Oil Slick

Remo watched Clogg sweat. So that was Smith's idea of the man behind the killings of the American scientists. Of course, Remo knew what Smith didn't-that Nuihc had masterminded the killings. But had he used Clogg as an instrument? Or Baraka?

"When are you going to make an offer for my oil substitute?"

"Why would I be interested," said Clogg, looking up from a week-old Times, his porcine nostrils quivering as if they had just been jammed full of bad smell.

"You don't seem to understand, Clogg. In six months, plants can be busy turning out my substitute, probably as much as 10 percent of the total oil needs of the country. In a year, it'll be 50 percent. Give me eighteen months, and we'll have the technology for towns to build oil-making plants of their own. It'll solve the solid waste problem. No more cities buying gas for their fleets of cars from the oil companies. They'll make their own. And Oxonoco will be looking down the barrel of a gun. A gun loaded with garbage. You'll be lucky to keep a fried chicken franchise."

Clogg watched Remo shrewdly. His nostrils flared.

"You are serious, aren't you, Mr....er, Goldberg?"

"Of course, I'm serious. I've spent the best years of my life working on this project."

"I just don't seem ever to have heard of you in the area of oil research," Clogg said.

"I've been in affiliated fields," said Remo. "The oil discovery was just a happy accident. Actually, I've been dealing in garbage for the last ten years."

"Where have you worked?"

Remo had known the question would be coming. Smoothly, he answered "Universal Wasting," giving the name of a company that he knew CURE manipulated. He saw Clogg make a mental note of it.

"If you had such a thing, Mr. Goldberg, we might well be interested in making you an offer."

"Straight cash or a percentage of sales?" asked Remo.

"I don't think you'd find a percentage of sales very profitable," Clogg said greasily.

"Why's that?"

"Obviously we could not put such a new development into the market before it had been fully tested. It might be years before it could meet our rigorous standards of quality."

"In other words," said Remo, "it would be buried and forgotten. Like the carburetor that can triple a car's gas mileage."

"That carburetor is a myth. There is no such thing."

"How much cash for an oil substitute?" asked Remo.

"The concept is so unique that a price in six figures might not be out of range. Of course, that's probably not so much when you share it with your fellow researchers."

"No way," said Remo. "There are no fellow researchers and the whole thing is filed up here." He tapped his head. "I wouldn't trust anybody else with my secret."

"That is intelligent of you. There are unscrupulous people in this world."

"That there are."

"Universal Wasting, you say."

"That's right."

Then Clogg was silent again. Remo soon tired of looking up his nostrils and retreated back to his room for his afternoon phone call.

He asked Smith to phony up a cover story for one Remo Goldberg, finally admitting that he was one and the same.

"I wish you had told me yesterday," Smith sniffed.

"Why?"

"Because I wasted a lot of time and money trying to track down an oil researcher named Goldberg."

"I can't do anything about the time, but you can take the money out of Chiun's next gold shipment to Sinanju."

"Be sure to tell him it was your idea," said Smith, in what Remo could swear was his first attempt at humor. Ever.

"One other thing," said Remo. "I don't know anything about international politics, but it might be a good idea if King Adras were ready in the wings, waiting to return to his throne."

"Why?" asked Smith excitedly. "Has something happened to Baraka? Is there... ?"

"No," Remo interrupted. "But he might get something in the mail that doesn't sit well."

However such concern about Chiun was unnecessary, Chiun himself told Remo that afternoon.

There had been nothing complicated about it, he told Remo. He had simply gone to the front door of the palace, explained who he was, and in no time at all had been ushered in to see Colonel Baraka. Colonel Baraka had been kind and polite and had treated Chiun with the utmost respect and deference.

"Did he promise to abdicate?"

"He asked for time to consider the prospect. Of course, I granted him an extension until the weekend."

"And you had no trouble getting in to see him?"

"None at all. Why should I? And I delivered your worthless letter, too."

And Chiun stuck to this story, even later when, on the radio which passed for entertainment in Lobynia, there were frenzied news accounts of chaos and violence at the presidential palace. Apparently a group of Orientals, as many as one hundred in number, had assaulted the palace in broad daylight, disabling twenty-seven soldiers. They had been foiled in their attempt to kill Colonel Baraka by his undaunted courage in facing down his attackers.

"Hear that?" Remo asked Chiun.

"Yes. I wish I had been there to see it. It sounds very exciting."

"That's all you've got to say?"

"What else is there?"

Remo bowed in the face of inexorable logic and let the subject drop.

It was still in the mind of Colonel Baraka, however. Nothing else had been in his mind since the aged Oriental had demolished the palace guard and torn open Baraka's bolted door as if it had been made of paper.

His hand still shook when he thought of the diminutive old man who presented him with written demands. He counted himself lucky to have escaped with his life. As soon as he was sure the old man had left, he brought both letters to Nuihc's room.

"They've invaded my palace. What can I do?"

"You can stop chattering as a child," Nuihc said. "Forget the notes. The time has almost come for me to deal with these two."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Third World International Youth Conference opened bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and noisy at 9:00 A.M. the next morning. Three hundred and fifty delegates from all over the world assembled in the Revolutionary Triumph Building to condemn the United States and Israel for murder and savagery, of which they were not guilty, and to praise the Arabs for murder and savagery, of which they were guilty, but which were now labeled heroism and daring.

That was at 9:00 A.M.

At 9:30 A.M., there had been a half-dozen fistfights. Oriental youths, mainly from Japan, wanted to criticize only the Israelis, thus, they thought, scoring points with the oil-supplying Arabs. However, the American delegation would have none of it. They demanded that not only Israelis but all whites be condemned for the basic, cardinal, unforgivable sin of not being something else other than white.

This provoked the black African delegates to a state of rage, since, misunderstanding the resolution on the floor, they thought it was one of praise and demanded to be included, too. Implicit in their demand was the threat that if their threat was not heeded, they would eat the white delegates, one at a time.

So it went between 9:00 and 9:30, at which time Jessie Jenkins who had been elected chairperson pro-term by an almost universal nonacclaim, recessed for lunch.

This annoyed most of the spectators in the gallery, who were primarily American newsmen. They found that a half hour was not really enough time for them to find the deep hidden social significance laden with meaning for the entire world contained in what, if the participants had had access to lug wrenches and tire irons, more accurately might have been described as a gang fight.

However, two of the spectators in the gallery were not upset by the early lunch.

In their seats in the balcony, overlooking the large meeting chambers in the Revolutionary Triumph Hall, located next to the Palace, Chiun turned to Remo and said, "Do you understand one word of what has transpired here today?"

"Of course," said Remo. "It's simple. The blacks hate the whites. The whites hate themselves. The Orientals hate everybody. Still to be heard from are the white Ainu of Japan."

Chiun nodded solemnly. "I thought that was what had happened. Tell me, why do they all come this great distance to confide that they do not like each other? Could they not send each other letters?"

"Aha," said Remo. "They could, but they have no guarantee that you would deliver them yourself, and therefore no guarantee that the letters would arrive. It is simpler this way."

Chiun nodded again, this time unconvinced. "II you say so," he said.

"And why didn't Colonel Baraka contact us last night?" asked Remo.

"He is considering my proposal," said Chiun. "We will hear from him."

The two left their seats, having seen enough of brotherhood in action, and went downstairs to return to their hotel room, but in the first floor they were caught up in swirling pockets of small groups of delegates who were engaging in meaningful dialogue with each other by shouting simultaneously at the tops of their voices.

Remo was for pushing through and out into the sunshine, but he was restrained by Chiun's hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw that Chiun seemed to be interested in one of the conversations which pitted two Orientals against two blacks against two whites. Chiun slid between two of the participants to listen.

"America is the cause of the problem," said one of the Orientals.

Chiun nodded in agreement, then turned to a black who said, "Whites can't be trusted."

Chiun thought this a most worthwhile sentiment.

So, too, did the two whites who insisted that there had been nothing on the earth to rival America's villainy since Darius.

Chiun shook his head.

"No," he said, "Darius was very good."

The six arguers looked at the source of the new voice.

Chiun nodded his head up and down for emphasis. "Darius was very good. The world would be very good, if Darius still reigned. It was not my fault that he was deposed by the Greekling."

"That's right," said one of the blacks. "It was Alexander that done in old Darius."

"But what about the pharaohs?" shouted one of the white boys, a pimply-faced repository of insecurity, inferiority, and acne.

