Lost Yesterday

Chapter 8

She was eighteen. She didn't know if that were old enough for someone so distinguished.

“Hell, honey, that's old enough. You're not too young. I'm just too married.”

She laughed. She thought that was the smartest thing she had ever heard anyone say. She never knew anyone who could think of answers like that. Just right out of their head like that.

The Air Force colonel would have dismissed these remarks as absurd flattery except that they came from a strawberry blond. And she had just the sort of body he dreamed about. She came up to his shoulder and had breasts like cantaloupes. Colonel Dale Armbruster remembered using that word in describing just those kinds of breasts. It was in a character test he had taken at some kook place. He forgot the place. But Armbruster did remember it was free. And one of the questions was what his ideal sexual fantasy would be. He had described the woman. Very young, a fawning personality... And her looks. Strawberry hair, short, just up to his shoulder, and breasts like cantaloupes.

“And what negative forces keep you from enjoying this?” the young questioner had asked.

“My wife and her attorney, who could draw blood from bone.”

“So you are afraid of your wife? Would you like to live free from that sort of fear?”

“Sure. Wouldn't you?”

“I do,” the questioner had told him.

“Yeah, but you're eighteen, and I am fifty-three.”

“Do you feel that age hinders you?”

“No. There are just some limitations, that's all.”

“In your job?”

“No. I like my job.”

“What positive forces are at work that make you like your job?”

“I really can't go into it.”

“Does your job bother you?”

“No. I just can't go into it.”

“Do you feel some negative blocks stopping you from going into your job? You see, in Poweressence we know that what a person does is what a person is, not what he eats, but what he does. Do you know what I mean by that?”

“It's part of my job not to talk about what I do. No block on my part.”

“Let's get back to your romantic blocks. Tell us exactly what you dream, because anything you dream you can have. All you have to do is think it. This world is not made for you to fail in. This world, the universe, is made for you to enjoy your full power.”

The colonel went on for twenty minutes describing an affair he would like to have, and was surprised at how understanding his interviewer was. He got to like his interviewer. He even wanted to join because these people promised so much that if they delivered on only part of it, he would be getting more than his money's worth.

“Look, I'm sorry,” he said at the end. “I can't join you or anything like you without endangering my job. I've got to be cleared for everything. I shouldn't even tell you what I do, but you give off such a nice positive feeling that I feel I have to give you some reason.”

“All reasons can be overcome. Reasons are just other words for fear, as the greatest mind in the Western world, Rubin Dolomo, has said. Have you ever read any of Dolomo's books?”

“I don't read. I fly planes.”

“Then why can't you join, and free yourself from letdowns, unhappiness, and doubt. Let us take all the worry out of your life.”

“Because of the plane I fly.”

“What can be so important about a plane that it can deny you the full use of your own life?”

“It's not the plane that's different. It's what's in it.”

“If you carry atomic weapons, you are carrying the greatest negative force for mankind. Did you know that? Did you know that Rubin Dolomo says it is a prime example of power being destroyed by its negative implementation? Did you know that he was the first to understand atomic energy and what it meant to mankind?”

“It's not an atomic bomb. It's more important,” Colonel Armbruster had said. And then he had leaned over and whispered:

“I fly Air Force One.”

“The President!”

“Shhh,” said Colonel Armbruster.

“I won't tell a soul. I will forget it now. I believe in nothing but goodness.”

What the interviewer did not tell Colonel Armbruster was that the essence of goodness was Poweressence, therefore anything he did to enhance Poweressence enhanced goodness. That rendered a promise made to someone who was not part of Poweressence, and therefore no part of goodness, completely invalid. She also didn't mention that the Washington temple of Poweressence collected all such information from the tests.

What the interviewer herself did not know was that these bits of information, if valuable enough, were sold by the local temple to California headquarters, where Beatrice had them filed for future reference.

