Terror Squad

"Murder glorious?" he said.

"You know what you are?" she asked. "You're a dinosaur. A dinosaur." She giggled. "Plodding around in the past, trying to stop tomorrow. I just saw one. You're a dinosaur."

She was interrupted by a voice from the back of the room.

"You can come in now."

Remo looked up. The speaker was a young Puerto Rican. He wore the uniform of The Gauchos, a street group that had been set up as the Boriqueno equivalent of the Black Panthers, but which had pretty well died out when the TV networks stopped covering their antics. He wore a brown beret, a brown shirt with military patches and emblems, brown slacks tucked into highly polished paratrooper boots. The youth was small and slim, perhaps twenty, and he crooked an imperious finger at Joan, beckoning her to follow him.

She got up and turned to Remo again. "A dinosaur," she said. "And just like all the dinosaurs that couldn't accept change, you're going to be dead." Her voice was an angry hiss.

"I'm going to wait for you," Remo said. "Right here. We're not done talking yet."

She stomped away from him and went into the backroom. Remo went to the counter at the front of the shop, sat on the stool nearest the door, and ordered coffee.

But all hopes he had of hearing what went on behind the door were shattered as one of the customers put a quarter in the jukebox, and it began to blare out the music of a Latin band that sounded as if it had one hundred men on first trumpet

Behind the door, Joan Hacker looked around the room, into the nut-brown faces of twenty-five young Puerto Ricans, swallowed and explained what she wanted.

"Why you come to us?", one young man, with more medals and insignia than the others asked.

"Because we're told that you are tough and smart."

"Oh, yes," he said, with a toothy grin, "we are toughs girl. That is because we are men. The men of the streets. And we are smart too. We understand that is why you did not get Negritos for this work."

She nodded, even though she felt it was not proper for them to feel that way about blacks. After all, they were part of the same Third World. Perhaps if she had more time, she could have made them see that they and the black men were brothers. But she did not have the time.

Others around the room now were nodding, babbling. "Right We smart Not like the others." Another said, "Damn right, we men. Lady, you want us to show you how much man we are?" Many of them chuckled; Joan felt their eyes on her thinly clad bosom and wished she had worn a jacket

The leader said: "Do you have the money?"

"I have half the money. The other half comes after," she said.

"And for this, we are to demonstrate at the United Nations tomorrow?"

"Yes," she said. "But no violence."

"That is much money, just to hold a parade," he said cautiously.

"There will be more, if your demonstration is big enough." Joan Hacker thought of Remo sitting outside. "There is one other thing," she said.

"What is this one other thing?" the leader asked.

When the door opened, Remo turned, expecting to see Joan Hacker. But again, the slim Puerto Rican was there. He looked around the room, his eyes lighted on Remo, and he said: "The girl wants you."

Remo hopped off the stool and followed the youth into the backroom. But inside, he saw that Joan Hacker had gone. There was a back door leading from the large meeting room. That door was now blockaded by ten youths. Remo felt a hand press between his shoulder blades and push. He allowed himself to be propelled forward into the middle of the floor. Behind him now were another dozen young men.

"Where's the girl?" Remo said, trying to sound inoffensive. "I thought you said she wanted to see me."

"When we are done with you," the young leader said, "no one will ever again want to see you."

He looked around the room. "Who wants him?"

There were shouts from both sides.

"You, Carlo," the leader said, and another youth, taller and huskier than the rest, stepped away from the rear door, his face split wide in a grin.

He reached into a back pocket and brought out a black-handled knife, then pressed the button and a six-inch blade snapped forward into place, glinting white and shiny under the overhead fluorescent lights.

He held the knife in front of him, holding it correctly, like the right hand on a golf club, and began to wave it back and forth in front of him.

"You want him in big pieces or little pieces, El Jefe?" he asked.

The leader laughed and while the others chuckled, he said: "Bite size chunks."

"Hold on a minute," Remo said. "Don't I get a knife too?"

"No."

"I thought you guys believed in fair fights. How fair a fight is it if I don't have a knife?"

"You want a knife?" said the youth known as El Jefe "You shall have a knife." He snapped him fingers. "Juan. Your knife." A tiny youth, no older than sixteen, handed him a knife from his pocket. El Jefe snapped it open, looked at its long blade, then turned and slipped the blade in the crack between the door and the jamb. Then he wrenched the handle to the left, snapping off the blade and leaving only the handle.

He beamed with a grin and tossed it to Remo. "Here, gringo. Here is your knife."

Remo plucked the handle out of the air. "Thanks," he said. "That'll do." He curled the knife into his right fist

"Go get him, Carlo!" shouted El Jefe. "Cut the marichon,"

Carlo jumped Into the attack like a fencer. Remo stood his ground. Only three feet separated them now. Carlo waved his knife back and forth in the slow hypnotic movements of a cobra, following the snake charmer's flute.

Then he lunged. He aimed the knife point at Remo's solar plexus, and moved forward, knife, hand and arm. Remo moved aside, and as Carlo turned to cover, Remo's left hand darted out and flicked off the bottom of Carlo's right ear lobe.

"Lesson number one," Remo said. "Don't lunge. Slash."

There was a collective sip of air around the room. Carlo felt the blood trickle down his neck. He went wild, jumping forward toward Remo, his knife slashing air back and forth. But then Remo was behind him, and as Carlo turned to him, Remo put his left thumb into Carlo's cheekbone. The loud crack as the bone popped resounded through the room.

"Lesson number two," Remo said. "Don't take your eyes off the target."

Carlo now was frantic, rage fighting with fear for possession of his body. With a scream, he raised his knife over head and ran at Remo, planning to plunge it down into Remo's body.

Remo stood his ground, but then as Carlo reached him, Remo went up into the air. his right arm, which he had not thus far used, went up over his head, and then the hand came down on the top of Carlo's skull. The un-bladed knife crashed against the top of Carlo's head, and then the pressure carried the handle through the bone, and the knife was imbedded deep in his brain. Carlo staggered once, then fell to the floor.

"Lesson number three," Remo said. "Don't screw around with me. I'm El Exigente, and I won't buy your beans."

He walked to the front door, and the twelve Puerto Ricans scattered to let him pass through. As he walked out, Remo grabbed El Jefe by the windpipe and dragged him along behind him.

In the street outside the coffee shop, El Jefe decided to tell Remo everything. The girl was obviously an idiot; she had agreed to pay two thousand dollars for The Gauchos to picket the United Nations tomorrow. No, they would not commit any violence. And no, if Senor did not want them to show up, they would not even show up, because maintaining the social order was more important than money to them.