"At least they knew how to deal with the Jews," said one of the Orientals.

Chiun nodded. "They were all right," he said. "Especially Amenhotep. He paid right on time."

Even in this conversation, that comment seemed to make no sense, and the six young men stopped to look at Chiun.

"It is true," Chiun said. "Amenhotep paid right on time. Long live his memory. And Louis the Fourteenth too."

"What are you talking about?" asked one of the Americans. "You sound like a stooge for the corrupt King Adras. Long live Baraka."

"No," Chiun said. "Adras's ancestor was slow in paying. Otherwise, Adras would again have his throne. If he had, he would answer his mail. Long live Adras."

"Phooey," said the pimply American.

This guaranteed the wisdom of Chiun's position to the two blacks, who joined with Chiun in shouting, "Long live King Adras."

The two hundred and fifty other arguing delegates who had remained thought they were missing something when they heard voices raised louder than their own, and they stopped to listen to the words.

Then, lest they be left out of some very important new movement that could bring a new day of peace of the world, they picked up the chant. "Long live King Adras."

"Long live King Adras."

"Long live King Adras."

They vied with each other to shout the loudest, and soon the Triumph Building resounded with their voices and their echoes.

"Long live King Adras."

"Long live King Adras."

Chiun was leading the cheers as if he were an orchestra conductor, waving his hands in front of him.

Remo turned in disgust and bumped into the very bumpable body of Jessie Jenkins.

"Now that you've got us back to endorsing the monarchy, what's next? Feudalism?" she asked.

"You'll be lucky if he stops at that," Remo said. "How did your dinner go with Baraka?"

"Well, for a man with such a reputation as a woman user, he lost."

"Oh?"

Jessie laughed and the motion rippled her breasts under the light purple top she wore.

"It must have been that note I gave him. The one from you."

"Oh, you did deliver it?"

"Sure. I told you I would. Anyway, I gave it to him. He read it and ran out of the room as if his tail was on fire. Then he came back ten minutes later and ushered us out. Before the ice cream."

"That's interesting," said Remo, who found it interesting. If Baraka had taken the letter to show someone, that someone was probably Nuihc. It would mean he was staying right in Baraka's palace. Why? He was probably waiting for the right moment to move against Chiun and Remo.

"Anybody offer to buy your oil secret yet?" Jessie asked a little too conversationally.

"I've had a few nibbles. And speaking of nibbles, what are you doing tonight for dinner?"

"After the day's rioting is over, we get marched back to our barracks. There we are fed as guests of the Lobynian state. Then we go to sleep. No deviations will be permitted," she said, mocking a deep Nazi accent.

"How about skipping it and having dinner with me?"

"Love to. But I can't get out." To his look of surprise, she added, "Really. We're not permitted to leave the camp."

"Maybe Chiun's right in pushing monarchy. People's democracy seems to have everything except democracy for people," he said.

"No gain without pain," suggested Jessie.

"If you could get out, would you have dinner with me?"

"Sure."

"Be at the main gate of your place at 8:30pm sharp."

"They've got guards who look like they'd appreciate nothing better than a chance to shoot you."

"Don't tell them my name is Goldberg," said Remo, and turned away to look for Chiun.

Chiun was approaching him now. The walls and ceiling of the building still resounded with cheers for bonnie King Adras.

"I think we have done enough for today," said Chiun.

Remo could only agree.

At the same time in Lobynia, there was another kind of agreement, this between Colonel Baraka and Clayton Clogg.

At Clogg's invitation, the two men had driven forty miles out into the desert to a mammoth oil field, the main depot to which more than two million barrels of oil daily from Lobynia's eight hundred wells was pumped for storage, and then for shipment by tanker to the rest of the world.

Clogg's black limousine had stopped near the depot, and he told his chauffeur to go for a walk, despite the bone-melting one hundred and thirty degree desert temperature.

"Before you ask," Baraka said, "I will not take steps to end the embargo on oil to your country."

"Fine," said Clogg. "I don't want you to." The look of surprise on Baraka's face passed quickly.

"Then what do you want?" he asked, not deferentially, but not rudely either.

"To ask you a question. What are you going to do with your oil"

"There will be buyers," said Baraka, detesting this pig-nosed American who instantly had put his finger on the weak spot in the "Arabian salami" tactics.

"Yes," Clogg said. "For a while. The Russians of course will buy to try to hurt the West. But eventually they will have stockpiled and will stop buying excesses because their economy will not stand the drain."

"There is Europe," said Baraka.

"Yes. And Europe will buy your oil until the American economy starts running down and then theirs starts running down. Oil is needed for vehicles and manufacturing and Europe must follow there where America goes."

How like Clogg, Baraka thought, to forget the other uses of oil. The human uses. Heating for homes. The generation of electricity. On his mind were only vehicles and manufacturing. He was so American-industrialist he would have been a cartoon, had he not been too ugly to be a cartoon. Baraka looked out at the acre after acre of storage tanks, oil derricks, complicated equipment, almost all of it operated by computers built by the American oil companies, but he said nothing.

"So you will have a surplus of oil," said Clogg, "and your nation cannot live on oil stockpiles."

"Please dispense with the economics lesson. I take it you have a proposal."

"Yes, I have. Continue the American embargo. However, grant Oxonoco the right to drill on one or several of your offshore islands, with a clear contract that any oil we find is ours to use."

"There is no oil in the offshore islands."

Clogg smiled, a narrow twist of his mouth that made him, God forbid, even uglier than God had planned.

"As they say in my country, so what? Constructing an underground pipeline from this center to the offshore island would be a matter of only months. We could drain off your surplus oil and sell it as our own. Lobynia would get a great deal of private income-for you to dispose of as you see fit."

"And your company would control America's economy," Baraka said.

"Of course."

Baraka stared at his oil wells. A month ago, he would have shot Clogg before the man could finish the first sentence. The effrontery of offering Baraka a bribe. But that was a month ago, when he had still believed that this land could be governed, and he could himself live to an old age in honor and glory. But now there was the prophecy against his life. So Nuihc had promised to protect him from the American assassins. But who would protect him from Nuihc? Baraka found that he had neither stomach nor tolerance to be ordered around like a child for as long as he ruled. He had thought the other day of what life might be like in Switzerland. He looked out now and saw a Lobynian workman trying to open a threaded plug with a wrench. It took him six tries before he found the right wrench. In Switzerland, people made watches and clocks. In Lobynia, people made mess and confusion.

"Could it be kept a secret?" Baraka asked.

"Certainly. Part of our agreement would be that only Lobynian personnel could man the new oil installations for Oxonoco. And ..."

"You need not finish. I know full well that our Lobynian craftsmen could work in a false oil depot for fifty years without ever suspecting that there was anything odd about oil coming out of a faucet."

Clogg shrugged. He was glad Baraka had said it and not him. Sometimes these camel-herders were sensitive about the shortcomings of their people.

It might work, Baraka decided. And Clogg, of course, was right. Without some such plan to drain off Lobynia's surplus oil, the economy of the country, already on the edge of disaster, would slide over the brink.

He would have to be careful to keep the plan from Nuihc. But it would work. It would work.

"There is a problem, though," said Clogg, intruding on Baraka's thoughts. Baraka turned to the oil man.

"There is an American," Clogg said. "He has discovered a substitute for oil. His name is Remo Goldberg."

"He has contacted me," said Baraka. "He is a fraud."

Clogg shook his head. "No, he is not. I had him checked by our people. His is one of the most brilliant scientific minds in our country. If allowed to proceed, he could hurt not only your country but my company as well."

"I am not permitted to move against him," said Baraka.

"Not permitted?"

Baraka realized his slip and backed off quickly. "I cannot risk confrontation with the United States government by simply removing one of their citizens."

"Still," Clogg urged, "an accident..."

"There have been a number of accidents involving American oil researchers lately," said Baraka.

"I thought you might know something about that," said Clogg.

"And I thought you might know something about it." The two men looked at each other, knowing the way men sometimes do, that each spoke the truth. Baraka wondered though who was right and "who was wrong about this Remo Goldberg. An oil scientist or an assassin? Perhaps both. One never knew the lengths of perfidy to which the United States would go.

Clogg looked ahead and mused aloud, "Accidents happen to many people."

"Well, of course, I cannot be held responsible for accidents," Baraka said, giving Clogg what he wanted: a license to remove Remo Goldberg.

