he not stop it, he couldn't even identify it, and right now his only hope was Remo.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The sun was at 12 o'clock high when two Indian men wearing pink robes, a pudgy fat Indian woman in a pink robe and a veil wrapped tightly around her head, and a thin young American man arrived at the back gate of Kezar Stadium.

They showed some identification to a uniformed guard, who quickly waved them through the turnstile and pointed them to a ramp thirty feet away.

The foursome went up the ramp, then down stone stairs into the playing surface of Kezar Stadium. They carefully checked the bandstand platform, which had been erected in the center of the stadium, poking around under it. Then, apparently satisfied, they walked across the field and up another ramp that led to locker rooms and a suite of offices.

They passed through a door that read "Absolutely No Admittance" and into a suite of offices. Inside, the pudgy young Indian woman said, "Shit, this is hot," and began to strip off her robe.

When the robe was off, the woman was a woman no longer. Wearing the disguise had been Maharaji Gupta Mahesh Dor, and now he was resplendent in a white satin suit with pants that were gathered and pufied out from hip to knee, then wrapped tightly about his calves, and a Nehru jacket with a jeweled collar.

He shook himself, as if trying to detach himself from his sticky hotness.

"Hey, you, what's your name?" he shouted to one of the middle-aged Indian men who bore silver stripes down their foreheads. "Go outside and see if you can find that television shmuck. He's supposed to meet us here at twelve."

He turned to go into an inner office. The young American followed. At the doorway, Dor said over his shoulder: "And you, Ferdinand, keep your eyes open for those troublemakers. I don't want to have to leave here in disguise too."

Ferdinand De Chef Hunt smiled. His teeth shone pearly white, as white as the two perfectly round white stones he manipulated in the fingers of his right hand, the two stones, one of which he knew would be blood red before the evening was over.

The inner office was a small, remorselessly air-conditioned room, with only overhead lighting and no windows.

"This'll do," said Dor, plopping himself into a chair behind the large wooden desk.

"I have found him, O Blissful One," came an Indian voice from the door. Dor looked up and saw the Indian man leading in a tweedy young man with bushy red hair and glasses.

"Good, now everybody split. I want to talk to this guy for a while. About tonight."

"Tonight will be a night of beauty, Blissful Master," said the Indian.

"Yeah, sure. Tell me again about the cume potential," he said to the television man. "What can we grab on just one network, live, catching both coasts?"

"We will catch the spirit of all those who seek after truth," the Indian man spoke again.

"Will you get the hell out of here with your drivel? I've got business to talk about. Well?" he said again to the television man.

"Actually, we envision that your program slot will fit neatly into the gap between…"

Hunt smiled again and followed the Indian out of the room, closing the door behind him. Television merchandising did not interest him. Only killing did.

Although the program was not to begin until 8 p.m., the crowd began arriving at 5 o'clock. They were mostly young, mostly hairy, mostly intense, although there were more than a few who smuggled in their own secular bliss devices in paper bags in hip pockets, or in tightly rolled joints stashed into the corners of regular cigarette packs.

Another early arrival carried a bag, but it did not contain bliss. Elton Snowy walked through the entry turnstile and up the steps into the stadium, then downstairs to get as close as possible to the bandstand. In his right arm he carried a large bag, the top of which showed a pile of pieces of fried chicken. Under the chicken was a plastic bag filled with gunpowder, steel filings, and the highly explosive heads of railroad detonating caps.

Snowy moved down the steps toward the first row of seats. Against his left leg he felt the uncomfortable thumping of the .38 caliber pistol he had taped to his leg. He didn't know if a pistol shot would detonate his homemade bomb, but he was going to try it. Unless he found Joleen first. He squeezed his bag grimly, as if resisting an invisible attempt to remove it from him.

Remo, Chiun, and Joleen were late arrivals, it being well after dusk when they entered Kezar Stadium.

Chiun's luggage from San Diego had finally arrived at the San Francisco hotel suite Remo had rented, and Chiun had insisted upon watching his beautiful dramas, which is what he called afternoon television soap operas. He would not hear of leaving before they were over, unless, of course, Remo wanted to take him again to Disneyland and the fun ride in the Flying Bucket.