"Show up," Remo said, gave El Jefe's windpipe a squeeze of remembrance, and walked off down the street

No point in looking for the girl; she had gotten away by now. But the main line tomorrow was to be an attack on the delegates; he and Chiun would be there to stop it.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The streets were already speckled black with dots of people as the sun rose over the East River.

The United Nations building loomed cold and foreboding over the crowd, an architectural cigarette pack, but then the crowd warmed and came alive as the building's black wedge of shadow raced backwards along the streets to rejoin the base of the building.

The demonstrators were young-many blacks, many Puerto Ricans, but mostly white-all mindlessly carrying placards and signs.

You can't outlaw liberty.

We'll fight for freedom.

And yes, Remo saw one marked, people united to fight fascism, and he recognized the sign wielder as one of The Gauchos he had played with yesterday.

The antiterrorist conference was scheduled to begin at 11 a.m. The few people who would get the seats in the gallery had already been herded behind ropes near the building's main entrance. Still the mob of demonstrators continued to swell and surge out in front of the building in which men tried usually to keep peace in an unbalanced world, but today were to attempt the just as-difficult task of outlawing hoodlumism on an international scale.

Remo turned from the television set in disgust as the demonstrators spotted a camera on them and broke into an organized chant:

Hey, hey, hey, hey.

People's wars won't go away.

Chiun smiled. "Something intrudes upon your sense of order?" he said.

"Sometimes it seems we spend all our time trying to protect our country...."

"Your country," Chiun interjected.

"My country from nit-nats. The politicians won't let us build new jails, but how about one big asylum? That'd end most of our social problems."

"It would only start them," Chiun said. "I remember once, many years ago...."

"No, Chiun, not again," Remo said. "I'm filled up to here with typhoons, and with fat, and thin and dead animals, and dogs that bark and dogs that bite, and I just don't need anymore."

"Have it your own way," Chiun said mildly, returning his gaze to the television. "I suppose we must go out there today In the midst of all those lowlifes."

"Yes," Remo said, "and we've got to leave soon. Somebody's going to make an assassination try on the delegates; we've got to stop it"

"I see you have not reconsidered your dismissal by Dr. Smith."

"We both know, Chiun, that that doesn't work. I'm in this for life, whether Smith likes it or not."

"A strange kind of loyalty in which one disobeys him employer?"

"My employer is the United States," Remo said, "not Dr. Harold W. Smith."

Chiun shrugged. "I must have slept through the referendum in which two hundred million people expressed their confidence in you."

"It wasn't necessary."

"Those two hundred million people do not even know you exist," Chiun said. "Dr. Smith does; he pays your salary; you report to him; therefore he is your employer."

"Have it your own way. After this is over, we'll file a complaint with the National Labor Relations Board." Remo tumbled into a one-hand hand-stand against the far wall, and called upside down to Chiun: "C'mon. We've got to limber up."

"You limber up. I will watch and make comments."

But Chiun was silent as Remo went through almost an hour of gymnastics around the living room floor. Finally, he stopped and said: "Time to go. What makes it worse is that Smith is going to be skulking around, probably with six hundred agents. We've got to be careful we don't knock off any of his men."

"It will be easy," Chiun said. "Be on the lookout for the men wearing trench coats and carrying knives in their teeth." He allowed himself a smile, as he followed Remo to the door.

He watched Remo's smooth glide approach to the door, and again he worried. Not for himself, but for Remo because the force against them was powerful enough to kill the young American who would one day be Master of Sinanju. And Remo should recognize that force, but he did not. Yet, if Chiun should tell him, Remo's mistaken pride would force him to go onward, exposing himself to danger. As painful as it was, he must wait for Remo to find out himself.

"Do you never wonder who is behind all this terrorism?" Chiun asked Remo.

"I don't have to wonder," Remo said. "I know."

"Oh?"

"Yes," Remo said. "It's the dog who barks but sometimes bites, who will bite fat but prefers thin and who waits at the place of the dead animals for PUFF, the magic dragon."

"Let us hope he does not wait for you. Because while we protect these men today, nothing will be changed unless the one responsible for this is destroyed."

"That's next," Remo said.

Chiun shook his head sadly and moved into the doorway. "It can never be next. It must always be now."

Remo started to answer but was interrupted by the telephone behind him.

As Chiun waited at the doorway, Remo stepped back into the apartment to answer the call.

A girl's voice said, breathlessly, "Remo, you've got to come. This has all gotten out of hand."

"Joan," Remo said. "Where are you?"

"At the place of the dead animals. At the Mu . . ."

And the phone went dead.

Remo looked at the receiver for a moment, then slowly replaced it. It was the face-to-face he'd wanted. But where? And how? He turned to Chiun who saw the look of puzzlement on Remo's face, and said gently: "It will come to you. It has been planned that way."

Remo just stared at him.

On the other side and at the other end of town, Joan Hacker hung up the phone with a self-satisfied smile.

"How did I do?" she asked.

"Magnificently, my revolutionary flower." The man who spoke was small and yellow-skinned. him voice was even and placid.

"Then you think I fooled him?"

"No, my dear, of course you did not fool him. But that does not matter. He will come. He will come."

Remo and Chiun began the long walk uptown toward the United Nations Building. Remo tried to rebuild the girl's words in him mind; twice he bumped into people on the street; twice Chiun clucked disapprovingly.

They slowed down slightly as they heard the happy shouts of children playing in a playground. Remo turned to watch. A set of boy-girl twins were at the top of a large fibreglass slide. It was shaped like a brontosaurus, that biggest, fattest of prehistoric dinosaurs, and Remo noticed for the first time how perfectly its smooth sloping back had been designed for use as a slide. He smiled absently to himself, then looked again. Something about the shape of the slide; it was familiar; he had seen that shape in just that way before. Then it hit him-where Joan Hacker had called from, the place of the dead animals. And, for the first time, it also came to him who was behind the terrorists. Who it had to be.

He stopped and put his hand on Chiun's shoulder.

"Chiun," he said. "I know."

"And now you go?"

Remo nodded. "You have to go on and protect the delegates to the conference."

Chiun nodded. "As you will. But remember, care. Yours is the dog that bites; the ones I seek only bark."

Remo squeezed Chiun's' shoulder and Chiun averted his eyes at the rare display of affection. "Don't worry. Little Father. I'll bring back victory in my teeth."