The two men talked some more, comparing notes on Remo Goldberg. Both realized that the only person who had any contact with him in Lobynia had been Jessie Jenkins, the buxom black American revolutionary. It was agreed that Baraka would allow one of Clogg's men to be admitted to the Third World compound, where he could keep an eye on Jessie. Baraka also gave his agreement to the plan, but said its announcement must wait a few weeks until "some small business" was accomplished.

Clogg nodded, then leaned forward and blew the vehicle's horn. As if from nowhere, the chauffeur reappeared and was back in his seat, driving the car toward Dapoli.

Baraka noticed the chauffeur was a young Lobynian, barely out of his teens, with smooth light skin, long black curly hair and the petulant lips of a woman. He looked at the chauffeur in mild distaste then asked Clogg if he had enjoyed the pleasures of the city.

Clogg smiled but did not answer. He, too, was looking at the chauffeur.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Jessie Jenkins wore a white dress as she waited behind the two guards who stood at attention at the only entrance to the fenced-in compound that housed the jerry-built barracks used by the delegates of the Third World International Youth Conference.

The compound was surrounded by eight-foot-high hurricane fencing, topped by another two feet of barbed wire angled to prevent anyone inside from climbing out.

Remo saw Jessie from a distance as he approached the gate. He also saw a young American with red hair leaning against a nearby barracks building, casually smoking and very uncasually watching Jessie.

Remo stopped just short of the two armed guards and called past them to the young black woman.

"Hi. Can you come out and play?"

"My keepers won't let me." She nodded toward the guards.

"Is that right, gentlemen?" Remo asked them.

"No one is permitted to leave without a written pass."

"And who issues these passes?" asked Remo.

"No one," said the guard. The other stifled a smile.

"Thank you for your courtesy," said Remo. "Come on down here," he called to Jessie, motioning with his head along the fence.

She walked on her side, he on his, until they were a full hundred feet away from the guards. Glancing over his shoulder, Remo noticed that the redheaded American had moved along with them, still lurking back in the shadows of the compound.

The fence with its inward-facing barbed wire was meant to keep prisoners in, but not to keep visitors out.

Remo waited until he and Jessie had strolled into am area that was on the perimeter of a floodlight's reach, then he grabbed the top of the bar atop the hurricane fencing with both hands, ran two steps up the fence, and thrust out with both feet. The thrusting straightened his body; the upward momentum whirled it around as if he were a weight on the end of a string. His body flipped straight up in the air, then came down, still stiff, on Jessie's side of the fence. Just before his swinging body would have hit the barbed wire, he loosened his grip, tucked his upper body in, cleared the barbed wire, and landed noiselessly on his feet, alongside the amazed Jessie.

"How'd you do that?" she said when she finally spoke.

"Clean living."

"Well, now that you're in, what do we do?"

"Go out, of course."

He led Jessie back toward the front gate.

"How'd the conference go?" he asked.

"Don't ask," she said.

"If I promise not to ask, do you promise not to talk about racism, lack of opportunity, the ghetto, genocide, and oppression?"

"Why, Mr. Goldberg, you don't sound like a liberal at all."

"To me it always seems as if liberals love people in large masses, and this is the price they pay to hate people individually. I guess I'm not a liberal."

"You don't hate people individually?" asked Jessie.

"Sure I do," said Remo. "But I won't pay the price of having to love everybody in a lump. I reserve the right to decide a bastard's a bastard, just because he's a bastard."

"All right," said Jessie. "That makes sense. No ghetto talk. You've got a deal."

By now, they were within ten feet of the two guards.

With his hand, Remo signaled Jessie to wait while he approached the guards.

"Hi, fellas. Remember me?" he said.

Both guards turned and looked at him, first in surprise then in annoyance.

"What are you doing here?" they said.

"I went to get two passes to leave this place."

"Yes," the bigger guard said suspiciously.

"I have them right here."

"Yes?" said the guard again.

Remo reached his hand into his trousers pocket and brought it out slowly, in a fist. He held it up between the two guards.

"Right here," he said.

They leaned forward to look.

"Well?" said one of them.

The two guards were leaning close to each other now, almost head to head, when Remo partially opened his hand, uncoiling the little finger and the index finger. He drove these fingers upward.

Each one hit into the forehead of one of the guards, right at that delicate point where veins merge to form a Y close under the skin.

The iron hard fingers like blunted spikes squashed into the veins, closing them for a moment, and bringing on total if short-lived unconsciousness. The two soldiers dropped to the ground, in what seemed, in the darkness, to be a heap of dirty olive drab clothes.

"Come on, Jessie," said Remo.

He helped the girl over the unconscious forms of the two guards. She looked down at them, seemingly unable to look away.

"Oh, don't worry," said Remo. "They'll be all right. Just out for awhile."

"Are you always so aggressive?" she asked.

"I told you, I reserve the right to decide a bastard's a bastard and deal with him in bastardly fashion. These two qualified."

"I have a notion we're going to have an interesting night."

As they walked away from the compound, Remo glanced back over his shoulder to make sure their redheaded companion was following. He was.

"Yes, an interesting night," Remo agreed.

He did not know it would be made even more interesting by the man following the redhead. He was a slight man, an Oriental, in a black business suit. He rarely smiled. His name was Nuihc and he had vowed to kill not only Remo, but Chiun.

This was the first occasion Jessie had had to sample Lobynian nightlife, which was nonexistent.

"You can't get a drink," Remo said. "Baraka doesn't allow alcohol."

"Well, jazz then. There must be a jazz joint."

"Sorry," said Remo. "Baraka's closed down nightclubs too."

"Can we dance?"

"Men and women aren't allowed to dance together."

"Baraka?" she asked.

He nodded. "Baraka."

"I should have poisoned his stuffed cabbage when I had a chance," she said.

"Excuses, excuses."

Remo and Jessie walked along Revolutionary Avenue and finally found one open place, that looked as if it might have once been called a nightclub. It was now labeled a private club "for Europeans only." Remo became a member of the club by slipping twenty dollars to the doorman. Inside, the place still carried memories of its nightclub days. There was a bar on the right. A large room in the back was full of tables leading up to a bandstand, where a belly dancer sweated to the music of three Lobynians playing unnameable string instruments and an unmentionable horn.

"Ain't exactly Birdland," said Jessie.

"Sufficient unto the day," began Remo. Jessie challenged him to finish the quote, but Remo declined since he could not remember the rest.

Remo insisted to the waitress who came to greet them that they be seated in one of the large booths that bordered the main room. The booths were more like small rooms, big enough to seat eight along padded benches around the U-shaped wall. They were screened off from the rest of the room by beaded ropes which could be pulled back if one wanted to watch the floor show. The ropes were infrequently pulled back, since the booths were favorite meeting places for European men and their young male Lobynian lovers.

Remo insisted on a booth. The waitress insisted that she did not understand English or his request. Remo insisted upon giving her ten dollars whereupon the waitress insisted that such a fine gentleman and his lady be seated in one of the fine booths that bordered the room.

As they moved toward the back, Remo glanced behind him and glimpsed the redheaded American moving toward the bar.

Jessie was upset that there was no alcohol, but finally she shared Remo's order of carrot juice.

"You order that like you're used to it," she said. "A teetotaller?"

"Only when I'm on duty."

"And what kind of duty is that?" asked Jessie, after the waitress had left and Remo had unfastened the clips on the sides of the beaded ropes allowing them to drop and sealing off their booth from the view of the room.

"The same kind of duty you're to," said Remo. "You know. Uncle Sam. The whole gig."

Remo was glad she chose not to be coy. "Then I guess we've got to protect each other, especially since we're being tailed," she said.

"You saw him?" She went up nineteen notches in Remo's eyes.

"Sure. He's been eating me up with his eyes ever since I started waiting for you at the gate."

"He's at the bar now."

"I know," said Jessie. She stopped talking when the waitress pushed aside the beads and placed glasses in front of them. When the waitress left and the beads stopped tinkling together, Jessie leaned across the corner of the table and said, "What are you here for?"

"Clogg," Remo said. "I'm wondering what he's up to."

"That's easy," she said. "He's got some kind of plan to smuggle Baraka's oil into the United States. Washington told me before I left."

"Why didn't they tell me?" complained Remo.

"Easy," said Jessie, sipping her drink slowly and watching Remo over the top of the glass with shrewd eyes. "Your real assignment's got nothing to do with Clogg so they didn't bother to tell you, just as you haven't bothered yet to tell me what your real assignment is."