Since that was the thing Remo wanted to do least in the world, they waited, and it was only after the last TV serial was over that Chiun rose from the floor, his red robe swirling about him, and said: "We will never get to Sinanju by waiting here."

Inside the stadium, they found a madhouse. The crowd was small in comparison to the size of the stadium, only 15,000 people. The Divine Bliss followers sat close in, in the box seats and the infield folding chairs, distinguishable instantly by their pink robes and the look of the zealot in their eyes. But that was only half the crowd. The other half consisted of curiosity seekers, troublemakers, motorcycle gangs, and they roamed the higher reaches of the stadium, mugging the unwary, fighting with each other, and slowly, systematically destroying stadium equipment.

And over all this confusion rose the raucous voices of a singing group, six men and a girl, who were souling their way through old down-home gospel classics, whose lyrics had been revised to substitute Master or Blissful Master for Jesus.

At least one of the parties was delighted. Maharaji Gupta Mahesh Dor sat in the small office with the television representative, snapping his fingers and saying over and over, "Cool. Cool. That's the way we do it. Cool."

"It reminds me somewhat of Billy Graham," said the earnest young TV man, watching the closed circuit screen that flickered ghostly green in the darkened office.

"Don't knock Billy Graham," said the maharaji. "He's got a nice set. The man's beautiful."

Dor glanced at his watch. "The speakers'll start soon. They're cued for forty-five minutes. Then we start the broadcast, it picks up with my being introduced by one of those nigger Baptists, and then I go on and do my number."

"That's it. That's the schedule," said the TV man.

"Beautiful," said Dor. "You can split now. Go make sure your cameramen take their lens caps off or whatever it is you people do."

Remo left Chiun and Joleen in the playing field section of the stadium to which Chiun's red robes and Joleen's pink sari won them easy admittance. The first speaker was on, a Baptist minister explaining how he had given up false Christianity for the service of a greater good, the work of the Blissful Master. It would have taken very sharp eyes to notice, as the minister waved his arms above his head, that his wrists were faintly scarred.

"That man has been shackled," said Chiun to Joleen.

"He was in Patna," Joleen said, noncommittally.

"Your master is an evil person," said Chiun.

Joleen looked at Chiun and smiled softly. "But he is my master no more. I have a new master." Tenderly she squeezed Chiun's hand, which he flickingly removed from hers.

Meanwhile, Remo made a wrong turn and found himself on the wrong side of the stadium, trying to wend his way along corridors, which generally became boarded over and closed. But all stadiums are alike, and there are always rooms and offices through which one can piece his way to get past roadblocks.

Remo paused in one office to stop a rape, and because he did not have a lot of time, he prevented the rape in the simplest way possible, by rendering the offending instrument harmless.

Then he was back into the corridors, darting into and through offices, and finally he was on the far side of the stadium, trotting along a corridor that led to a ramp that led to the bandstand.

He turned the corner. Ahead of him he saw a door marked "Absolutely No Admittance" and two burly men in pink robes standing in front of it with arms folded.

Remo approached the men.

"Hi, fellas," he said. "Nice day, wasn't it?"

They did not speak.

"A perfect day," said Remo. "For bananafish."

They remained silent, not deigning to look at him.

"All right, boys, move aside," said Remo. "I've got to talk to the swami."

A sharp voice came from behind Remo. "First me," and Remo turned and saw the young American from the carnival.

"Oh, yeah, you," Remo said. "Did you bring your plates?"

"I won't need them," said Ferdinand De Chef Hunt, moving a few steps closer, until only fifteen feet separated him and Remo.

Inside the closed door, Maharaji Dor checked his watch again, looked at the monitor, and saw the network symbol flash on. Time to go. At these rates, he couldn't afford to waste any time.

He stuck his head through the door into the next office, where Winthrop Dalton and V. Rodefer Harrow III sat with Cletis Larribee.

"Everything ready here?" he said.

"Yes, Blissful Master," said Dalton.

Larribee nodded.

"Okay. I'm going out now. You be in the wings in ten minutes."

Dor went back into the office, closed the door, and went through the other door onto a private ramp that led up into a dugout in the infield.

Hunt took the two small stones from his pocket as he faced Remo.

"Plates. Now stones," said Remo. "When do you graduate to pies?"