Chiun raised his eyes to meet Remo's. "The last time the two of you met, I told you he was five years better than you," Chiun said. "I was wrong. You are equal now."

"Only equal?" Remo asked.

"Equal may be good enough," Chiun said, "because he has fears that you do not have. Go, now."

Remo turned and moved away from Chiun, quickly, melting and disappearing into the early-morning work-bound crowd. Chiun watched him go, then said a silent prayer to himself. There were so many things that Remo must yet learn, and yet one could not coddle the next Master of Sinanju.

Around the corner, Remo looked down the street. Every cab he saw had at least one head, and sometimes two in the back seat. Waiting for an empty might take forever.

He moved to the comer and when one cab slowed to pass workmen who were digging up the street, he grabbed the door handle, pulled the door open and slipped into the back seat, onto the lap of a young woman carrying a model's hat bag. She was beautiful, placid and serene and she said:

"Hey, creep. Wotsa mattuh witcha?"

"It's good to know your beauty's not just skin deep," Remo said, as he leaned across her, opened the door on her side, and pushed her out into the street.

He slammed the door again and said: "Museum of Natural History and step on it"

From the driver's seat, P. Worthington Rosenbaum started to protest. Then, in the rear-view mirror, he caught a glimpse of Remo's eyes, and decided to say nothing.

Remo sat back and thought of the Museum, which he had last visited on a bus trip from the Newark orphanage where he'd grown up. The square blocks of buildings. The floor after floor of exhibits. The glass cases showing different forms of life in their native habitat. And the room where the dinosaurs were. The brontosaurus with the playground-slide back. Tyrannosaurus with his foot-long teeth. Exact skeletal reproductions of the animals as they had been when they lived.

Joan Hacker had tried to tell him yesterday when she told him he was a dinosaur. She had been trying to tip him, but he was too dumb to grasp it.

And the call today was another put-up job, to try to get him there.

Well, now, Remo had an edge. The man who was behind it all had wanted Remo to come; but he could not be sure that Remo was coming. Surprise might be on Remo's side.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

There was something wrong with the entire thing, Chiun thought, as he moved speedily, but not even seeming to move, through the crowd miffing around at the United Nations building.

There had been too much advertising of the attack upon the delegates to the antiterrorist conference. Too many people knew. Dr. Smith knew and in his present state that might mean that half the people in the United States government knew. Remo knew. Chiun knew. That poor, simple girl knew.

It was not the way the thing should have been done. For was it not one of the precepts of Sinanju that the ideal attack must be quiet, merciless and unexpected? And this one violated all those rules, but especially the most important one-being unexpected. If one wished to assassinate the delegates to an antiterrorist conference, one did not wait until they were assembled behind the protective screen of thousands of policemen and special agents and what have you. One assassinated them in their beds, upon planes, in taxicabs, in restaurants, all more or less upon a given signal. The Americans had a proverb for it too, although he thought it might have been Korean: do not put all your eggs in one basket.

Perhaps Chiun was guilty of error; might he be overestimating the quality of their opponent? He thought about this as he moved. No, he had not. Their student was himself an adept at the secrets of Sinanju. There was no way that he would move stupidly.

And yet there had been much seeming stupidity in everything done thus far.

Chiun put the question behind him as he moved closer to the entranceway to the U.N. building, sifting through policemen and guards and other people whose eyes lacked the power to fix upon him motion.

It was easy to see Smith's men. He and Remo had joked, but they were right Smith's men wore trench coats and hats with press cards in them, and carried cameras which they aimed at the crowds, without ever bothering to depress the shutters. And yes, there was Smith too, clad the same way, up on the steps of the building. Chiun shook him head. Oh well, he would be sure not to hit anyone wearing a trench coat.

Now-where would the attack on the delegates come from?

Deception was the keystone of everything that had been done so far. The attack would not be frontal. The assassins would be disguised.

Chiun looked around him. As newsmen? No, no one trusted newsmen, and policemen in emergency situations delighted in abusing them and demanding credentials. Perhaps as policemen? No, there were too many policemen who would have the opportunity to see through such disguises. As clergymen? No. There would be no reason for a group of clergymen to gather. Their presence alone would be suspicious,

Chiun looked around. Who could pass through the lines without question? Without the press interfering with them, without the police stopping them?

Of course.

He began to move toward the right edge of the plaza in front of the building's main entrance, toward a group of Army officers who were now moving resolutely through the crowd, through the police lines, toward the building. Chiun knew. The assassins had come as a military detail, and no one would question them, until it was too late.

It was adequate, Chiun told himself, but he still wondered why the attack was to be handled this way. It was defective in concept, and their opponent should have known better.

The front steps of the Museum of Natural History were sealed off by ropes with signs posted: closed today.

Remo went down the pedestrian ramp to the slightly below-ground first floor level. The door there was locked also and with the heel of his hand, he smashed out the locking mechanism so that the door opened easily. Behind him, in the taxicab, P. Worthington Rosenbaum wondered whether or not to call the police, then remembered the fifty dollar tip the man had given him, and decided that anything that happened at the museum was not the business of P. Worthington Rosenbaum.

Although it was summer, it was cool and dark in the building. Remo took a few steps forward across the highly polished marble floors into the central first floor reception hall. A long-ago memory told him that stairs were to the left and right of the passageway. In a small office on the corner of the first floor, a bearded young man sat, with a phone to his ear.

"He's here," he hissed.

He nodded as the voice came back: "Good. Follow him to the top floor. Then kill him."

"But suppose he doesn't go to the top floor?"

"He will. And when you are done with him, call me," the voice said, almost as an afterthought.

Remo moved to the stairs and started up. He would have to begin at the top floor; that reduced the chance of the prey escaping. It was one of the things Chiun had taught him.

On the top floor of the museum, the stairs led into a corridor at the end of which stood the dinosaur room. Remo moved into the room and looked around. There was brontosaurus, as he had remembered him as a child. He moved through the big, high gallery. There at the end was T. Rex, still evil and powerful looking although only a skeleton, towering high over Remo. This was the place. This entire building. The place of dead animals.

Remo heard a sound behind him and turned as the bearded youth came through the door corridor, clad all in black, wearing a black gi, a karate costume which in white is a formal attacking uniform, but in black is an affectation.

"Well, if it ain't the Cisco kid," Remo said.

The bearded man wasted no time. With a deep nimble of sound in him throat, he was in the air moving toward Remo, his leg tucked under him to unleash a kick, his right hand cocked high overhead to deliver a crushing hand mace.

