"That's true enough," Remo said, "but I always count on you to explain them to me. You're my teacher and I trust you."
"Then you must also trust that I have your best interests at heart when I tell you that you are not yet ready to learn something. "
"I don't buy that," Remo said. "What am I not ready to learn?"
"Many things. The proper greetings for Persian emperors. The things one must not say to a pharaoh. The proper method of negotiating a contract. Many of the legends and their deeper meanings. Many things."
"You're not trying to dodge me because I don't know how to say hello to a Persian emperor," Remo said. "This is something that concerns me and I want to know what it is. "
"You are a willful stubborn child," Chiun said angrily.
"Just so that we both understand it," Remo said.
Chiun sighed. "You may follow me. But ask no ques tions. And stay out of my way."
In the huge parking lot of Dynacar Industries, just off the Edsel Ford Parkway in Detroit, workmen were scrambling around tying a green ribbon around a package.
If it were not for the fact that the package was six feet high, six feet wide, and fifteen feet long, it would have looked like a wedding gift, even to the elegant silverywhite wrapping paper it was covered with.
Two dozen reporters and cameramen had already showed up, fifteen minutes before the scheduled press conference of Lyle Lavallette, and they milled around the big package, trying to see what it contained.
"It's a car. What do you expect? Lavallette didn't call us here to show us some goddamn refrigerator."
"Hey, listen. He got shot a few days ago and then Mangan got killed last night. For all you know, there may be a goddamn hit squad under that ribbon and they're going to blow us all away."
"I hope they start with you," the first reporter said. "It may be a car but it sure as hell stinks."
"I thought I was the only one who noticed that," another reporter said. "Maybe it's these workmen."
"What's that you said, asshole?" snarled one of the workmen. There were four of them, lying on their stomachs, clutching measuring tapes and trying to arrange the foot-wide green ribbon atop the package into a perfect floral-style bow.
"Nothing," said the reporter nervously. "I didn't say anything."
"We can smell it too," the workman said. "And we don't like it any better than you."
"It smells like rotting garbage," another reporter said. "Tell us about it. Hey, move that over a quarter of an inch. There." The workman picked up a walkie-talkie from atop the package and spoke into it. "How's that?" He looked upward as a helicopter swirled into view over the parking lot. A voice answered back through the helicopter loud enough to be heard by the reporters.
"Looks perfect. Now lock it down."
The workman set about taping the bow in place with transparent package tape.
"Damn Lavallette and his goddamn perfectionism," one of the workers grumbled.
"What do you expect from a maverick auto genius?" a reporter asked.
"Not packages that smell," the workman said.
"Just cars that stink," another workman said. Watching from an upstairs window of the Dynacar plant was Lyle Lavallette. He felt good because he knew he looked good. A new girdle, developed in Europe for pregnant women, had trimmed another half-inch off his waistline.
His personal beauty consultant, who was on the Dynacar payroll as a design coordinator, had just given him a skin-tightening-cream facial and had also cleverly found a way to cement the loose hair that had bothered Lavallette three days earlier to another hair, to guarantee that it could no longer pop up and embarrass him in front of the photographers.
"Good, good, good, good, good," he said. "The press is almost all here. No sign of Revell and Millis?" he asked Miss Blaze.
His secretary was wearing a heart-stopping tight sweater in fuchsia. She had been wearing a red sweater, but Lavallette had made her change it because he was wearing an orange tie and he thought the colors might clash. Changing at the office was no problem, however, since Lavallette had insisted that she keep a dozen different sweaters in her desk, to help entertain reporters who might come to see them.
"Mr. Revell and Mr. Millis haven't arrived yet," she said. "But I called their offices and they're on their way."
"Good. I was worried that they might cancel just because Mangan got killed last night."
"No. They're coming," Miss Blaze said.
"Okay. I want you to wait for them downstairs," Lavallette said. "And when they come, you greet them and then take them to their seats on the dais."
"Okay. Any special seats, Mr. Lavallette?"