"All right," he said finally, "you got me. I'm here to figure out how to get King Adras back on the throne." Remo did not like the situation he was in; the girl was smart, and he was not used to this kind of give and take lying.

"Anything else?" she said.

"Yes. One thing. When are we going to make love?"

"I thought you'd never ask," she said. Jessie moved next to Remo on the padded bench. Her arms went around his head and her lips came up to meet his.

Remo responded to her, silently cursing Chiun for the training that had taken all pleasure out of sex and replaced it with discipline and technique.

Jessie gave a slight moan and then Remo was moving his hand under her thin top, doing things to her upper side under her armpit that she had not felt before.

She moaned again. Remo felt her hands come away from his neck and she began to work up her white skirt.

Then in a confluence of bodies and contortions, Remo and Jessie made love on the bench. Her moans and exhortations were buried alive, under the sound of the heavyhooved belly dancer thumping around on the thin wooden floor to the music of the wooden whistle and string band.

When they were done, Jessie just moved away from Remo and sat stock still, unable to speak for moments. She seemed unaware that her short skirt was still up around her hips, and in fact she did not even move when the waitress barged through the beaded screen to ask if they wanted refills.

Remo nodded yes. When the waitress left, Jessie came to and pulled down her skirt and straightened her sweater.

"Hey now, holy mackerel, Andy," she said.

"I take it that's a compliment," said Remo.

"No, man," said Jessie, her perfect white teeth shiny and brilliant in the ebony majesty of her happy face. "That's no compliment. That's called homage."

"If you're good, I'll invite you back," said Remo.

"I'll be good. I'll be good."

The waitress interrupted them with their drinks and Remo asked: "There was a redheaded man at the bar. Is he still there?"

"Yes, sir," she said.

Remo pressed a bill into her hand. "Don't mention that I asked." The waitress agreed, with an appreciative look toward Jessie, indicating that there might be a payment for the service more preferable than cash.

Remo squeezed her hand lightly, touching a spot between the thumb and index finger, watching her face brighten.

"Hey, I'm the jealous type," said Jessie after the girl had left. "Easy now."

"Just readying the reserves," said Remo. "In case you get uppity."

"I thought we weren't going to talk ethnic," said Jessie and they both laughed and sipped their drinks until Jessie excused herself to go to the ladies' room.

Remo leaned back on the bench, put his toes on the bench on the far side of the table, and concentrated on watching the new belly-dancer through the small cracks between the strands of beads.

She was an improvement over the first. This, Remo determined, because she seemed to sweat less and she smiled occasionally. The first had danced as if her primary interest were in not putting a heavy foot through one of the thin floorboards. This one danced as if there were something more on her mind than mere survival.

She finished one dance to scattered applause from the half-empty room and began another.

And then another.

And then Remo wondered where Jessie was. He waited a few more minutes, then looked out through the beaded drape into the room. She was not to be seen.

The waitress stood in the back of the large room, keeping a watchful eye on the small tables and Remo motioned to her.

She came forward with a smile. "Check, sir?"

"The lady I was with? Did you see her leave?"

"No, sir?"

"Would you check in the ladies' room and see if she is there? Her name is Miss Jenkins."

"Certainly, sir."

A moment later the girl returned to Remo. "No, sir. She is not in there. The room is quite empty."

"Is there another door out of there?"

"Yes sir, there is a door that leads into a back alley."

Remo grabbed bills from his pocket and pushed them into the girl's hand. "Thanks," he said. As he moved toward the ladies' room, he glanced at the bar. The red-haired man was gone.

Remo went into the ladies' room, past the single stall and the small mirror table and chair, to a push-bar fire door. He opened it and went outside, finding himself in a narrow dark alley, black at one end where it ended against an old building, bright at the other end where it admitted the light from Revolutionary Avenue.

And he saw what he had feared, a crumpled pile that looked black against the splash of light from the street, lying against a wall of the alley. He ran forward. It was Jessie.

She looked up at him, recognized him, and smiled. The blood from her head wound ran slowly down her face.

He saw the wound was serious.

"Who was it?"

"Redhead. From Clogg. Wanted to know about you."

"It's all right," Remo said. "Don't talk anymore."

"S'okay," said Jessie. "I didn't talk at all." And she smiled at Remo again, and then slowly, almost lazily, her eyes closed and her head drooped off to the side.

She was dead.

Remo stood up and looked down at the body of the girl that had only a few minutes ago been warm and bright and loving, and he took pains to remove from himself any feeling of rage or anger that might be found there. When he was sure there was nothing left except cold determination, he simply walked away from her body and went out onto the street.

In the mercury lights that illuminated the street, red blood looked black, and a black spot on the sidewalk to the right of the alley pointed Remo in the right direction.

He caught up to the redheaded man in two blocks.

The man was strolling casually, unconcerned, back toward the hotel where Clogg and Remo both stayed, probably to report, Remo thought.

Moving silently through the light-bright streets, Remo came up alongside the man. The man wore a dark sports shirt and dark slacks. Remo reached out his right hand, spanning it wide, and caught hold of the man's back, just above his belt buckle, grasping the two heavy vertical ropes of muscles that ran up and down alongside the spinal column.

The man gasped in pain.

"You ain't seen nothin' yet," said Remo coldly.

They were passing a tailoring and dry cleaning shop which was closed for the night. Still holding the man's back, steering him with the painful pressure of five iron-hard fingers, Remo used his left hand to smash open the door.

He pushed it open, then propelled the man into the darkened store ahead of him. Remo stopped to close the door behind him.

The man was leaning against the counter, facing Remo, Ms eyes glinting brightly in the reflected light from the street.

"What is this, buddy?" he said in an American accent.

"Do you have a knife? A gun?" asked Remo. "If you do, get them out. It'll make it easier for me."

"What are you talking about? I don't have any weapons."

"Then the sap you used on the girl. Get that," said Remo. His voice was cold and knife-edged, as dark as the store, as empty of feeling as death.

"All right, jewboy, if you insist," the man said. He reached into his back pocket and brought out a lead-loaded, policeman's leather blackjack.

"What'd Clogg want you to do?"

"Pump the girl. Find out who you were. I didn't get a chance. She collapsed too fast." Remo could see the man's teeth shine white as he smiled. "You made it easy. Now I can pump you."

"Do that," said Remo. "Do that."

"I'll go easy on you," said the redheaded man.

He came toward Remo, the lead club raised professionally at shoulder level in his right hand, his left hand bent up in front of his face to ward off any punches.

But no punches came. Instead Remo stood there, and allowed him to swing his blackjack toward Remo's temple.

But the blackjack missed, and then the redheaded man felt it plucked from his fingers, as if he were no stronger than a child.

And then his arm was behind his back and he was being propelled toward the back of the store, and he felt a pain in the back of his neck, and the blackness of the store gave way to a greater blackness of his mind and he felt himself fall into unconsciousness.

He woke up moments later to a strange clinking sound.

His back was on something soft, but his mouth felt funny. What was it, he wondered as he moaned into consciousness. And his mouth felt really strange. It was filled with something.

He felt himself choking. His mouth was filled with his teeth. He looked.

There was Remo Goldberg, standing over him, cracking the weighted lead blackjack down casually, rhythmically, into the redhaired man's face, breaking off his teeth one at a time.

The redhead spat, spraying the air with teeth and blood.

The blackjack came down again. More teeth splintered. The redhead tried to get up, but a finger in his solar plexus locked him in place as if he had been pinned to a board.

"Stop," he cried.

Remo stopped.

"What'd Clogg want?"

"He wanted me to pump the girl. Find out who you were. She didn't say anything."

"Why'd Clogg want to know?"

"He's got an oil deal with Baraka. Your formula might threaten it. He wants to know who else knows about it."

"You have anything to do with those dead oil scientists in the United States?"

"No, no," the man protested, and Remo knew he was telling the truth.

"All right, pal."

"What are you going to do to me?" the man asked, frightened to the edge of panic.

"Kill you," said Remo.

"You can't do that."

"There's an interesting difference there in schools of thought," said Remo. "You say I can't, but I say I can. Who's right? In the morning when they find your body,

we'll see I am."

And then he slapped the blackjack down into the redheaded man's mouth, shoving it into his throat, canceling out any chance the man had to scream, but stopping just short of the point where the sap would have cut off the redheaded man's breathing.