And what Colonel Armbruster did not know was that two years later it all was going to be used on him, that this perfect little dream who was playing up to him at his favorite lounge in Washington, D.C., had been taken from his favorite fantasy. Cantaloupe-sized breasts and strawberry-blond hair and adoration. All of it.

“I do have to get home to my wife,” said Armbruster. The lounge was dark. The drink was good, the music was mellow, and Dale Armbruster smelled her perfume.

“Is that lilac?” he asked.

“For you,” she said.

“What's your name?” he asked.

“I never give my name with my clothes on,” she said.

Dale Armbruster looked to the doorway. If he ran out now, ran right out of the lounge, he could make it home safely and stay faithful to his wife and her vengeful lawyer. Of course, if he ran now, he would never forgive himself. He would always remember what he passed by.

“I'd like to hear your name,” he said with a choking voice.

“I'd like to give it,” she said.

“You really think I'm distinguished and not old?”

She nodded.

“And I want to hear your name more than anything else in the world. More than I want to wake up tomorrow.”

Dale Armbruster heard her name in a small motel room he rented for the night. He saw the perfection of an eighteen-year-old body with breasts like fruit and smooth-skinned thighs, and that incredibly willing smile framed by the strawberry-blond hair he had always dreamed of.

She said her name was Joan.

“What a great set of names,” he said, staring directly between her shoulders.

Like all dreams, the reality was not quite as grand. But even seventh place was better than anything Colonel Armbruster had ever enjoyed in his life. Within a half-hour he knew that he never wanted Joan out of his life, knew that he would do almost anything to keep her near him.

But miraculously, she didn't want anything extraordinary.

“I've always dreamed of a man like you. I've dreamed of a man like you treating me special, Dale.”

“You are special, Joan,” he said.

“I'd like to think so,” she said. “I'd like to think you think of me at special times. Not just here in bed. Not just for my body.”

“Not just your body,” he lied. “You.”

“No, really?” she said.

“Really,” Colonel Armbruster said, feeling like a famine victim let loose in the fruit stalls of a gourmet store.

“Then would you read a love note I wrote at a very special time?”

“Certainly,” he said. “Absolutely.”

The girl called Joan left the bed momentarily with Armbruster reaching out after her.

“I'll be back, silly,” she said. She reached under her skirt, which lay in a pile on the motel-room chair, and took cut a pink letter, holding it by one end. She also had a Ziploc plastic bag.

“What's that? What's the bag for?”

“Well, Dale, I want you to read it where you work. And it's scented with perfume, perfume I rubbed all over my body, Dale, perfume that was on me in very tender places. That letter was in those places too, Dale.”

“If we just met tonight, where did you get time to write a letter?”

“It wasn't to you by name. It was to the man who fulfilled my dreams. It tells that in the letter.”

“Your dream too?” said Armbruster. He couldn't believe it. “You're my dream.”

“You see. I knew that,” said the girl called Joan. “I knew I would be someone's dream. It's all in the letter. But you've got to read it where you work.”

“Why where I work? Where I work isn't that romantic.”

“That's just it. I want to be more than just a single night in a motel room. I want to see you again. I want us to have something. I want you to think about me, think about me not just here but other times.”

“Sure I will,” said Colonel Armbruster, reaching out for the luscious young woman.

But she backed away.

“I don't know if I can believe you. You'll see in the letter what I want. I don't want to take away your marriage. I don't want your money. I want you. I've had a dream, and if you are not part of that dream, I don't want you. It's that simple.”

Colonel Armbruster watched her cover up that luscious body with clothes; watched the cantaloupe-shaped bosom disappear into a bra, leaving only the outlines of what he still wanted to hold; he watched the skirt go up over the smooth young thighs.

“I will know if you read the letter anywhere else. I will know,” she said. “I will know if you even open it anywhere else. And then you'll never see me again.”

“How will you know? There's no way you can know,” said Armbruster.

“I'll know,” she said, leaning forward as though to kiss him, but dropping the plastic bag that contained the envelope onto the bed instead. She retreated quickly, taking her body with her.