Hunt only smiled. He positioned the two stones carefully on his palm and fingertips. It was as his grandfather had shown him. The old man had described it to young Ferdinand in terms of animals, but now Hunt knew the old man was talking about people.

"There are some animals that are different from others," the old man had told him. "They're stronger. They're faster. Sometimes they're smarter."

"And how do you bring them down?" the young boy had asked.

"You do it by using their own powers against them." The old man had stood up and gestured toward the woods. "Did you see him?"

"Who?" asked the boy.

"There's a wild boar out there. Tough, fast, mean and smart. He knows we're here, and he's just waiting for us to move on so he can move on."

"So what do you do, grandpa?"

The old man picked up a rifle, then looked around the porch until he found a small stone.

"Watch," he said.

He tossed the stone high into the air, far to the left of the spot where he had seen the boar. The stone came down, easily onto a patch of grass, but the boar's supersensitive hearing picked up the sound, and the animal bolted, to the right, away from the sound of the stone. His flight took him past a slim break in the trees, and as his body passed the opening, Grandpa De Chef put a bullet in the beast's head.

"That's how, Ferdie," the old man said. "You make the target commit itself to an empty threat. And then when it's committed, you make the kill." He smiled down at the boy. "Maybe you don't understand it now, but someday you will. No matter what your momma says."

"Come on, pal, I don't have all night." Remo's voice brought Hunt back to where he was.

Without hesitating, without analysis, he brought his right arm back and then fired it forward at Remo. The stone on his fingertips leaped from his hand first, moving toward Remo but two inches to the left of Remo's head.

The second stone, propelled from the palm of Hunt's hand, was only a foot behind, aimed toward Remo's right, so when he ducked away from the first stone, the second would catch him squarely between the eyes.

Hunt smiled, and then the smile changed to astonishment, and then fear.

There was a thud ahead of him and a scream. The first stone had passed Remo's head and buried itself into the forehead of one of the pink-robed guards who stood behind Remo. The man screamed and crumpled.

Remo had not moved a fraction of an inch, and the second stone moved toward the right side of his head, outside the intended target line, and then Remo flicked up his right hand and caught the stone in the air between thumb and forefinger.

Remo looked at the stone, then back at Hunt.

"Sorry, pal. I told you, you should've stuck to plates."

Hunt backed away. "You're going to kill me, aren't you?"

"That's the biz, sweetheart."

Hunt turned and ran down the ramp, toward the brightly lit stadium, and Remo took a few steps after him, then saw up ahead of him the television cameras grinding away.

He stopped. He could not chance being seen on television. Hunt now was in the infield, running toward the bandstand. He glanced once back over his shoulder as he ran.

At that moment, Maharaji Gupta Mahesh Dor stood inside the dugout, shielded from view by a cordon of pink-robed men.

Remo waited, and Hunt turned again. This time, Remo let fly the stone in his right hand. Hunt saw it coming at him, threw up his right hand to block it, and the stone smashed into his hand, cracking the fingers with the force of a hammer, and driving the stone and flesh and finger-bone into Hunt's forehead.

Hunt fell. Two persons who saw him fall screamed, but suddenly their screams were overwhelmed by the roar of the faithful, as the maharaji stepped from the dugout and trotted lightly across the field toward the bandstand.

"Blissful Master. Blissful Master." The stadium resounded with the screams. Hunt's already dead body lay partially under the back of the bandstand, and the two persons who had seen him fall convinced themselves they were mistaken and joined the chanting for Dor.

Remo turned back to the door. The pink-robed guard knelt over his companion who had been felled by Hunt's first rock. Remo moved past him and into the room beyond.

Winthrop Dalton, V. Rodefer Harrow III, and Cletis Larribee looked up.

"Say, fella, what are you doing here?" asked Dalton.

"Which one of you is expendable?" Remo asked.

"He is," said Dalton, pointing to Harrow.

"He is," said Harrow, pointing to Dalton.

"I pick you," said Remo to Harrow, crushing his skull into his jowls.

"Hey, fella," said Dalton, looking at Harrow's collapsing body. "No need to work your hostility out on us."

"Where is he?"

"Who?"

"The swami."