Now the redhead recognized where he was and why it was soft. He was lying on an ironing table, the professional kind that dry cleaners used to steam creases into clothes.

Remo smiled at him in the darkness, then lowered the top half of the table down onto him.

The redhead felt the heat begin to sandwich his body. Remo grabbed a coathanger and twisted it through the handles of the top and bottom parts of the ironing table, fastening it together.

He went to the bottom of the table and turned the heat up to full burn, and then pressed the button activating the steamer.

The redhead heard the hiss first, then felt the hot steam begin to blast out of both halves of the board; through his thin summery clothing he felt burning pain as it hit his body.

"You should be well creased by morning," said Remo.

The redheaded man started to talk, tried to say something but couldn't with the blackjack in his mouth.

His frightened eyes searched for Remo.

"Oh, you want something?" said Remo. "Oh, I see. More starch in the collar. Okay." He took a can of spray starch and sprayed it over the redheaded man's face.

"And listen, we give a one-cent rebate for every hanger you bring back. Don't forget now."

The man tried to cried out, but no sound came, and then there was only the sound of the door closing softly.

The man, terrified now, lay hoping for unconsciousness and praying that he would die quickly. Or be saved.

His wish was to be granted.

There was another sound and the door opened. Pressed down, sandwiched in the ironing board, he tried to turn his head toward the door but he could not see.

And then an oily Oriental voice spoke to him.

"Silence," the voice said.

He heard the sound of the wire coat hanger being released, and then blessed relief as the heated top of the ironing table was lifted. And then the blackjack was removed from his mouth.

And then the Oriental voice was asking him questions, about what he had done and why, and what Clogg and Baraka were up to. He answered them all honestly, and finally the voice said, "That is enough."

The redhaired man started to straighten up, mumbling through his broken mouth, "What is your name? Mr. Clogg will want to reward you."

"My name is Nuihc," came the voice. "But no reward is necessary." And then there was pressure that stopped the red-haired man from getting up, and then he felt the blackjack come down again on his face, hard this time, and then everything went black, all black, and he saw, heard, felt nothing anymore because he was dead.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Clayton Clogg had the entire fourth floor of the Lobynian Arms, but he was nowhere on the floor. However, large portions of his retinue who were there were only too glad to tell Remo where Clogg had gone, if he would only stop.

He stopped long enough for one man to gasp that Clogg had gone with two cars full of Oxonoco "special personnel" to a point on the Lobynian coastline facing one of the small offshore islands. There had been a small Oxonoco camp there, before all the gas supplies had been nationalized.

Remo then stopped with another man long enough for that man to procure a map and to show Remo where the Oxonoco camp was, two driving hours out of Dapoli. The map was easy to read. Out of Dapoli led three roads. One went to the coast to the Oxonoco camp, another went inland to the main oil depot, and the third went deep through the desert to the Mountains of Hercules. Maps in America showed golf courses; this map showed oases. There was only one near the Oxonoco camp.

It was after midnight when Remo left. Clogg had a forty-five minute head start. The desert had not yet surrendered its day-baked heat, and the narrow road seemed to steam as Remo drove along it in the Ford which yet another of Clogg's retinue had graciously offered to lend him-if he would only stop.

Remo had wondered enough whether Clogg or Baraka had been Nuihc's henchman. He would take care of Clogg and Chiun would take care of Baraka. The scientists' killings would end; with Adras back on the throne, the flow of oil to America would resume. And then there would only be Nuihc left. But he was in the future. Clogg was now.

Remo began to feel a slight breeze blowing up and he realized he was nearing the coastline. He turned off his lights and continued to drive in the darkness. Up ahead he saw the bulky shapes of two limousines. He turned off his motor, pressed in the clutch, and let his car roll to a stop behind the limousines.

Remo got out of the car and stopped at each of the two black Cadillacs, reaching in under their dashboards and pulling out handfuls of wire. The cars would be of no use unless Clogg had brought electrical engineers with him as well as oil people. And what the hell were "special personnel" for Oxonoco? he wondered.

Noiselessly, Remo moved toward the breeze and heard the sound of the Mediterranean lapping softly on sand. Ahead he saw shapes. He insinuated himself into the darkness and moved into the group. One moment he was not there, the next moment he was and had always been there.

Clogg was talking, pointing out to the sea.

"How far is the island?"

"Only three hundred yards," came a voice near Remo's right.

"We could put that pipeline in, under water, in not more than a week," Clogg said. "But we have to wait for that greasy mule-skinner to make up his mind. Be ready to move as soon as you hear from me."

"Suppose he says no?" asked a voice across from Remo.

"He won't. Did you ever see one of these animals who could resist cash?" There were chuckles all around. "And if he gets sticky," Clogg added, "well, you men have had some experience in that area. It might just be time for Lobynia to have a new lord high commandant," he said contemptuously.

Clogg turned and looked back toward the road. "I wonder where Red is. He should have been here by now."

The man at Remo's right laughed. "He's got this thing about black twiff. He may be taking his time."

"Killing her with kindness," said another.

Then they all laughed and began to walk back toward the two limousines, Remo melting along with them, first seeming to be in one small group, then in another. When they reached the cars, a man called: "Hey, there's another car there. Whose is that?"

Remo backed off a step from the group. "That's mine," he said coldly.

"And who are you?" The voice was Clogg's.

"A man with a star," Remo said. "You can trust that car belongs to the man who wears a star."

The crowd of men moved closer to Remo. One got too close. He oomphed and fell, almost as if for no reason at all. So fast had Remo's hand moved that no one else had seen it.

"I can be very friendly," said Remo.

Clogg recognized the voice. "What is it you want, Mr. Goldberg?"

"Nothing much," said Remo. "Just you."

"Men, start the cars," said Clogg. He backed off toward one of the limousines. The man Remo had put to the ground did not stir, not even when Remo reached in under his light jacket and withdrew his revolver.

Remo moved into his own car.

"Hey, these cars won't start." Remo heard voices. He started his Ford and backed it away thirty feet before stopping it. A light pinkish patch appeared in the eastern sky.

"How will we get back? The sun's coming up."

Remo called out. "Easy. You walk."

Clogg protested. The men protested. One man protested so much that he came up to Remo with a gun in his hand. He hit the ground before the gun did.

Remo still held the gun in his hand. He turned on the Ford's headlights and fired a shot into the air over the men's heads. "All right. Everybody drop their guns."

He watched and counted, as the men, blinded by the high beams, complied. Then with another shot into the air, Remo herded them back along the road to Dapoli, Remo behind them driving in first gear, slowly, but fast enough so the men had to walk briskly to avoid being run down.

The sun lingered before making up its mind to rise, then jumped to its act with passion and soon was beating down. The heat shimmered from the sand, the black macadam road absorbing most of the heat and hurting the feet of the men.

Clogg began to lag behind the young men, and twice Remo bumped him with the car. The second time Clogg stumbled but caught himself and almost trotted to get some distance in front of Remo.

"What is it you want?" he called over his shoulder.

"To see you dead."

"How long are we going to walk?"

"Until you die from the heat."

"We could overpower you, you know."

"Try it," said Remo.

The men marching ahead heard Clogg. They knew that only a few hours exposure to the merciless Lobynian sun could weaken a man to the point of death. Fighting was better than giving up. They turned and split into two groups, all eight of them moving toward the car, circling it now.

Remo ignored them and looked toward the left, searching for something.

"Look, men," he called. "Water." He pointed to the left.

The men turned and saw the trees of the oasis that had been marked on Remo's map. They forgot everything else and began to run through the sand toward the trees.

Remo put the car into second and drove through the soft sand, skirting the men. He turned off the engine and was standing beside the car waiting for them when they arrived.

There was, behind him, a pool of crystal water, shaded from the sun by an overhang of palm trees, surrounded by a ring of bushes.

The men saw the water. They saw Remo, too, but ignored him and plunged through the almost knee-deep sand toward the oasis.

"Hold it, men," yelled out Remo. "We just can't have everybody filling up every which way."

"Why not?" one yelled. "There's plenty of water."

"Yes," said Remo holding the gun in front of him. "But we've got to have even distribution. We're going to take all this water and ship it to England."

"Why?" gasped one of the men, panic and confusion fighting for control of his face.

"Because you never can tell when the water shortage is going to hit England."

"Screw you, I'm getting water," one man said and plunged forward.

He was moving past Remo when he was felled by a hand to the throat. His falling body kicked up light puffs of silvery dust and then he did not move.