The leap was long and high, right out of Nureyev. The conclusion was pure Buster Keaton. Before he could fire off a blow with either hand or foot,, his throat ran into Remo's up-thrust hand. The hardened heel buried itself deep in the man's Adam's apple. The bone and cartilage turned to mush under the hand and the man's leap stopped, as if he were a soft tomato plopping against a brick wall. He dropped heavily to the marble floor, without even a gasp or a groan.

So much for Cisco.

When the telephone had not rung in three hundred seconds, the small yellow man on the second floor smiled, and looked at Joan Hacker.

"He has breached our first line of defence," he said.

"You mean?"

"Our man in black is dead. Yes," the yellow man nodded.

"Why, that's terrible," Joan said. "How can you be so calm? That's just awful."

"Spoken like a true revolutionary. We capture airplanes and shoot hostages. Fine. We shoot unsuspecting athletes. Fine. We bring about the death of an innocent old butcher. Fine. We prepare this morning to kill a score of diplomats. Fine. But we should worry about the life of one high school dropout, whose karate technique was, to tell the truth, abysmal."

"Yes, but those other people are just . . . well, they're the enemy ... agents of reactionary Wall Street imperialism. And the man downstairs . . . well, he was our man."

"No, my dear," the yellow man said. "They are all the same. They are all men. No matter what label they bear, they are all men. Only the unthinking and the unmerciful label them as agents of this or that, and then only so that they can justify their own refusal to treat each of them as a man. It is a greater justice to kill a man, knowing full well that you are killing a man and not just ripping off a label. It gives meaning to that man's death and richness to one's own accomplishment."

"But that flies in the face of our ideology," Joan sputtered.

"As well it might," the yellow man said. "Because in this world, there is no ideology. There is only power. And power comes from life."

He stood up behind the small desk and leaned forward to Joan, who inexplicably recoiled in her seat. "I will share with you a secret," he said. "All these preparations, all these deaths, all have been undertaken with one purpose in mind. Not the glorification of some lunatic revolutionary ideal; not the bringing to power of unlettered savages whose unworthiness to rule is proven by their willingness to follow where ideology leads. Everything you and I have done has had only one purpose: the destruction of two men."

"Two men? You mean, Remo and the old . . . the old Oriental?"

"Yes. Remo, who would take unto himself the secrets of our ancient house, and Chiun, the elderly Oriental as you call him, who is the reigning Master of Sinanju and whose existence will always stand between me and my goals."

"I don't think that's revolutionary a bit." Joan Hacker sniffed. Suddenly she did not like this at all. It wasn't noble, like liberating an airplane or bombing an embassy. It was like murder.

"The man who wins can apply any labels he wishes," the yellow man said, his hazel eyes glinting. "Enough now. He will soon be here."

The fourth floor was empty and so was the third. Remo thought of the last time he had seen the museum, many years before. Remo was Just another faceless kid in a crowd of orphans, who had never seen anything. It was back before cultural enrichment was considered an alternative to learning to read and write, and it was only when the satire class had mastered reading and writing that the nuns agreed to take them to the museum. Then it had been packed and noisy, but today it was empty and still, cold drafts were sweeping down the high broad corridors and stairwells, and it seemed a fitting place for the legend of the dead animals to end.

Remo remembered how the entire class had suffered and waited while Spinky, the class idiot, had suffered through reading lessons until he finally grasped the concept of words. Every day had seemed like a month. Well, Spinky was long behind him now; so was Newark and the orphanage and his childhood. All that was left of the Remo who had been was a first name. Not even a face or a random fingerprint existed to say that he had been here. And now as he moved smoothly down the wide twisting flight of steps to the second floor, he thought he would trade in everything to be back in the orphanage, to be wearing one dollar surplus Army sneakers along these halls, instead of thirty-four-dollar leather tennis shoes.

He stopped in the middle of the last flight of steps. At the bottom stood a big black man, wearing a dashiki. He looked up at Remo with a smile, then began up the stairs. Remo backed up until he was on the landing, midway between the third and second floor,

Right. He thought so. Another big black man was heading down on him from the third floor.

"Howdy," Remo said. "Ah come to jine up with yo third world."

"Ave atque vale," one of the men said. "That mean, hail and farewell," the other said.

"Good," Remo said. "Now do you know the 'Whiffenpoof Song'? If you want, I'll hum a few bars. Let's see. Through the tables down at Morey's ... or is it to the tables. Anyway, it goes, la, da, da, da, to the place where Louie dwells. . . ." To their blank look, Remo said, "Don't know that one, huh? How about 'The Crawdad Song'? If you sing it, I'll yodel in the high spots."

Remo's back was now against the marble wall on the landing. It felt cold against his back, through his thin shirt, and he tensed his muscles against it, feeling them writhe against the stone.

Then the two big men were in front of him, and without warning, they fired heavy fists at his face. Remo paused, waited, then slid under the two punches. Rather than hit the wall with their fists, the men recoiled, but Remo was now between and behind them. He leaped into the air, and then flailed back with both elbows. Each elbow hit the back of a head, and the force of Remo's blows drove the faces forward into the unyielding cold marble. He heard two separate sets of cracks: one set as his elbows hit the men's skulls; the second set as their faces splashed and broke against the stone wall.

He stepped away without looking and heard them sink to the floor behind him. Then he was moving down the stairs again, three at a time.

At the bottom of the stairs, he stopped and then he heard it. Clap, clap, clap. A small and delicate round of applause. He looked to his left. Nothing. He moved to the right, following the sound, until he stood before the open doors leading to a large gallery. A broad balcony ran, around the gallery, overlooking the first floor. Standing in front of him, near the stairs that led down to the well of the gallery, was Joan Hacker. And with her. . . , Remo grinned. He had been right It was Nuihc.

He stopped clapping as him hazel eyes met Remo's deep brown ones.

"I knew it was you," Remo said.

"Did Chiun not tell you?" Nuihc asked.

Remo shook his head. "No. He has this funny idea that your name is not to be mentioned except in a funeral service. Something about your being a disgrace to his teaching and to him House."

"Poor old Chiun," Nuihc said. "In different times, in different circumstances, my father's brother would have been quite a man to know. But now, he is simply... well-out of it, to use your idiom."

Remo shook him head. "I have a hunch that the graveyards of the world are filled with men who decided that Chiun was out of it."

"Yes. But none of them are named Nuihc. None of them is blood of Chiun's blood. None of them is from the House of Sinanju. And none of them...."