“Good-bye,” she said.

“You don't even know where I work,” he said, laughing.

“I don't have to,” she said. “It's not part of my dream.”

It was enough logic for Armbruster to think about. If she were part of his dream, then why couldn't he be part of hers?

But how would she know where he opened the letter? He didn't want to bring the letter home because his wife might find it. And he certainly didn't want to read a perfumy letter in the cockpit of Air Force One. The President's pilot had to be above reproach.

Armbruster tried to think of the one place his wife would not spot the incriminating little plastic bag. At home there was none. Instead he chose his special locker at Andrews Air Force Base, home of Air Force One, the President's plane. Armbruster, the President's favorite pilot, was not scheduled to fly for a week, but he moved himself up in the rotation just to get a chance at being alone in the cockpit with the letter. He still didn't know how Joan would know where he read the letter, but everything had been so gloriously perfect with his dream that he decided not to take even that small chance.

The mission of the day was Cheyenne, Wyoming. The letter was safely sealed in the plastic bag inside his jacket.

Flying the plane that was called Air Force One when the President was aboard was easier than any other flight duty a pilot could have, even easier than commercial air. In commercial air, pilots always had to look out for other aircraft. But for this special jet, there was no real alertness required in that respect. An air corridor was cleared for miles around. And if any planes even got close to that corridor, Air Force jets would intercept and turn them away.

Once they were outside the Washington air space, the copilot and engineer took off their jackets and enjoyed a cup of coffee.

“Dale, can I take your jacket?” asked the flight engineer.

“No, I think I'll wear it,” said Armbruster. He wondered if it mattered to the luscious Joan whether he read it anywhere at work or whether it had to be read from behind the controls. He could go into the lavatory and read it there. But he felt there was something so mystical about this chance meeting that the lavatory would not do it justice. Besides, he wanted to be able to tell her the next time they met that he was in the cockpit at the controls when he saw her words. He would describe everything to her.

Colonel Armbruster waited until they were over Ohio before he sent the copilot back to the main cabin to speak to another member of the crew, and then gave the engineer a task that would keep him intent at his charts for ten minutes.

He put the controls on automatic pilot and settled back in the seat to read his letter. The bag opened easily but the letter had some oily substance on it. He wondered how heavy the perfume on that wonderful body had been. He opened the envelope and then saw a blank page. He didn't know why it was blank. He didn't quite know why it was in his hand. He put it down.

The sky was incredibly blue up here. Not a cloud, like the purest blue glass. There were lots of dials in front of him. Pretty dials. He turned around. No one was looking at him. He saw a red switch. He wondered what it would do. Would it make the plane bounce and hop? Would it do fun things? Could he change the color of the sky? Would anyone spank him?

These questions passed through what was left of the mind of Colonel Dale Armbruster as he flicked the red switch. Then he pushed the wheel in front of him. The plane went down. He pulled back the wheel. The plane went up. He turned the wheel. The plane pitched and banked.

Whee, thought Colonel Armbruster.

“Turbulence, Dale?” asked the engineer.

“No,” said Dale. He wondered how long he could do this before someone took him away and told him not to play with the plane anymore. He pushed the wheel forward, and the plane went down toward the clouds.

He went through the clouds. Everyone went through the clouds. And no one was stopping him. There was a lever to his right. He pushed it forward. The plane went faster. Whee.

“Dale, what the hell's goin' on there?” asked the flight engineer.

“Nothing,” said Colonel Armbruster. “Leave me alone.”

“I'm not bothering you. What's going on?”

“Nothing's going on. I'm not doing anything wrong.”

“Nobody said you were. We're in a power dive. Why are we in a power dive?”

“It's nice.”

“Dale? What the hell's going on?”

“My plane,” said Colonel Armbruster.

At a thousand feet the copilot came sliding back into the cabin, trying to get to the control. The last thing he heard before the shattering crash was the captain fighting him away, with a childlike scream. “Mine!”