"All right, men," called Remo. "Now let's do this right Everybody get in line."

The men sullenly complied.

"Now you've got to wait your turn," said Remo. "Straighten that line out."

The line formed, Clogg in front, and started to move forward.

"Hold it," called Remo. "We can't have any chaos here. It's got to be orderly. Wait your turn."

"It is my turn. I'm first," protested Clogg.

"Oh, no," said Remo. "There's a bird drinking over there. And there's a monkey waiting. You've got to wait. Stay where you are."

Remo hopped up onto the hot hood of the Ford and waited.

"And don't forget. There's a one-spoon limit No more."

The men just stared at him.

"That's right," Remo said. "One spoon. We've got to have enough for our regular customers."

The bird on the far side of the oasis flew up into one of the trees,

"Can I go now?" said Clogg.

"Wait a minute," Remo said. "This is an even numbered day. Are you odd or even?"

"Even," gasped Clogg.

"Sorry," said Remo. "I don't believe you. You all look like odd numbers to me."

The men snarled and surged forward.

"That's it," Remo said. "Closing down for the day." He hopped off the car and stood before them with his gun. Even though they were frantic, they declined to challenge his weapon.

"Everybody to the car," he said.

The men looked at him, then trudged toward the open convertible. They piled in and watched Remo, half-fearing, half-hoping, and in a flash of hands, Remo put them all to sleep, still alive.

He slid into the driver's seat, started the engine and drove out away from the oasis, toward the limitless sands that stretched away forever on Remo's map, unbroken by so much as a single tree.

As he drove, Remo found a wrench in the glove compartment and reached down to wedge it between the gas pedal and the firewall. It stuck tightly and the motor began to race. Remo threw in the clutch and let the car coast to a stop, then shifted into first gear, grinding the gears past the racing engine.

He let the clutch out slowly and the car powered forward. He estimated that there was an hour's gas left in the car, even in first gear. The men would be out in two hours at least.

Remo waited until the car was moving nicely, tracking straight across the flat straight sand, then he stood up on the seat and jumped out of the convertible. He watched the car continue forward, picking up speed, carrying its unconscious cargo. They would come to when the car had run out of gas. And they would die in the desert.

Remo watched the car leave, then threw it a salute. So they would die. What did they expect?

"You expect more from an American," he mumbled. "And you get it."

Remo turned back toward Dapoli and started out in a fast trot to the capital city. It was a good day for a run; he had not been getting enough exercise lately.

He saw one car on the way back to the city, but it was on the far road leading from the Mountains of Hercules and he ignored it. He didn't feel like riding anyway.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Remo and Clogg's party had not been the only people on the desert in the predawn darkness.

Colonel Baraka had awakened in his bed with a vague feeling of fear. He glanced around and saw Nuihc standing next to his bed, looking down at him. The small night-light that burned in the room cut Nuihc's soft yellow face into harsh angles of black, and he looked evil and angry.

"Up, wog," said Nuihc.

Without bothering to protest, Baraka rose and dressed, then followed Nuihc wordlessly out of the palace to the back, where they entered a limousine. Baraka got behind the wheel and Nuihc directed him out into the desert on the most southerly road, leading through miles and miles of desert toward the Mountains of Hercules rising in the background.

Baraka spoke to Nuihc several times, but he got no answer, and finally he stopped trying to make conversation.

They were an hour out of Dapoli when Nuihc finally spoke.

"This will do," he said.

Baraka looked at him, and Nuihc snarled, "Stop the car, wog."

Baraka stopped the limousine in the middle of the road, turned off the key and waited.

"I should have known better than to expect honesty from a swineherd," Nuihc said.

Baraka only looked at him. Nuihc was staring out the windshield at the Mountains of Hercules far in the distance.

"I offered you protection from the death forecast for you in the legend and you repaid me with treachery."

"But..."

"Silence, wog. It is right that you know my thoughts. I offered you this protection because I wanted; for my own reasons, to dispose of the men who would come to this land to remove you. It was to entrap them that I eliminated those oil scientists in the United States; it was to bring them here that I instituted the oil embargo. It was to throw them off balance that I had you ignore their messages and their warnings. All this was set up by my plan against the day when I would strike them. It was necessary to that plan to keep them here."

"Why?" asked Baraka, a military man considering a military problem. "You know who they are? Why not just eliminate them?"

"Because, wog, I want them to think. They know I am here. I want them to wonder a bit. When will he appear? When will he strike? It is not the attack that is the pleasure. It is the attenuation of the suspense before the attack."

"So?" said Baraka.

"So, wog, you and your treachery have conspired to rob me of my pleasure."

"No, Nuihc, no," said Baraka earnestly.

"Do not lie to me." Nuihc still looked straight through the windshield, biting off his words crisply, teeth clenched. "You agreed to a private deal with Clogg, the oil man, to divert Lobynian oil to his company, for eventual use in the United States."

Baraka thought to protest, then stopped. There was no point in branding the truth a lie. Somehow Nuihc knew.

"But what does it matter? The embargo to America remains."

"Fool," Nuihc hissed, and for the first time his eyes sparkled with anger. "If I, secluded in the palace, can learn of this plan, how long do you think it will be before the American government learns of it?"

He turned to look at Baraka. "Do not say 'but,' wog. Even for you, it should be simple. Once the government learns that oil will again flow to their country, they will be satisfied, even if the oil flow is by secret means. They will be careful to do nothing to upset the agreement between you and your perverted friend. They will call back the two men I seek. And all my plans will have gone for naught."

Nuihc squinted at Baraka. "Do you see what you have almost done?" He did not wait for an answer. "Out of the car, wog," he said.

Baraka opened the door of the car, but as he scrambled out he took a pistol from a small concealed pocket next to the driver's seat. He had no doubt that Nuihc planned to kill him. He would get Nuihc as soon as he got out the other door. He turned to look over the roof of the car toward the other door.

The door opened. He waited for Nuihc's head to appear. And then Nuihc was at his side. He had come out through the open driver's door. His hand flashed, invisible in the darkness, and the pistol dropped out of Baraka's hand, thudding softly in the sand.

"Fool," said Nuihc. "Do you think I trust a goatherd?"

"What are you going to do?" asked Baraka.

"Kill you, of course."

"But you can't. The legend says that I need fear only an assassin from the East who comes from the West."

"Fool," said Nuihc, and this time his mouth creased in a thin-lipped smile. "I, too, fulfill that prophecy. The blood of the East flows in my assassin's veins. And I came to you from the West. Remember me to Allah."

And there was one slow lazy movement of one hand, and Baraka dropped, dead without a chance to scream or moan or even feel pain, his heart reduced to mush under the protective shielding of his breastbone which had been shattered to powdered chips by Nuihc's hand.

Nuihc did not even look at the body.

He reentered the car and began the drive back to Dapoli. He must move against Chiun and Remo now. His mind concentrated deeply on how he would do it as he drove, so he paid only scant passing attention to a man he saw in the far distance, running along a parallel roadway toward the town of Dapoli.

When Remo returned to his hotel room, Chiun was already up sitting in his meditation posture, staring at a blank wall.

"I'm home, Chiun," said Remo cheerily.

He was answered by silence.

"It was a terrible night," he said.

Silence.

"Didn't you worry about me?"

Chiun continued to stare straight ahead.

Remo was annoyed. "Didn't you worry that Nuihc might have gotten me."

The mention of the unmentionable name brought Chiun alive.

He wheeled toward Remo. "The challenge will come only in a place of the dead animals," he said. "So it is written; so it must be. You can spend all night gallivanting if you want; it is no concern of mine."

Baraka's body was found before noon and Dapoli soon resounded with the news.

Remo and Chiun were still in their rooms, working on balance exercises, when the news came over the radio which Chiun kept on continuously as a substitute for television-almost as if he were hoping the radio set would sprout a picture tube and somehow jump into the broadcast of "As the Planet Revolves."

In stilted formal English, with dirge music playing in the background, the radio announcer said: "The esteemed leader, Colonel Baraka, is dead."

Remo had been hanging by his heels from the slim molding over the front door, catching balls thrown to him by Chiun. The exercise was difficult, and for a normal athlete would have been impossible. Trying to coordinate one's hand and eyes and brain while hanging upside down would have been too much. For Remo it was an exercise necessary to teach him that the body must be able to work under all conditions, regardless of environment.