"None of them is a traitor to his heritage; none of them the kind of animal who recruits these poor mindless things to murder and rape for him. Why, Nuihc? Why terrorism?" Remo asked.

Joan Hacker's eyes had followed their conversation as if it were a tennis match. Now she turned again from Remo, as Nuihc laughed. He leaned back against the marble railing and laughed heavily, a high piercing laugh that reminded Remo eerily of Chiun's high-pitched cackle. As he threw his head back, Remo could see behind him the cables holding the ninety-foot replica of the giant blue whale, largest animal ever to live on earth. The whale's shadow darkened the room.

"You still do not know, do you, white man?" Nuihc asked.

"Know what?" Remo said. And for the first time, he was uneasy.

"None of this has anything to do with terrorism. Did Chiun not tell you of the dog that barks and the dog that bites?"

"So?"

"So all the terrorism has been the dog that barks. The dog's bite was aimed at you and your aged friend. You two were the targets. Everything was aimed to that end. The plane whose hijackers insisted that they go to Los Angeles. That was so that I could be sure your government would call you in. The attack on the airport and the attack on the three colonels. Designed to bring you in closer and closer, deep into the target ring."

"It's one thing to name a target," Remo said. "It's another to hit it."

"But that is the beauty of it," Nuihc said. "You will hit it for me. You have no doubt dispatched poor Chiun to the United Nations, there to save the lives of diplomats whose lives are worthless. And there Chiun will do what Masters have been trained to do. He will move into and among the enemy. And then, too late, he will find that not the diplomats, but he himself, is the target." Without looking at the watch he wore on his delicate wrist, Nuihc said: "It is ten forty-two. We can watch if you wish."

He motioned to Joan Hacker, who stepped aside and turned on a small battery-operated television set which was propped on the marble raffing that ran around the balcony. The sound came on instantly-the roar of people chanting-and seconds later, the picture swirled on, showing the crowd milling about in front of the United Nations building, held back by squads of uniformed New York police.

As Remo watched, he saw, with a sinking feeling, the figure of Dr. Harold W. Smith, moving around behind the police lines. But there was no sign of Chiun.

The announcer's voice said: "The diplomats from the major countries all have arrived now and are inside. The conference should soon begin. But the mood of the crowd is growing uglier by the moment and we understand that police reinforcements are being sent to the scene. We now switch to our pool cameras inside the meeting chambers."

The camera blanked, and then another camera picked up the inside of the assembly chambers where the antiterrorist meeting would be held. It was mostly empty, although the few gallery seats were already filled. A few second-string diplomats sat at chairs, and young aides scurried in and out, carrying papers and notebooks, placing them at different desks.

There was only a hushed buzz from the gallery as the camera watched and then another announcer's voice intoned: "You are looking at the main assembly chamber where today's conference on terrorism will be held. All is in readiness for the meeting which is expected to begin in another fifteen minutes. While the crowd outside is growing unruly, the feeling of diplomats here is that this is a great step forward for the forces of humanity in...."

him voice was punctuated by a couple of sharp reports. Two. Then three. Then a fusillade of what were obviously bullets. The announcer's voice again: "We don't know what's going on here, and we don't wish to alarm anyone unduly. But those certainly sounded like shots. I'm going to try to find out what happened, and in the meantime, we'll return you outside."

The screen blanked again and Nuihc began to laugh.

"Goodbye, dear Uncle Chiun," he said, cackling, and then nodded his head to Joan Hacker to turn off the television. He looked now at Remo.

"You now look at the new Master of Sinanju," Nuihc said.

Remo just stared.

"Do you not see? Are you so blind? Everything was geared for this moment. It was essential to produce a new level of skill in terrorism; that was the only way to assure that your government would assign you and Chiun the task of stopping me. That was why the trick of bringing the weapons onto the planes, past the new metal detectors. Did you wonder how I did it?"

"Anyone could have figured it out," Remo said, dully, his mind now whirling in confusion, in shock at the thought of Chiun dead.

"Yes, but no one did. Metal detectors are designed by definition to detect hidden metal. We brought the weapons aboard planes in the open, mounted onto obvious metal objects that people are psychologically used to not inspecting."

Remo thought for a moment; the thing had gnawed at his mind. "The wheelchair," he said.

"Of course," Nuihc said. "The wheelchairs were reinforced with weapons parts. No one likes to look at a wheelchair, so no one examines it closely. And of course, since it is metal, it shows up as metal on the metal detector. And no one pays it any attention. Clever, was it not?"

"A parlour trick," Remo said. "You should see what John Scarne can do with a deck of cards."

"You deprecate my skills," Nuihc said. "Think of the training. The instant competence. Did Chiun explain that competence can be bestowed easily, if the trainee is expendable? You can make him able to deal with a few simple things very well. But that flash of training breaks down the moment anything unforeseen or unexpected enters into the mission."

"Chiun told me of the assault on the mountain," Remo said.

"Of course," Nuihc responded. "Those peasants were given instant competence. But their inability to imagine being inside a castle was the surprise. And so they all died. And then I sent the warnings. First fat, then thin, then the dead animals. It was to let Chiun know who his opponent was."

"Why?" Remo asked.

"So he would worry more about you and less about himself. He has ... he had a strong instinct for survival, that one. It was necessary to disarm him by fragmenting his concentration."

"And then you had Joan here give me clues to get me here?" Remo asked.

"Yes. And that was the riskiest part. I knew that Chiun would not tell you of me, because he knew that would force you to prove your manhood by coming after me. I had to make you think you discovered me. So the clues could not be too blatant, lest you fear a trap. Yet, if they were too subtle, you would not understand them. That is not to downgrade you. It is the way with your western mind. And so you figured out what I wished you to figure out, and so you came, leaving Chiun alone to meet his death. And now you must decide."

"Decide what?" Remo asked,

"Will you join me? You have had experience working with the Master of Sinanju. Will you not now join the new Master as we move toward power over this globe?"

"And who elected you the new Master?" Remo asked coldly.

For a moment, Nuihc looked perplexed. Then he smiled and said, "There is no other."

"You're wrong," Remo said. "If Chiun is dead-which I doubt-if Chiun Is dead, then I claim the seat of the House of Sinanju. I am the Master."

Nuihc laughed. "You forget yourself. You are only a white man, and I am not those cretins you have met with out in the hallways."

"No, you're not," Remo said. "They were just poor simpletons, like this dumb child here. But you? You're something else, you are. You're a mad dog."