Dalton pointed to a closed-circuit television set on the wall. It showed Maharaji Gupta Mahesh Dor acknowledge the applause, and step forward to a microphone.

"He's out there," said Dalton. "And we have to go now, so if you'll just get out of our way."

"Who are you?" said Remo to Cletis Larribee. "How come you don't say anything?"

"He'll have plenty to say in just a few minutes," said Dalton. "And if you must know, he is the deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency."

"What's in the suitcase, pal?" Remo asked Larribee.

"Watch the television," said Dalton huffily. "You'll see it all on there in a few minutes. Come, Cletis, time to go."

Dalton took a step toward the door and then took no more steps as his Adam's apple found itself inextricably entwined with his spinal column. He fell to the floor on top of Harrow.

"You're the big thing that they've been talking about, aren't you?" said Remo.

Larribee, too terrified to speak, could only nod.

"But you're not going to say anything tonight, are you?" said Remo.

Larribee shook his head rapidly from side to side. His voice came back. "Don't worry, pal. I'm not going to say anything."

"Look around you," said Remo, gesturing toward the two bodies. "And don't forget. I'll be watching you."

Larribee nodded. "I won't forget. I won't forget."

"And I'll take the briefcase," said Remo.

"Those are state secrets in there," said Larribee.

"You can have them back as soon as you're done."

On the bandstand before national television, Maharaji Dor was finished detailing the support for his simple message of bliss and happiness that he had gained all over the world, and even from one of America's heartland religions, the Baptists.

"But even more encouraging, even more proof that mine is the way, even a greater display of the power of the truth, is the next man I will introduce to you. A man who knows the secrets of government will tell you about that. Will tell you the truth about your government, and then he will speak about divine truth."

He turned and saw Larribee coming up the steps of the bandstand.

"Ladies and gentlemen, listen now to this message from the deputy director of your country's Central Intelligence Agency. My friend and follower, Cletis… uh… Cletis is how I know him."

He waved his arm toward Larribee in a gesture of greeting. There were a few boos, a few small smatterings of applause. Mostly the audience sat stunned.

Larribee, looking neither left nor right, brushed by Maharaji Dor and took the microphone. He gazed out over the crowd. He saw the thousands of faces. He realized millions more were watching on coast-to-coast live television.

He put down the microphone, then remembered Remo's hard eyes, and raised it to his face again. He opened his mouth and, softly, began to croak:

"What a friend we have in Jesus.

"All our sins and grief to bear."

As he moved along the old gospel song, his voice grew stronger. He closed his eyes to imagine himself back in the choir loft of the Monumental Baptist Church at Willows Landing.

"What a privilege to carry,

"Everything to God in prayer."

Maharaji Dor jumped forward and ripped the microphone from Larribee's hand.

"And now you know," he screamed into it. "You can't trust the CIA." He threw the microphone to the wooden floor of the bandstand. The loud crack resounded through the stadium.

"I'm going home," Dor shouted. "I'm going back to Patna." He stamped his foot like an angry child. "You hear me? I'm going back."

"Go back, you bum," came a shout from the audience.

"Yeah, go back, you bum. Who needs you?"

The stadium became a crescendo of booing, as Remo moved up to where Chiun and Joleen stood.

At the same moment, Elton Snowy, who had carefully worked his way through the infield carrying his bogus bag of chicken, came around the platform. He saw his daughter.

"Joleen," he shouted.

She looked up. "Daddy," she yelled with happiness.

Snowy came running toward her, and she threw her arms around him. He tried to hug her back, but the bag of bombed chicken was in the way.

"Here, pal, take this," he said to Remo, thrusting the bag to him.

Remo shrugged, took the bag, then opened Larribee's briefcase and stuck the bag inside. He snapped the briefcase shut again.

"I missed you so much," Snowy said.

"Me, too, Daddy." She stepped back. "Daddy, I want you to meet the man I love."

Snowy looked over her shoulder at Remo. Remo shrugged, a who-me shrug. Joleen turned around and waved her hand toward Chiun. "He is my real master," she said, "And I love him."

"Joleen, honey," said her father. "I love you. You know that."

She nodded.

He brought a right hand up and punched her crisp on the chin. The girl collapsed in his arms. "But you ain't marrying no dink." He lifted the girl in his arms and began to walk toward one of the stadium exits.