The jet called Air Force One plowed into an Ohio parking lot at five hundred miles an hour. There wasn't ten feet of anything left connected. What had once been human life had to be collected in little plastic bags no bigger than the one that was now burned up along with the letter in the explosion.

* * *

Remo, Chiun, and Daphne Bloom arrived in Los Angeles an hour before the crash. Daphne was enthralled.

“We're here. In the home of the founder of Poweressence. Don't you feel the positiveness of it? The force of the great 'yes' transcending all?”

“No,” said Remo.

“You are most wise, child,” said Chiun in English, and then in Korean:

“Even in India there aren't people that stupid. And India has got more gods than rice.”

“This is California, Little Father. They have more gods than rice also,” said Remo in Korean.

“I love the beauty of your language. Is that the Sinanju religion you were talking of?”

“No,” said Remo.

“Yes,” said Chiun.

“What a beautiful dichotomy,” said Daphne.

“Have you ever met Dolomo or Kathy Bowen?” asked Remo.

“We saw recordings of Himself several times. But Kathy regularly visits the temples. And she has one in her own home. She attributes her success to Poweressence unlocking her life forces.”

“Is she high up in the organization?”

“She knows the Dolomos personally. She has dinner with them. She is a personal friend of Rubin Dolomo himself. Can anyone help but be successful being near them?”

“Does she help people who are going to be tried? Ever hear anything about that?” asked Remo.

“Oh yes. She was the one who announced on her show Amazing Humanity that people who have suffered hopeless cases have suddenly with the help of Poweressence been freed of evil and negative forces. And it was so. The people were freed. They escaped the persecution of the government.”

“Not all,” said Remo.

“Every one,” said Daphne.

“What about the Dolomos themselves?”

“Because they are closer to the forces of goodness, they have to face the greatest forces of evil. The United States government has to persecute them, because the government is evil.”

“How did you come to that conclusion?”

“If the government weren't evil, why would they persecute the Dolomos?”

“Maybe they don't think that an alligator in a swimming pool is nearly as proper as a letter to the editor.”

“Oh, that.”

“You think alligators are good?”

“You don't understand. You just believe the partial story from a slanted media. That alligator was attracted by the evil of the columnist. But I suppose you don't have enough understanding to see that.”

“I hope I never do,” said Remo. “Where does Kathy Bowen live?”

“California, right near here,” said Daphne.

“Where else,” said Remo.

Daphne Bloom assured Remo and Chiun that she knew Kathy Bowen personally. She had met her three times and had gotten her autographed picture twice. She had never missed a show of Amazing Humanity.

Kathy Bowen personally interviewed all the people who wanted to be on the show. Anyone could get on if they could do something no one else could do, said Daphne.

It took a half-hour to get out of the airport traffic of Los Angeles airport and ten minutes to get to the Poweressence temple-studio of Kathy Bowen. Her ice-blond looks and clear blue eyes with delicate features stared out of every window of the temple-studio.

To the left of the entranceway, like a gospel reading of the day in front of a church, was a large billboard. It had a message from Kathy Bowen herself. It read:

“Love, Light, Compassion, and death to the President of the United States.”

Inside was a line of people waiting to be interviewed at a desk. At the head of the line someone was saying that Ms. Bowen would see everyone in their turn. Ms. Bowen loved humanity. Ms. Bowen felt truly in touch with humanity. But the humanity had to stay in line. And the humanity should not make noise or eat anything in the temple-studio itself.

“Her presence is truly positive,” said Daphne Bloom, glowing.

Ahead of Remo and Chiun and Daphne Bloom was a boy who talked to frogs, a quadriplegic who could spit his name in ink against a bedpan, and a grandmother who liked to sit on ice with no clothes on.