"Then," Nuihc said, "the lines are drawn. But tell me, do you not feel a tinge of fear in your stomach when you remember the beating I gave you when last we met. I told you then that in ten years you would be magnificent. Ten years have not passed."

"And finally, dog meat, you've made a mistake," Remo said. "It wasn't to be ten years. Chiun told me. We were this much apart." He held up his fingers, separating his thumb and index finger by only a quarter-inch. "Just this much. Chiun thought five years. And then he admitted he had been wrong. I came on faster than he thought; he told me I was better than you. How does it feel to be a perpetual also-ran, dog meat? All your life, Chiun was better than you. And now, when you say you've gotten rid of him, I'm better than you. It's all over, Nuihc. And I'm not bound by a vow not to kill someone from the village."

Nuihc's face moved, showing the tension underneath. Remo waited. He did not know if Chiun was dead or alive, but if he was dead, if Nuihc's evil scheme had worked, then this moment of Remo's life would be dedicated to the Master's memory. He reached deep into the dark corners of him mind for words he had heard Chiun say, and intoned softly:

"I am created Shiva, the Destroyer, death, the shatterer of worlds. The dead night tiger made whole by the Master of Sinanju. What is this dog meat that now challenges me?"

Nuihc screamed, deep in his throat, the wail of a cruel, evil cat, and then leaped toward Remo.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Yes, there was definitely something wrong. The attack was wrong. Nuihc had planned it, but he had not planned it the way it should have been planned to be effective. And that gnawed at Chiun, as he fell in and disappeared among the small crowd of Army officers that moved imperiously through the police lines and toward the front entrance of the United Nations building.

The idea of using Army uniforms as a shield was good, Chiun thought. Only a trained eye would have looked past the silver and gold and braid and ribbons to see that some of the faces were pale around the chin, where beards had only recently been shaved off, and the skin under had not yet had time to darken. Only a very trained eye might notice that there was among the group a little more swarthiness than one could expect in a group of twelve American army officers.

But that is what was wrong. A trained eye would notice those things, and Nuihc should know that a trained eye would be looking for them. He would know that Remo and Chiun would be here, watching, and their eyes would not overlook the evidence of the recently-made-hairless faces and the swarthiness.

Unlike Nuihc to be so careless. But was it carelessness? Or was it something else?

Chiun shook him head slightly. And there was Remo to worry about. The child was not always sensible, risking death when he was free to depart. Not that the danger was that terrible. If Nuihc should harm Remo, he would spend the rest of his days in hiding or in flight, because the Master of Sinanju would track him to earth and Chiun's vengeance would be implacable and terrible to see. Surely, Nuihc would know this. So again, why would he use such childish means as hints and telephone calls, to entice Remo to come after him? Perhaps there was something else on Nuihc's mind. There were many things Chiun could not understand.

Chiun passed within inches of Dr. Smith who was marching back and forth, balefully staring at the crowd. He seemed to be trying to focus his eyes. Poor Dr. Smith. Chiun hoped that he would regain his senses before it was all too late.

Chiun seemed to drift in and out among the Army officers, at first visible, then gone, visible, then gone, so that there was no steady vision of him that a guard or a policeman could have moved to intercept. Instead, he was here, in bright sunshine, in front of 20,000 people-like an apparition, an afterglow, which vanishes between one blink and the next.

He was past the guards now and moving briskly with the Army contingent along the corridors of the United Nations building, toward the sections in the back where the main Assembly room was and which was bordered by conference rooms, small meeting rooms and offices.

The group of Army officers was led by a tall, sandy-haired man in his mid-forties who wore the stars of a major general on a pale tan gabardine suit. He carried an attaché case, as did all the men with him, and now the general turned to look over him men, and he saw Chiun's face. Chiun met his eyes, but the general said nothing and made no acknowledgement. Instead, he led the way into a small room alongside the main Assembly hall. Chiun was in the middle of the group as they moved into the room.

Why had not the general acknowledged Chum's existence? It was almost as if he had expected the Master to be there.

The last man into the room locked the door behind them, and now the men moved quickly. They began to peel off their Army uniforms. Underneath, they wore light blue shirts. From their attaché cases, they took thin silk robes which they slipped on, and burnooses which they placed on their heads. And finally handguns.

And all the while Chiun watched, as the men moved wordlessly. Handguns? Why? Why not explosives? Or gas? Why have gone this far to risk all on the poor marksmanship of one's men? Handguns were for single targets in enclosed areas; not for broad masses of men hi a big open assembly room. Only for single targets in enclosed areas.

And then Chiun knew.

The diplomats who were to meet outside in minutes were not the targets of these assassins.

There was only one target, and he was in an enclosed area. The target was Chiun and he was now locked in the room with the twelve armed men who planned to kill him. And Remo would be at Nuihc's mercy. Nuihc would not hesitate to kill, because he knew that his own men would have killed Chiun.

The anger rose in his throat like a roar. The Master of Sinanju did not die like that. For the sin of arrogance, Nuihc would bleed longer than was necessary before Chiun took his full measure of justice.

Churn's eyes met those of the man who had worn the general's stars. He was wearing now a thin red silk robe with a silver moon on its chest, and a silver burnoose, and he held a .45 automatic pointed at Chum's chest. With a smile, he touched his hand to his chest, his forehead, and then moved it toward Chiun in the traditional Arabic salaam, but his mistake was moving his hand toward Chiun.

Chiun took the hand in flight and wheeled with it. The big man's body followed and he went over Chiun into a pile of men, all of whom had faced Chiun with drawn weapons.

And then Chiun was among them.

"You dare?" his voice shrieked, as his hands and arms and feet wreaked destruction on the men in the room. Shots fired. Two. Three. Then a fusillade, but Chiun was among the men and he could not be hit. He grabbed burnooses and men whirled, by their headpieces-crashing into others, and downing them like bowling pins.

"You dare?" Chiun screamed again, and while the men in the room paid the first instalment of the price of his anger, the anger was at Nuihc first, but then also at himself, because he had let himself be fooled, and had allowed Remo to go, perhaps to his death. Because, in a battle of even strengths, the one who planned would win.

There were more shots, scattered, and than a final desperate salvo, and then there were no more shots because there were no more men left alive to fire the guns. And when the door opened and security men poured through, Chiun moved silently through them, out into the corridor, and one of the men asked, "Did you see an old guy?" and the other said, "For Christ sake, how could anybody get past us?"

There might still be time. Nuihc, secure in the knowledge of Chiun's death, might dally with Remo; he might try pain; he might keep Remo alive for minutes, for even hours, to savour him triumph. There might still be time.