"What did that mean?" Chiun asked Remo.

"That's racism, Chiun," Remo answered.

"Racism? I thought racism was something to do with baseball."

"No. He just doesn't want his daughter to marry a Korean."

"But how will you white people ever improve yourselves if you don't marry up to yellow?" asked Chiun.

"Damned if I know," said Remo. He and Chiun turned, walking in the direction that Maharaji Dor had stomped out in. But when they reached the ramp, Remo saw Larribee still standing behind the bandstand, looking lost and frightened.

"I'll catch up to you," said Remo, and he went back to Larribee.

"Good show," said Remo.

Frightened, Larribee could only nod.

"Here's your briefcase. I think you ought to go home," said Remo.

Larribee nodded again, but did not move. He seemed paralyzed, rooted to the spot.

"Oh, hell," said Remo. "Come on." He took Larribee's arm and pulled him. toward one of the stadium exits, moving him quickly through the swirls of confused, angry people now anting their way across the stadium playing surface.

After Larribee was safely in a cab on his way to the airport, Remo slid back through the flow of people to the ramp leading to the maharaji's office.

Except for the bodies of Dalton and Harrow, the first office was empty. The door to the inner office was closed, but as Remo approached it, the door was flung open. Chiun stood there.

"Remo," he said. "I am going to Sinanju."

"I told you, as soon as we're done, I'll try to get it arranged again."

He moved into the room as Chiun said, "No. I mean I am going now."

Remo looked at him, then at Maharaji Dor seated behind the desk, then back at Chiun, who said, "I am joining his employ."

Stunned, Remo was silent a second, then said: "Just like that?"

"Just like that," said Chiun. "I will have my daytime dramas beamed in by satellite. He has promised. And I can visit Sinanju frequently. He has promised. Remo, you didn't get a chance to really know the beautiful people of India, or to see the loveliness of the Indian countryside." He looked at Remo expectantly.

Remo looked back, then said coldly: "If you go, you go alone."

"So be it," said Chiun.

Remo turned and walked away.

"Where are you going?" asked Chiun.

"To get drunk."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Remo was no longer really a drinker.

Six bartenders in San Francisco could swear to that.

In the first bar, he had ordered a shot of Seagram's, and when the bartender brought it, he had raised it to his mouth to slug it down, but the smell had wafted into his nostrils and he could not make himself drink the liquor. He had paid the bartender and left, and next door in another tavern, ordered a beer, and when it came, he had raised it to his lips, but its smell gagged him, and again he paid and left, leaving the drink untouched.

Four more times he tried, but the Sinanju disciplines were too strong to be broken that easily, that recklessly, and besides over each glass, he beard's Chiun's lecturing voice:

"Alcohol is for pickling things that are dead. Or people who wish to be."

Or: "Beer is made from a grain that only cows can consume, and even they need two stomachs to manage the task."

So instead, Remo walked the night, angry and sad, hoping that someone would try to mug him, preferably an army company, so that he would have a way to work off his fury.

But no one did, and Remo walked the entire night before returning to his suite, overlooking a golf course near Golden Gate Park.

He looked around, hoping to see Chiun putter out from the bedroom, but the apartment was empty and echo-still.

Then the phone rang.

Remo had it to his ear before the first ring stopped.

"Good work, Remo," Smith said.

"Oh, it's you."

"Yes. Everything seems to be under control."

"Well, I'm glad. I'm really glad for you," Remo said. "You don't know how glad."

"Except there's one thing. Larribee was blown up this morning in his car, driving to his home in Washington."

"Good for him. At least he found a way out of this mess."

"You had nothing to do with it?" Smith asked suspiciously.

"No. I just wish I had."

"All right. By the way, you'll be interested in knowing. That security leak that I thought we had in Folcroft? Well, it turned out to be just an underpaid little computer clerk. Seems he followed the maharaji, and one day just couldn't restrain himself and pumped a message into the computer. Very amusing, but really nothing…"

"Smitty," Remo interrupted.

"What?"

"Go piss up a rope."

Remo slammed down the telephone. He looked around the apartment again, as if Chiun might have sneaked in while he was on the phone, but the silence was total, overpowering, so strong it rang in his ears, and Remo went over to break the silence, and flipped on Chiun's portable color television set.