The exercise went like this: Chiun would throw a ball. Remo would catch it one-handed and roll it back along the floor toward Chiun, six feet away, while Chiun would have already taken another ball from the pile which would be on its way to Remo.

Left. Right. High. Low. Fast. Slow. Remo caught them all and was beginning to get that prideful feeling that comes from a perfect performance. He knew it was perfect. So good, so perfect, that he was sure it might drag an "adequate" from Chiun. From Chiun this was the highest accolade. Only once had Chiun slipped and told Remo something was "perfect" but he caught himself quickly and added "... for a white man."

Chiun's arm was drawn back to throw another hard pink ball when the announcer's voice reported Baraka's death. Chiun heard it and threw the ball violently against Remo, so hard that Remo was unable to move before the ball hit him full in the face.

"Goddamn it," he howled.

But Chiun had turned and walked away and was standing next to the radio, listening, his hands clenching and unclenching.

"The illustrious leader's body was found near the Baraka Memorial Road in the middle of the desert on the way to the Mountains of Hercules. A national period of mourning has been proclaimed by Lieutenant General Jaafar Ali Amin, who has assumed leadership of the government.

"General Ali Amin has blamed the Zionist imperialist American-financed swine for the murder of Colonel Baraka. 'It must have taken a dozen assassins to subdue him,' said the general. 'The signs of a struggle were everywhere. He fought bravely against overwhelming odds. The honor and memory of Colonel Baraka will be avenged.'"

Remo rolled to the floor. He paid no attention to the radio.

"Goddamn it, Chiun, that hurt," he said, rubbing his right cheek.

"Silence," commanded Chiun.

Remo was silent. He listened.

Finally, the announcer said that the station would stop broadcasting for three minutes as a memorial to Colonel Baraka and to give people time to take their prayer rugs and pray toward Mecca.

"All right, Chiun," said Remo good-humoredly. "Baraka's dead. Saves you the work."

"It was him," Chiun said. "It was him."

His voice was cold, distant, angry.

"So what?" Remo shrugged.

"So what? So a debt owed by the Master of Sinanju must be paid by the Master of Sinanju. It was my contract to return King Adras to the throne. He has robbed me of my right to fulfill that contract. In the eyes of my ancestors, it will be as if I failed. I am disgraced."

"Oh, come on, Little Father, it's not so bad as all that."

"It is worse," said Chiun. "Such perfidy. I would never have expected it from one who was born into the House."

The announcer's voice repeated the bulletin. Chiun listened to it all the way through, as if hoping the announcer would say that it had all been a mistake. But it was no mistake. Baraka was dead and this time, Chiun greeted the three-minute pause for Baraka's memory with a smash of his right hand that left the ancient wood-cased old radio a mass of splinters. Miraculously, it continued to squawk.

Remo watched Chiun's face. It seemed to have aged twenty years in a few minutes.

The old man turned and walked slowly across the room. He sat on the floor facing the window. His fingers were touched before him, in prayerful supplication. He was silent, staring at the sky.

Remo knew there would be no way to cheer him up; that there was nothing he could say.

The telephone rang.

Almost thankful for the break, Remo picked up the phone.

It was Smith.

"Remo, what the hell are you doing there?"

"What are you talking about?" Remo said testily.

"We heard that Clogg and a lot of his men are dead. And a government agent. A black girl. And now Baraka. Are you running amok?"

"I didn't do it," said Remo. "Not all of them anyway."

"Well, enough's enough," said Smith. "Forgot about the assignment and trying to get the oil turned back on. The government's going to deal with the new president politically and see what happens. I want you and Chiun to come home. Right away."

Remo looked at Chiun, sitting sadly, looking out the window.

"Did you hear me?" asked Smith. "I said, you two come home right away."

"I heard you," said Remo. "Stuff it.. We've got things to do."

He hung up the telephone.

He looked again at Chiun, but the old man was deep in a sadness that Remo could not enter, that no one could enter, because it belonged only to the Master of Sinanju. Chiun was what his history and tradition made him.

Just as Remo was Remo and must do what Remo must do. Right now, that was his job. He had been assigned to get the oil turned back on. He would do his job, and if he could, he would do something for Chiun along the line.

Chiun wanted to be alone now, Remo knew, so he walked quietly out of the room and loped the four blocks to the presidential palace. It looked no different. Just as many guards. Only the Lobynian flag showed a change, because it was now flying at half-staff, and Remo noticed that the grommets were starting to pull loose. The huge city square was beginning to fill with people, probably awaiting a message from the new ruler, Lieutenant General Ali Amin.

Well, Remo would see that the first message from the new ruler was interesting.

Remo walked around the back of the building. Six guards and four broken doors later, he stood in front of the new ruler of Lobynia, Lieutenant General Ali Amin.

The general looked at him and almost involuntarily his hand went up to his right cheek where a long gash had scabbed over, promising to heal into a beautiful white scar.

"Good," said Remo. "You remember me. Now if you want to keep breathing, this is what you're going to do."

While Remo was explaining to General Ali Amin what he was going to do, a message was left for him at his hotel room.

There was a knock on the door. Chiun in his own room heard the knock and then something else. Something sliding.

Chiun went through the adjoining door and saw a white envelope on the floor inside Remo's door. He picked it up, looked at both sides of it, then opened it.

The bare envelope contained a single small sheet of paper. On it was crabbed handwriting that Chiun recognized immediately. It said: "Pig Remo. I wait for you in the intended place. N."

Chiun held the paper in his hands for many minutes, as if absorbing its feel, as if he could pull from its texture a message other than the one that had been written.

Then he dropped the note to the floor and went back to his own room. Not even Chiun could tell how, but now he knew where the appointed place was. The legends of Sinanju said that the challenge must come in a place of the dead animals and now he knew where that place was.

It did not matter to him that the challenge had been meant for Remo. There was only one way for Chiun to redeem his honor as the Master of Sinanju. It would be to visit punishment upon the man who had robbed Chiun of the duty which was his: the duty of removing Colonel Baraka from the throne of Lobynia.

That much was left to Chiun. Slowly he dressed in a two-piece black karate type suit, and slipped thong sandals onto his feet. Then he opened the door and went downstairs.

Minutes later, a terrified taxicab driver floored the gas pedal of his vehicle and headed out on the central road into the desert, toward the vast Lobynian oil storage fields-the place of the dead animals. There, millions of animals had died to create for future ages the oil on which their foolish countries ran. Today Chiun might die. Would he someday be nothing but oil? Not even so much as a memory?

The cab driver whose meter had been ripped out by Chiun's bare hands smiled nervously at his fare, who sat silently in the front seat staring ahead.

"Radio, sir?" he asked.

There was no answer. Taking silence as acquiescence and needing something to cover the sound of his labored breathing, the driver turned on the radio.

The same announcer's voice came on: "General All Amin has just concluded his address to the Lobynian people from the balcony of the palace. He has announced the following major steps.

"First, an end to the Lobynian oil embargo against the United States.

"Second, in an effort to bring all of Lobynia into a cohesive world force and to end factionalism, he has issued an invitation to King Adras to join with him in the formation of a new government, recognizing both the monarchy and the right of free people to govern themselves.

"All hail General Ali Amin. All bail King Adras."

Chiun listened and smiled. Remo had done that for Chiun. Remo was really a good-hearted child.

And Chiun was happy it was he, and not Remo, who was going to the desert to face Nuihc's challenge.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Chiun stopped the cab two hundred yards from the gigantic oil depot, told the driver he would get his reward in heaven, and stepped out into the burning Lobynian sand.

As he had expected, the depot was deserted. There were no people, no signs of activity. Nuihc had not chanced interference in his challenge to Remo.

Slowly the aged Korean moved through the sand, his feet oblivious to any feeling of heat, toward the storage tanks. There was both sorrow and anger in his heart that his brother's son, born into the House of Sinanju, would attempt to disgrace him by killing Baraka. Death was too good for Nuihc, but death was the one punishment that Chiun was not allowed to administer. Because, for ages past, there had been a dictum that the reigning Master of Sinanju could not take the life of anyone from the village. The rule had been instituted centuries before to prevent the village's benefactor from becoming its tyrant. It still bound Chiun, and worse, Nuihc knew it.

And then, too, there was the fact that Nuihc was less than half Chiun's age, and had had access to the secrets of Sinanju since birth, when he had been anointed and designated as he who would one day become Master. How great were Nuihc's skills?