In the hall, Chiun saw a familiar figure running toward him. It was Dr. Smith.

"Chiun," he said. "I just realized. The Army officers. What happened?"

"They will kill no one, Dr. Smith."

"The diplomats are safe?"

"The diplomats were always safe. The assassins came for me, and they found me. Now, quickly. Where in this city are there dinosaurs to be found?"

"Dinosaurs?"

"Yes. Ancient reptiles who no longer walk the earth."

Smith hesitated and Chiun snapped, "Quickly. Unless you want yet another death on your hands."

"The only dinosaurs I ever saw are in the Museum of Natural History."

"And that is near here?"

"Yes."

"Thank you. Remo will be glad you are again well."

Chiun was gone. Out in front, the mob still surged and swelled against the police lines as rumour and word began to filter out that there had been deaths inside. But Chiun was through the lines and then the crowd, without ever touching a shoulder to another's body. A half-block away, a taxicab was stopped in traffic. It was empty. Chiun opened the front door and slipped into the front seat.

The driver turned to look at him and Chiun impaled him with him eyes. Then, glancing at the driver's registration over the windshield, he said: "P. Worthington Rosenbaum, you will take me to the Museum of Natural History. You will ride on the sidewalk if necessary to get me there rapidly. You will make no conversation if you wish to live. If you do all these things well, you will be rewarded. Now go."

P. Worthington Rosenbaum decided at that moment that he was leaving the taxi business, and going into partnership in a yarn shop with his sister. But first, he would get rid of this last half-a-deck at the Museum of Natural History.

As he tromped on the gas pedal, Chiun sat back in the seat The ancient legend said that one typhoon was still when another passed. Well, Chiun still moved and if Nuihc began to roar, he would find the truth of the old legend that said one typhoon must die. In the place of dead animals.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

It was very strange, what they were talking about. She was sure it was very significant. But the cocaine had made it so hard to concentrate. It was nice and dreamy. The whole world was nice and dreamy. It was wonderful being a revolutionary heroine.

But there were so many things she did not understand.

Nuihc-it was funny that he had never told her his name before-had said that Remo and the old gook were targets. But he must have been fooling, because the whole filthy exploitive capitalist system was the target. Of that, she was sure. Nuihc was as dedicated to the cause of the righteous revolution of the oppressed as she was. Without any doubt.

But then Remo had shown up and had said that he was the Master of Sinanju, whatever that was. And they had talked about the old man as if he had died.

And why did they want to watch things on television? Television. It would be nice to see what was happening to those imperialist running dogs up at the United Nations.

All this chitter-chatter between Remo and Nuihc wasn't very interesting anyway. Typhoons. Barking dogs. Tricks. Guns in wheelchairs.

Silly, all of it. All that counted was a new order for the Third World. She had been willing to step aside, once the revolution was accomplished, but now she wondered if she should. She might just be the kind of leader that they would need. After all, what did they know of government, the poor, naked, ignorant savages?

From the corner of her eye, she saw Nuihc leap at Remo, just as she turned the television back on. The announcer's voice was a backdrop for the sound of their scuffle.

She watched, suddenly realizing this was a battle to the death. Goodie. She felt like Queen Guinevere. Was that her name? Yes. Arthur's wife.

Nuihc was very good. He threw a punch which seemed to be in slow motion, but it hit Remo and it spun him around. Remo was bigger and stronger, but maybe he was slower. He threw a blow that missed, and he slid past Nuihc toward the marble balcony railing that overlooked the first floor and the huge suspended whale.

Nuihc clasped both his hands together over his head, like a prize-fighter in victory, and jumped toward Remo who lay sprawled across the railing. But Remo rolled away, just as Nuihc's hands crashed down and hit the railing with a crack like a pistol shot. The marble chipped and fell to the floor.

Then. Remo was standing on the railing, and then Nuihc hopped onto the railing too. Back and forth they moved, each throwing blows, each missing. Remo did something fancy with a kick that missed, and his momentum took him off the railing and he plunged toward the floor thirty feet below, but he caught onto one of the overhead cables that supported the fibreglass replica of the ninety-foot whale, and turning his body in the air, did a double flip and landed on his feet on the whale's back, twenty-five feet above the floor.

Nuihc dove for the cable, also spun in the air, and landed softly on the back of the whale five feet from Remo.

And then they fought back and forth along the back of the whale. Strange, they had fought and fought and fought, and yet she found it hard to remember either of them landing a hard blow. Perhaps they weren't really very good after all.

She ignored the buzz of the television as she watched. She squealed. Fight on, men. My heart to the winner.

Then somehow Remo had Nuihc's two wrists in his hands and was squeezing. Nuihc pulled back and then lunged forward. Bis body twisted in the air, and his feet went up and over Remo's head.

How wonderful. They were fighting over her. She felt like throwing a kerchief so they could fight for it and the winner could pin it over his heart. But she didn't have a kerchief. She had a Kleenex. It was wet. She threw that. It didn't go very far.

Nuihc landed behind Remo, his back to Remo, and his hands were free, his body carefully balanced, but before he could turn, the wet Kleenex fluffed through the air, hit his shoulder, and Joan giggled as it plopped on the whale's back. The small touch of the crumpled paper destroyed Nuihc's balance and he slid to the back of the whale. Before he could regain his feet, Remo was on him with an elbow.

And then Remo lifted Nuihc by the scruff of the neck and carried him like a suitcase toward the head of the whale.

The winner and champion. He had fought for Guinevere and won. Too bad. She had hoped Nuihc would be her saviour. Oh, well. At least, she and Remo were sexually compatible. "Hey, toots," Remo called. "Turn up the sound on that television, will you?"

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Remo tied Nuihc's hands behind his back with Nuihc's own leather belt, then hung him from the whale's mouth, his hands and arms pulled up painfully behind him.

Then he almost skipped the distance down to the floor, landing softly on his feet, not even pausing to brace himself, but bitting-click-and stepping off in a fast trot.

He came up the stairs and stood alongside Joan Hacker, who was amusing herself by stuffing a little cocaine inside her upper lip.

"Want a snort?" she giggled.

"No thanks," he said. "I prefer rice myself."

"Oh, rice must be nice, but I've never sniffed it. Anyway, you've won. My body is yours."

"Stuff your body into your mouth and silence it, will you? I'm trying to hear the television."

The announcer was talking.