Only the grandmother was rejected from Amazing Humanity because no one could figure out a way to dramatize nudity on ice gracefully. And besides, sitting lacked the kind of action the producers of Amazing Humanity liked. Everyone selected, of course, would get to meet Ms. Bowen and sign, in her presence, the release guaranteeing that the guest would not sue on grounds of public ridicule or injury.

When Remo, Chiun, and Daphne Bloom reached the producer's desk, they were asked what they did.

“I don't know what she does,” said Remo, nodding to Daphne, “but we do everything.”

“Better than anyone else,” said Chiun.

The producer wore a white robe and a dash of pink silk around her neck. Every bit of the world appeared an insult to his magnificently perfect sense of taste. His wavy hair was dyed blue and hung down the back of his neck.

He liked California because he could go unnoticed here.

“We can't show everything. You've got to do something specific,” he said.

“Name it,” said Remo.

“For a price,” said Chiun.

“Can you spit ink into a bedpan?”

“We can spit it through the bedpan. And you too,” said Remo.

“That's hostile,” gasped Daphne. “You've got to work out your hostile elements. That's hostile.”

“I like hostile,” said Remo.

“Spitting ink through a bedpan sounds absolutely perfect. How long have you been doing it?”

“Since I wanted to meet Kathy Bowen,” said Remo.

“Will this be on television?” asked Chiun.

“National prime-time television, with Kathy Bowen as host and moderator and dynamic force.”

“I have a little poem about a flower opening. It is in the Tang form, an ancient Korean dialect. It can be edited for television.”

“Poetry doesn't go. Could you recite it underwater?”

“I suppose,” said Chiun.

“Could you do it underwater while eating lasagna?” said the producer of Amazing Humanity.

“Not lasagna,” said Chiun. “It has bad meat and cheese, does it not?”

“Eating anything you like?” asked the producer.

“I suppose,” said Chiun.

“While being attacked by sharks?” asked the producer.

“A shark is not an invincible weapon,” said Chiun.

“You can beat a shark?”

Chiun looked to Remo, puzzled. “Why not?” he asked.

“Yeah, he can do sharks. I can do sharks. We both do sharks. We could do a whale if we had to. When do we meet Kathy Bowen?”

“They're Level Ten Powies,” said Daphne helpfully.

“I like that. I like the whole scene, but do we need the poem?” asked the producer.

“Absolutely,” said Chiun. “I will wear my recital kimono. What you see now is ordinary traveling gray, with speckled bluebird wings. Not suitable for prime-time television.”

“Okay, do the poem for ten, may twelve seconds and then we'll bring on the sharks while you're eating your favorite meal underwater.”

“I can cut the Tang to its barest lean form,” said Chiun.

“Perfect,” said the producer.

“Ten hours.”

“Nothing runs ten hours,” said the producer.

“True Tang poems run to fifty,” said Chiun.

“Can't use more than ten seconds,” said the producer.

“How do you know? How do you know unless you have heard a Tang poem?”

“I don't want to hear ten hours of anything.”

“Then your ears need readjusting,” said Chiun.

Helpfully he massaged the producer's ears until enlightenment filled his fair Western face. The producer agreed to ten hours of anything if Chiun would only stop.

He did.

Kathy Bowen was preparing the press conference of her life, as she called it, when one of her producers insisted she meet the odd trio. The old one recited poems while eating underwater and fighting sharks, the young one just fought sharks, and the girl did nothing.

“Maybe we can put her in a costume or feed her to the sharks,” said Kathy. She wore an elegant light print dress with sunflowers, signifying her bright positive attitude toward the world.

“Can't feed a performer to the sharks. It will never get past the screening committee. No real blood around,” said her lawyer.

“Can the sharks eat her without blood?”

“I've seen it done.”

“Wouldn't be a bad attraction. I could look distressed, we could have some attendants desperately try to fish her out, no pun intended, and then cut to a commercial until we come back. No one would leave their sets.”

“Death doesn't go on national television.”

“I see it on the news all the time.”

“You have more leeway with news.”