"Yes. Seat them on the left," he said.
"Is there a reason for that?" she asked.
"Best reason of all," Lavallette said. He smiled at his secretary. "It's downwind," he said.
"Nice place you bring me to," Remo said.
"Nobody invited you to accompany me here," Chiun said.
"It smells like the town dump."
"That is because there are many white people here," Chiun said. "I have noticed that about your kind."
"Why are we at a car company anyway? Dynacar Industries. I never heard of it."
"I am here because it is my duty," Chiun said. "You are here because you are a pest."
They were stopped at the parking-lot gate of Dynacar Industries by a uniformed guard who handed them a printed list of invited guests and asked them to check off their names.
Chiun looked up and down the list, then made an X next to a name, handed it back to the guard, and walked through the open gate.
The guard looked at the clipboard of names, then at Chiun, then back at the list.
He glanced up at Remo. "He sure doesn't look like Dan Rather," he said.
"Makeup," Remo said. "He doesn't have his TV makeup on. "
The guard nodded and handed Remo the clipboard. Remo looked up and down the list and at the bottom, he saw neatly typed his own name: REMO WILLIAMS.
There was already a check mark next to it. "Somebody already checked off my name," he said. "Yeah? Let's see. Where's that?"
"Remo Williams. That's me. See? It's got an X next to it. "
The guard shrugged. "What am I supposed to do? You know, everybody who comes in here is supposed to check off his name. Now I can't let you in without you make a check mark on the list. That's the way it works and we've got to do it that way. "
"Sure," Remo said. "I understand."
He took the clipboard back and made an X next to a name and walked through the gate.
The guard read the list and called after him, "Nice to see you, Miss Walters. I watch your shows all the time." Remo caught up with Chiun as the small Oriental moved through the pack of newsmen, which had now grown to more than fifty. Chiun marched through like a general, smacking aside with an imperious hand loosely held cameras which threatened to injure his person. Cameramen started to yell at him, then stopped and ooohed a large sigh as Miss Blaze stepped out on the dais, leading James Revell, head of General Autos, and Hubert Millis, president of American Automobiles, to seats at the end of the dais.
"Look at the tits on that," one cameraman said in an awestruck voice.
"Got to admit," another one said. "Lavallette knows how to travel."
"I hope he's doing a lot of traveling up and down on that one," someone else said.
Chiun stopped near the front of the dais and shook his head.
"I never understand the fascination of your kind with milk glands," he told Remo.
"You didn't hear me say anything, did you?" Remo asked.
He looked up and saw the two men who had just sat down take our handkerchiefs and hold them in front of their faces. The stench at this spot was overpowering and Remo said, "Couldn't we find a less potent place to stand?"
"Here," Chiun said. "Slow your breathing. That will help you. And your talking. That will help me."
Remo nodded. He leaned toward Chiun. "A funny thing just h
appened," he said.
"I'm sure you'll tell me about it," Chiun said.
"I have never seen you so grouchy," Remo said. "Anyway, they had my name here on the guest list. Did you tell anybody I was coming?"
"No," Chiun said.
He turned to look at Remo, who said, "And somebody put an X to my name." He thought it might cheer Chiun up if he played straight man and tossed him a line that could lead to a high-quality insult, so he said, "Do you think there are two just like me in the world?"
He was surprised when Chiun did not respond in the expected way. "You saw a check mark next to your name?" he said.
Remo nodded.
"Remo, I ask you again to leave this place," said Chiun.
"No."
"As you will. But whatever happens, I do not want you to interfere. Do you understand?"
"I understand and you can count on it. I'll sit on my hands, no matter what happens," Remo said. Chiun seemed not to be listening. His eyes were scanning the crowd, and then there was a smattering of applause that brought all eyes up to the podium with its Medusa's head of microphones. Lyle Lavallette, wearing a blue blazer with the new Dynacar Industries emblem on the pocket, waved to the press and stepped toward the microphones.
"Who's that?" Remo said, as much to himself as to Chiun.