"There is still only confusion here. The crowd outside remains more or less under control, but we have definitely confirmed that shots were fired inside the U.N. building. However, we are advised that no diplomats ... we repeat, no diplomats . . . have been shot. The victims of the shooting appear to have been a group of Army officers, but there is some question as to their identity. We are awaiting further details."

Remo snarled at the television. Maybe this and maybe that. Confusion and further details. He wanted to shout: Is Chiun all right?

There was a groan from the direction of the whale. Remo turned and him eyes met Nuihc's, as the small Oriental was hung out, like a side of beef from the jaw of the huge whale replica.

Him eyes screamed hatred for Remo.

"If it had not been for her, I would have won," he hissed.

"Just a theory on your part," Remo said. "Now for a fact. I don't know yet whether Chiun is all right or not. But if he is not, I'm going to come back and peel your skin off in strips. You better hope your men missed."

Remo turned on his heel to walk away.

"You can't go," Joan Hacker shrieked. "You've won me. You have to take my body now."

"I might have your body but I know your soul will always belong to the Third World."

"No, Remo," she said. "Not any more. I'm tired of the Third World. I want to go home. I want you to take me home."

Suddenly, she was a very young girl again, as cocaine depression seized her.

Remo felt sorry for her. 'I've got to find something out first," he said. "Then I'll take you home."

He walked away and as he went down the stairs, he heard Nuihc's voice behind him, speaking softly to the girl.

Remo cracked open the front door of the museum and stepped out onto the broad stone stairway that led down to the street

From far down the block, he heard the whoop, whoop, whoop of sirens. From the rising pitch, he could tell they were heading his way. He looked, and then saw a familiar looking yellow cab, careening down the street, between cars, bouncing off curbs, racing toward him. Several blocks behind it were a string of squad cars, strung out, following the maniacal cabdriver.

Then the taxi pulled abreast of Remo, hopped the curb up onto the sidewalk, and skidded to a stop. The passenger's door opened and Chiun stepped out on the sidewalk.

"Now, begone, P. Worthington Rosenbaum," he said to the driver. The cabbie took off again down the street and only seconds later, the police cars roared by in full pursuit. Chiun looked up, saw Remo on the top of the stairs, paused, then smiled.

He strolled casually up the stairs, hitching his robes up around his ankles.

"Kind of in a hurry to get here, Little Father?" Remo said.

Chiun looked at him blandly. "You have no doubt forgotten the importance of this day?"

"Importance?"

"Today is the day we are to visit Brooklyn."

"Oh," Remo said, snapping his fingers. "No wonder you were in a hurry."

"Of course," Chiun said. "What else could be so important that I would rush anywhere?"

Remo nodded. "Well, before we go, I want you to see something. I have a present for you."

He turned and led the way into the museum, through the great entrance hall, up the stairs and into the back gallery where the whale hung.

He flung back his arm dramatically toward the whale, stepped back so Chum could see and said, "There."

"There what?"

Remo turned. Only the belt still hung from the whale's open mouth. Nuihc was gone. Remo ran to the steps and looked down into the gallery. On the floor at the bottom lay the sprawled figure of Joan Hacker.

Remo ran down the stairs to her and turned her over. Her face had been split open. Blood poured from a fracture near her temple and jagged pieces of bone protruded through her fresh young skin.

"Nuihc did it," she gasped. "When you left, he said he loved me. He needed me for his revolution. I climbed down and untied him. Then when I got down, he hit me."

Remo looked at the wound and knew that Nuihc could have killed her instantly had he chosen. He had chosen to kill her slowly. Why?

"Did he tell you anything? To tell me?" Remo asked.

"He said to tell you he would be back. And the next time you would not be so lucky."

She groaned. "Remo?"

"Yes, Starlight."

"Why did he hit me? Didn't he want me with him in the new world?"

And because he did not want to hurt her any more, Remo tried to find an answer. Finally, he said, "He knew I loved you. He could see it in my eyes. He just didn't want to lose you to me, or to my side."

"Would your side have me?"

"Any side would be happy to have you," Remo said.

Joan Hacker smiled broadly, showing a newly capped upper right frontal bicuspid, and died in Remo's arms.

Remo had once seen a picture, painted by Hyacinthe Kuller, of a young girl asleep, and as Joan's eyes drifted closed, he thought again of that picture and how Joan at last looked satisfied.

He put her down gently and looked up at Chiun.

"Should we chase him?" Remo asked.

"No. He is gone now. We have only to wait. When we want him, he will find us."

"When he does, Chiun, he's mine."

"Is it of any importance to me what two amateurs do to each other? I wish to keep you alive only long enough to take me to Brooklyn to visit the Streisand shrine."

"All right, all right, Chiun, enough, enough. Today. I promise."

But there were things to do first. Back at the apartment, Remo changed, and while he was in the bedroom, Smith appeared.

"The antiterrorist pact was approved by the nations today by a unanimous vote," he said to Remo, as he came from the bedroom door.

"Terrific," Remo said, sarcastically. "It won't do one damn bit of good. It's another piece of paper that governments will ignore or tear up whenever it suits their purpose."

"I'm sure the President will be interested in your viewpoints, particularly coming as they do from someone with such a rich background of international political experience." Smith sniffed, as if smelling something bad, and Remo knew he was back to normal.

So Remo said, "Because you threw us a curve ball on this one and nearly got us killed with your meddling. ..."

"Meddling?"

"Yes, meddling," Remo said.

"You are probably the only functionary in the world who thinks a superior's order is meddling."

"Have it your own way," Remo said. "Anyway, because of that, Chiun and I are going out to blow a month's pay."

"Oh? Should I know where you'll be?"

"We're going to Brooklyn," Remo said.

"It's impossible to blow a month's pay in Brooklyn," Smith said.

"Just watch us," Remo said.

By the time Remo was dressed and ready to leave, the afternoon news was on and the announcer was speaking cheerily of the antiterrorist pact which would serve to turn worldwide terrorists into hunted animals.

"The nations of the world today have served notice that civilized people will protect themselves from mad dogs, no matter under what political flag those mad dogs hide."

Halfway across a nation, Mrs. Kathy Miller watched the same newscast. She thought back now of the terror of only ten days ago. It all seemed as if it had happened to someone else, far back in the past. She remembered the rape and she remembered her dead baby, but strangely, equally strong were the memories of the good and gentle man who had sat next to her, and who had told her that life was beautiful and that those who believed in life would survive.

And for that moment, Mrs. Miller believed it. She stood, turned off the television set and went into the bedroom where her late-working husband still slept, determined to join with him in love, to create a new life in her body.