“They get away with everything,” said Kathy. “All right. Show them in. But I don't have much time. I absolutely want to be in front of the press as soon as possible. I have a warning for America.”

Kathy was given the release forms and the performers were told to enter her presence. Kathy Bowen Enterprises had found out long ago that if she herself handed performers the documents, they would put up less fuss in signing away all their rights.

She would give her famous perfect white-toothed smile and her perfect upbeat handshake and then slip the suckers a pen. It rarely failed.

It failed this day.

The old Oriental wanted ten hours of air time. To her horror, Kathy saw that one producer already had promised it. The younger man, an attractive dark-eyed specimen who did not seem impressed or amused by Amazing Humanity, wanted to talk about Poweressence.

“I've got a problem. I am facing a stiff court fight and it looks as though I am going to lose. There is a witness against me who has me all but convicted. I hear Poweressence can help people like that.”

“Poweressence helps everything.”

“But I want that,” said Remo.

“You can get that. But you've got to make it to the thirtieth level.”

“I've never heard of the thirtieth level,” said Daphne. “That must be ecstasy. Do you remember me? We met at the Miami temple. You gave me an autographed picture. I was at Level Three at the time. I couldn't afford more.”

“And how much does it take to make it to the thirtieth level?” Remo asked, undistracted.

“Well, the thirtieth is a major spiritual threshold, so there is a major contribution required.”

“So it's a strict cash deal then.”

“No. You have got to embark on all the courses. You have got to believe. If you don't believe, it won't do you any good.”

“And what happens if I am convicted?”

“You get your money back.”

“And who gets this money?”

“You can leave it here or send it to the Dolomos. For me that doesn't matter.”

“What I want to know is how you make witnesses forget.”

“I don't do anything. The Dolomos don't do anything. The forces of the universe can do everything and will do everything.”

Remo handed back the paper. Television cameras were being brought into the room. Remo stepped out of the way. He did not want to be recorded. Chiun kept himself between Kathy and the cameras as he began the first two-hour ode to the essence of the purity of the flower petal which marked the traditional Tang opening stanzas.

“We have business, Little Father. Step back,” Remo said in Korean. Remo stepped way back. He didn't want to be on national film. Chiun reluctantly joined him, complaining of Remo ruining his chance to make America aware of true art and of the true artist that Chiun was.

“Why is it that when I offer something as beautiful as the Tang, Americans want to see sharks? You are just like Rome at the beginning of your calendar.”

“Glad to see you're admitting I'm American and not Korean.”

“Shh,” said Daphne. “She's going to speak. Isn't this wonderful?”

Kathy called the television reporters to the front and told the print media, newspapermen mostly, to take the rear seats.

“I am glad all of you could come during what must be a busy, busy day for all of you. But you all must know why the President of the United States died. Why he had to die. Not even the President of the United States can defy the forces of the universe. In pressing to convict two innocent bearers of beauty and light, our President criminally has brought death on himself. As a hope for all Americans, I can only express my deepest sympathies for all of us and beg the new president not to follow such a course of folly. Had the President listened to my advice in the White House before I was forcibly removed, he would be alive today.”

“But, Ms. Bowen,” said a television reporter in the front row, “the President of the United States isn't dead.”

“What about his plane crash?”

All the newsmen looked puzzled.

Kathy Bowen looked at her watch. “What day is this?”

“Wednesday,” she was told.

“Damn,” she said.

Twenty minutes later, when the plane crashed, the Federal Bureau of Investigation arrested Kathy Bowen on the charge of attempted murder, and their case was augmented by the testimony of another Powie who told a tale of seduction and intrigue that she never knew would end in death. All she had to do was hand the man an envelope and tell him not to open it until he was at work. She didn't know he flew the President's plane. All she knew was that she could get to Level Four of Poweressence if she did this one little thing for them.

And she had needed it for her acting career, wanting to become as famous as Kathy Bowen herself.