"That's Lyle Lavallette, the Maverick Genius of the Auto Industry," said a reporter next to Remo. "What are you here for if you don't know anything?"
"Basically to rip your throat out if you say another word to me," Remo said, and when his eyes locked with the reporter's the newsman gulped and turned away.
Lavallette fixed a big smile on his face and slowly turned for 180 points of the compass to make sure that every photographer had a chance to get a full-face shot of him.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "I want to thank you for coming today. I apologize for the slight delay in scheduling but I was busy in a hospital being treated for gunshot wounds." He smiled again to let them know he was fully recovered and that it would take more than mere bullets to stop Lyle Lavallette. He wished now that he had joked with doctors at the hospital; that would have been good stuff for People magazine.
"And I also want to thank Mr. James Revell, the head of General Autos, and Mr. Hubert Millis, president of American Automobiles, for coming here today also. Their presence underscores the important fact that we are not here today to unveil or launch a commercial enterprise but to announce a world-shaking scientific discovery." He looked around at the reporters again before continuing.
"I would be remiss if I did not point out our deep sorrow at the tragedy that has befallen Mr. Drake Mangan, the president of National Autos. I know that Drake-my dear, good old friend Drake-with his keen interest in technology, would also have been here if death had not closed down production on him first."
Remo heard the two men, who had been introduced as Revell and Millis, speak to each other.
"Good old friend Drake?" Revell said. "Drake wanted to kill the bastard."
"Still seems like a good idea," Millis responded.
"But no further ado, ladies and gentlemen," Lavallette said. "I know you're all wondering what the Maverick Genius of the Auto Industry has up his sleeve this time. Well, it's simply this. The gasoline-powered automobile, as we know it, is dead."
There was silence until Remo said aloud, "Good."
Lavallette ignored the comment and went on. "The internal-combustion engine, the basis for the auto industry as we have known it before today, is now a museum piece. A dinosaur."
Remo clapped. No one else made a sound. Chiun said, "Be quiet. I want to hear this." But his eyes were scanning the crowd constantly and Remo knew that the Master of Sinanju had not shown up to listen to some kind of announcement about a new bomb-mobile.
"A dinosaur," Lavallette repeated. "It's ironic, perhaps, because the dinosaur has been for years the source of our wonderful car culture, in the form of decayed animal matter that we extract from under the sands of the world in the form of crude oil. Decayed dinosaurs, the leavings of the primeval world. But those supplies have been dwindling and our four-wheeled culture has been threatened with slow extinction." He paused for dramatic effect. "Until today."
Lavallette patted his white hair, reassured to find it all in place.
"While I was fighting my lonely battle against Communist tyranny in Nicaragua," he said, "I had a great deal of time to do new research on new means of powering autos. Ladies and gentlemen, here is the solution."
He looked up and the helicopter which had been hovering over a far corner of the lot spun forward. It stopped over the silver-wrapped package in front of the dais. Lavallette nodded and a man dropped on a rope from the helicopter, attached the rope to a hook in the top of the silvery package, then pulled on the rope and the helicopter began to rise.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the public unveiling of the marvel of our age, the supercar of tomorrow here today. The Dynacar."
The package was lifted into space by the rising helicopter. It had had no bottom and as it lifted off the ground, it revealed a sleek black automobile.
Behind the automobile, in a neat row, stood three shiny metal trashcans. They were filled to the brim and the faint breeze carried the noxious stench of their contents back into the faces of the press. Revell, at the end of the dais, started to cough; Hubert Millis choked, turned and retched.
Next to the garbage cans was a small black machine that looked like an industrial vacuum cleaner.
"Just as the cars of yesterday were fueled by the refuse of yesterday, the Dynacar-the car of today-will operate on the refuse of today. No more gasoline. No more oil. No more exhaust or pollution. Gentlemen. Please."
He nodded to the workmen, who stepped up to the row of trashcans and one by one began emptying them into the top of the small black device. Old newspapers, coffee grounds, chicken bones, underwear tumbled into the round black hole. Some spilled over and fell to the ground and maggots began climbing up the side of the black machine.