The transistorized set broke instantly into picture and sound. It was the morning news, and an announcer with a smile said:

"Maharaji Gupta Mahesh Dor held a press conference this morning in the Holiday Inn in San Francisco and announced that he will never again set foot in America.

"This came on the heels of last night's highly publicized Blissathon in Kezar Stadium, which turned into a noisy, violent fiasco in which at least three persons died, victims of mob violence."

The announcer's voice faded and then came film of Dor's press conference, and when Remo saw Dor's fat face with the incipient mustache, he growled, deep in his throat, drew back his right fist, and…

Tap, tap, tap.

Remo stopped. There was a tapping on the door. The sound was familiar, as if it were made by long fingernails.

Remo's face brightened, and he brought his right arm to his face to brush away moisture that he had not realized was there.

He opened the door. Chiun stood there.

"Chiun. How are you?"

"How should I be? I have come for my television set. I didn't want to leave that." He brushed by Remo and entered the room. "See, already you are using it, wearing it out while my back is turned."

"Take it and get the fuck out," Remo said.

"I will. I will. But first I had better check it. Not that I think you would steal anything, but, well, one never knows with Americans."

As Remo watched, Chiun stood alongside the set, laboriously counting the knobs, and then counting them again, and then leaning over the vented back of the set and peering inside to examine machinery that Remo knew he did not understand. Occasionally he went "hmmmm."

"I should have killed that fat-faced creep," said Remo.

Chiun snorted and continued his inspection.

"You know why I let him live?" Remo asked. "Because I knew this time you were serious, and he was your new employer. And I wouldn't make a hit on your employer."

Chiun looked up, shaking his head sadly. "You are crazy," he said. "Like all white men. I am sick of whites. That girl was in love with me, and that lunatic with the bag of chicken punched her. And here I thought, it was only baseball that was racist. And Smith. And…"

"Screw it. I should have finished that frog. If I ever see him again, I will."

"Typical white thinking. Doing something in such a manner as to cause more harm than good. Do you know that Indians get very upset when Indians die in foreign lands? Particularly rich Indians. And yet you would go ahead, just like that, poof, and kill him. Well, fortunately you will not commit that folly. I have killed him, and in such a way that sloppiness will never be attached to the name of Sinanju."

Chiun folded his arms and stared challengingly at Remo.

"But I just saw him alive. On the television set."

"Nothing ever sinks into the white racist mind. When a hand strikes the right point in the neck, is the person dead?"

"Yes," said Remo.

"No," said Chiun. "It means that the person is going to die. He is not dead yet. It takes time for the brain to be disconnected from the rest of the body. Some blows are fast. Some blows are slower, and death takes longer. Like long enough for him to return home to India, before he dies of bad kidneys."

"I don't believe it," Remo said. "You would have had to make that kind of stroke without his knowing about it."

"And you are a fool. Have you learned nothing? If a man gets a bump, and then nothing happens immediately that day, he assumes it is healed and was nothing to worry about. You can bump into someone openly and inflict that kind of wound. And in two days there will be no pain, and in two months he will be dead. Any fool could learn that. Any fool but you, that is. Remo, you are a disgrace. A pathetic incompetent desecration of the name Sinanju. I saw you last night using a stone on that Frenchman whose family was trained by my family. A disgrace. A fiasco. Rubbish."

"But…"

"That settles it. I cannot leave you at this level of stupidity. More work is needed to bring you to even the lowest level of accomplishment. Much more work. And I am afraid I must be here to supervise it. Such is the burden of the dedicated teacher, who dares to try to train fools to come in out of the rain."

"Chiun," Remo said, a smile beginning to crease his face. "I can't say… I can't…"

But Chiun had changed the channel from the news broadcast of Maharaji Dor to an early morning soap opera, and he raised a hand for silence as he stared at the set.

And Remo was silent, because no one disturbs the Master of Sinanju during his momentary respite of beauty.

"Practice your breathing," Chiun said. "I will get to you later. And then we can discuss our trip to Sinanju. That is, if you and the other racists have not already forgotten your promise."

Remo turned to the door.

"Where are you going?" Chiun asked.

"To rent a submarine," said Remo.