He still yearned to be the Master of Sinanju. Today, the Master would test him.

Chiun stopped before the gigantic red-and-white-striped oil tank and listened. From many miles away, he heard the hushed breeze buffet the coastline of this country. He heard the light scurrying of small desert animals. He heard the sound of oil moving slowly, heavily through a massive four-foot-wide pipe that snaked its way across the desert and ended here in a small concrete blockhouse, where its precious juice was piped from the building through smaller pipes to the rows of tanks,

But he heard nothing else.

Behind the long row of tanks, there were derricks of producing wells, but they too had been shut down for the day. Chiun moved softly through the sand toward the gigantic steel towers.

He stopped just before reaching the towers and turned around. It was as if he were in an amphitheater. He was bounded on three sides by oil tanks, on the back by the oil towers. No better place to be than in an arena.

Chiun stopped, folded his black-robed arms, and spoke, his voice ringing in the sodden stillness of the Lobynian summer.

"I am the Master, come to face the usurper of my duties. Where is he? Does he hide in the sand like a sick and dying lizard? Show yourself."

And a voice answered, ringing in echo off the oil tanks, "Be gone, old man. My challenge is to the white man to whom you have given the secrets. Be gone."

"You have not dishonored the white man," said Chiun. "You have dishonored me and dishonored the memories of all the Masters who have gone before. Show yourself."

"As you will," responded Nuihc's voice, and then he appeared atop an oil tank sixty yards across the sand from Chiun. Like Chiun, he wore a two-piece black costume, and now he spread his robed arms against the sun-bleached white sky and called out: "You are a fool, old man, for now you must die."

Nuihc looked across the distance to his uncle, contempt on his face, then jumped from the top of the tank. He seemed to float in slow motion. He landed lightly in the sand at the base of the tank and raised his eyes toward Chiun again.

Slowly he began to walk across the sand toward the aged, frail Chiun.

"You are too old, old man. It is time another took your place," Nuihc said.

Chiun did not speak; he did not move.

Nuihc advanced. "And after you are gone, then I shall deal with the pale piece of pig's ear who is your disciple."

Chiun was still silent.

"The buzzards will pick your meatless bones," said Nuihc still advancing, now only twenty yards from Chiun.

And still Chiun did not speak or move.

And then only ten yards separated them, and Chiun slowly raised a hand above his head.

"Stop!" he called and his voice resounded like thunder in the mock arena and Nuihc stopped in mid-stride, as if frozen.

Across the yards, Chiun fixed his steely hazel eyes upon his nephew.

"You should pray to your ancestors for forgiveness," Chiun said softly. "And especially my brother, the father whom you have disgraced. You go now to meet him in another world."

Nuihc smiled thinly. "Have you forgotten, old man, that you may not kill another from the village? I am protected."

"I knew you would hide, like a woman, behind a shield of tradition," Chiun said. "But I will not be untrue to my duties. I will not kill you." He paused, and then his eyes narrowed even further, until they were only thin penciled slits in his face, which now looked like a primitive mask of hatred and doom. Nuihc seemed relieved, but Chiun said, "No, I will not kill you. But I will leave you here in broken pieces and let the sun finish the task I am not permitted to complete."

And then Chiun took a step forward. And another. And another.

And Nuihc backed up. "You cannot do that," he cried.

"Swine," shouted Chiun. "Dare you to lecture the Master on his powers?" And then he jumped through the air toward Nuihc, who turned and fled, running to escape between two of the tanks out into the broad trackless desert.

But Chiun was in front of him. Nuihc turned again. He felt the whir of air pressure and lowered his head fractionally. A yellow hand flashed by, over the top of his long hair. It hit with a crash against the side of one of the tanks, and thick gooey oil poured through the rupture Chiun's blow had made in the steel.

Nuihc gasped and bolted to the right, again heading for an opening. But there ... again .,. Chiun stood before him, a spectre of death and destruction in black.

In desperation, Nuihc left his feet and leaped toward Chiun, his feet cocked beneath his body, ready to lash out and smash into the old man's face or body. Chiun stood unmoving as Nuihc flew toward him. Then Nuihc's right leg flashed out, aimed at Chiun's face, but Chiun merely raised his right hand and to Nuihc it felt as if his foot had slammed into a mountain. He dropped heavily onto the sand, but as fast as he was he was scurrying away in another direction.

He slipped crossing the growing pool of oil that gushed from the ruptured tank, turning the sand arena into a sticky quagmire, then saw ahead of him one of the two oil towers and ran frantically toward it. He leaped upward, grabbed a crossbar, spun his body around, and then began to climb up the slim pyramidal steel web.

Chiun walked slowly across the sand toward the tower.

Remo returned to his room, pleased with the day's work, hopeful that getting Adras back onto the throne had helped lift Chiun out of his despondency.

"Hey, Chiun," he called as he entered the hotel room. There was no answer and the only sound in the room came from the radio, as the announcer talked about the impact of the oil embargo in making the West understand the unity of the Arab peoples.

"Chiun?"

Remo looked around the room, then went through the door into his room. There he saw the note on the floor. He picked it up and read it.

"Pig Remo. I wait for you in the intended place. N."

Chiun had gone instead of Remo. But where was the intended place. He carried the note back into the other room. Chiun should not have gone. It was Remo's challenge to meet. Suppose it was a trap? If Nuihc had hurt Chiun in any way, then he would not sleep another night on the earth, Remo vowed. But where was the intended place?

The squawk of the announcer burst into his thoughts and he went angrily over to turn off the radio.

"... and the shortage of fossil fuels has seriously hurt the West's economy . . ." Remo snapped it off. The intended place was a place of dead animals. But where?

And then it came, spurred by the radio broadcast. Fossil fuels. Of course. The place of dead animals was an oil field, Remo dropped the note and ran downstairs. Moments later he was in a taxicab.

The driver looked at Remo's face, drawn tight with anger and fear for Chiun, then looked at the spot on the dashboard where his meter had been until it was removed by an aged Oriental several hours before.

"Do not tell me, sir. You wish to go to our oil fields, correct?"

"Drive," Remo said.

If he could have climbed higher he would have, but he could not, and so now Nuihc hung from the very top of the oil derrick, looking down in fear at Chiun, who stood eighty-five feet below him, his arms folded across his chest.

"The most timid squirrel always seeks the most high branch," Chiun said.

"Be gone," called Nuihc. "We are members of the House. We have no quarrel."

"I go," said Chiun. "Yet, hear this. The white man, Remo, is the true heir of Sinanju. Count yourself lucky that he did not come today to meet your challenge. He would not have treated you so kindly."

Nuihc clung to the top of the derrick. The old man would go; Nuihc need only wait. He would live to fight another day.

He watched Chiun slowly unfold his arms below.

Then Chiun drew back his right hand and smashed it against the complex of valves, pipes, and gears at the base of the derrick.

Nuihc heard before he saw. A hiss and then a deep throated rumble. And then far below him, he saw the first bubble of slick black oil slip from the piping Chiun had ruptured, and then it turned into a frothy plume and it was growing stronger and louder, and it surged suddenly into the air, and then it was on him, and the oil choked him and coated him, and its pressure grew greater and greater as the gusher buffeted him, and then his oil-coated hands could hold no longer and he felt them slip, and then he was being carried away from the derrick, high into the sky atop the black chimney of oil.

Chiun looked up from below and saw Nuihc's body carried high into the sky by the eruption of oil. It seemed to bounce atop the black stream for a few moments, before it was flung out into the air, far off into the sand, and the tons of oil arched softly and began to pour down on Nuihc's body.

Chiun watched a moment, then folded his arms again and walked away from the derrick, across the now oil-filled sand arena toward the thin black road that led back to Dapoli.

Remo saw the frail black-clad figure walking slowly along the road, and ordered the cab driver to stop. The cabdriver recognized his fare from before and groaned, but he quickly braked the aged car.

Remo pushed open the back door.

"Chiun," he called anxiously. "Are you all right?"

Chiun looked up at him blandly. "I sleep well. I am well fed. I exercise daily. Why would I not be all right?" He slid past Remo into the backseat and Remo got in behind him, slamming the door.

"Back to town," he told the driver, then turned to look at Chiun. The old man's eyes were closed and a look of peace was on his face.

"Did you have any trouble?" asked Remo.

"Why should I have had any trouble?" asked Chiun, his eyes still closed.

By the time they reached Dapoli he was snoring.