The workmen hastily brushed them back. When all three cans had been emptied into the black device, one of the workmen pushed a button.
Immediately, there was a whirling grinding noise, like a combination clothes drier and trash compactor working. Slowly, the mound of garbage that had topped the opening of the black machine began to move. It shook and lifted, maggots and all, then slowly disappeared into the machine's gaping maw.
"You are watching the Dynacar refuse converter in operation," Lavallette announced. "This device duplicates the same action that transformed the carcasses of the dinosaurs into fuel. But this is an instant processor and refiner all in one."
The grinding stopped and Lavallette signaled one of the workmen, who closed the top of the machine, then stood off to the side, fighting the dry heaves. That was bad for the corporate image and Lavallette made a mental note to have the man fired.
Lavallette stepped down from the platform. Remo noticed that the two automakers, Revell and Millis, were leaning forward, watching. Chiun, meanwhile, was still scanning the crowd.
Lavallette went to the base of the black machine and opened a small door. He turned around, holding above his head a grayish-brown lump about the size of a pack of cigarettes.
"Here you are, ladies and gentlemen. Those three barrels of trash you just saw dumped into the machine have now been converted into this."
"What has this got to do-with cars?" a reporter called out.
"Everything," Lavallette said. "Because this little block here is solid fuel and it's enough fuel to run my Dynacar for a week without refilling. Imagine it. Instead of putting out your trash every Tuesday, you simply dump it in the refuse converter, turn on the motor, and from the bottom you take out fuel for your auto. In one stroke, the problems of waste disposal and fuel for the family car are solved. "
A reporter called out another question. Lavallette recognized him; he was from an independent local station which had never liked Lavallette. The st
ation had refused to call him a maverick genius of the auto industry and had in fact called him one of the car business's greatest frauds.
"My station wants to know what happens if you're a two-car family?" he asked, with a smirk.
"Those people can just stay tuned to your channel all day long. You produce enough garbage for the entire country," Lavallette said.
There was a polite ripple of laughter in the crowd. Lavellette was surprised; he had expected a belly laugh. He checked the faces of the media people and instead of the wide-eyed amazement he had anticipated, he saw perplexity, frowns, and more than a few fingers pinching nostrils closed.
"Let's get this straight, Mr. Lavallette," a network reporter asked. "This vehicle runs exclusively on garbage?"
"Refuse," Lavallette said. He didn't like the word "garbage." He could see the Enquirer headline now: "MAVERICK AUTO GENIUS UNVEILS GARBAGEMOBILE."
"Will it run on any kind of refuse?" another reporter demanded.
"Absolutely. Anything from fish heads to old comic books to- "
A reporter interrupted and Lavallette saw from his nametag that he was from Rolling Stone.
"Will it run on shit?"
"I beg your pardon," Lavallette said.
"Shit. Will it run on shit?"
"We haven't tried that," Lavallette said.
"But it might?"
"Perhaps. Actually, no reason why not."
He felt a little relieved when he realized that no respectable newspaper in America would coin the word "shitmobile." And who cared what Rolling Stone said anyway?
"We want to see the car run," the Rolling Stone reporter said. Apparently this had not occurred to any of the other media types there because they instantly started to shout: "Yeah, yeah. Let's see it run. Drive it, Lavallette."
Lavallette gestured for silence, then said, "This is the second prototype. The first was stolen last week . . . I suspect, by industry spies. But the laugh is on them. Both the refuse converter and the engine of the Dynacar are so revolutionary that they cannot be duplicated without infringing on my exclusive patents. And to make certain that the secret of its internal operating system remains exclusively the property of Dynacar, each model will come with a sealed hood, and only Dynacar licensed shops will be allowed to service them. Anyone who tampers with the seals on the hood will find that the engine has self-destructed into unrecognizable slag-as I'm sure the thieves who made off with the only other existing model have discovered by now.
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