"And now. A demonstration of the Dynacar in action." Lavallette felt the eyes of Revell and Millis on him as he made his way through the crowd. While the cameramen crowded around, he opened a small flap in the hood of the automobile and slid in the tiny cube of compressed garbage.
"That, ladies and gentlemen, is enough fuel to run this vehicle for a week."
He sat behind the wheel of the car and as the cameras zoomed in, he held up a golden ignition key for all to see.
At first, the reporters thought Lavallette was having trouble getting the car to start. They saw him slip the key into the ignition and turn it, but there was no answering rumble from under the hood, no throb or vibration of an engine.
But suddenly, with a cheery wave through the window, Lavallette sent the Dynacar surging ahead. The perimeter of the parking lot had been kept clear of automobiles and so it served him as a test track. One reporter timed it as moving from zero to sixty-five in ten seconds flat, which was high quality for a nonracing car. Lavallette sped the car around the lot and brought it back to the starting point to a quiet stop. Throughout the entire drive, the Dynacar had made no sound but for the squeal of its tires.
When he stepped from the car, Lavallette was grinning from ear to ear. He struck a heroic pose. On the dais, Miss Blaze started to clap. Reporters clapped too, not because they thought it was proper for them to do so, but to encourage Miss Blaze so that she would continue her bosom-bouncing ovation.
Lavallette gestured to the workmen, who came forward to stand in front of the Dynacar. One spoke into his walkie-talkie and a moment later, the helicopter popped back into view, still holding, suspended from its underside, the giant silver box that had covered the car. Swiftly, as with a well-rehearsed operation, the copter flew in and lowered the container down over the Dynacar. The workmen unfastened the ropes that held it and the helicopter chopped off, as Lavallette went back to the podium and said into the microphones, "I'll take your questions now. "
"You claim this car is nonpolluting?"
"You can see that for yourselves," Lavallette said. "There's no exhaust, no tailpipe. Not even a muffler, I might add."
"What about the smell?"
"What smell?" asked Lavallette.
"There's a distinct odor of garbage. We all smelled it when you drove past."
"Nonsense," said Lavallette. "That's just the aftersmell of the refuse that was sitting around before. And I apologize for that, but I wanted to get the worst, most rancid waste we could just to show how efficient the process was."
"You should have used shit," yelled the reporter from Rolling Stone.
"You were shot earlier this week by someone claiming to represent an environmental group. Do you think that shooting would have occurred if that group had known about the Dynacar?"
"No," Lavallette said. "This car is the answer to every environmentalist's prayers."
"What do you think, Chiun?" Remo asked.
"I think you should go home," the old Oriental said. His eyes still flicked around the crowd.
"We've been through that. What the hell are you looking for?"
"Peace of mind. And not getting it," Chiun snapped.
"Fine," Remo said. "You got it. I'll see you around."
"Remember. Do not interfere," Chiun said.
Remo walked off in a huff. He could not figure out what was troubling Chiun. All right. The old man was allowed to be disturbed because he'd been nicked by someone's lucky shot, but why take it out on Remo? And why come here? What made him think that the gunman might be here?
Behind him, as he walked through the clusters of media people, Remo heard Lavallette still answering questions. "Mr. Lavallette. While everyone knows that you're the Maverick Genius of the Auto Industry, you've never been known as an inventor. How did you manage to make the technological breakthroughs necessary for the Dynacar?"
Lavallette said smoothly, "Oddly enough, there are no technological breakthroughs in this car, except for the drive train. All the other technology is on line. In the East, some apartment buildings, even some electric plants, are powered by compressed garbage used as fuel. The trick involved adapting existing technology in a form that could be afforded by the average American family. We've done that. "
"When will you be able to go into production?"
"Immediately," Lavallette said.
"When do you think you'll be ready to compete with the Big Three automakers?"
"The question is," Lavallette said with a grin, "when will they be able to compete with me?" He turned and smiled at Revell and Millis, who sat at the end of the dais, staring at the box covering the Dynacar model.
"Actually," Lavallette said, "since the tragedy that has befallen Drake Mangan, I have been contacted by a number of people involved in the management of National Autos. There may be an opportunity there for us to pool our forces."
"You mean you'd take over National Autos?"
"No such position has been offered to me," Lavallette said, "but with Mr. Mangan's death, it may be time for that company to look in a new direction. The Dynacar is the car of today and tomorrow. Everything else is yesterday."
"Revell. Millis."
Reporters began to call out the names of the other two car executives at the end of the dais.
They looked up as if surprised in their bathtubs. "Would you consider joining forces with Lavallette to produce the Dynacar?" The two men waved away the question.
Off to the side of the dais, Remo saw a group of men in three-piece suits conferring in low voices. They were supposed to look like auto executives but Remo could tell by the way they stood, their hands floating free, that they were armed. Their hands never strayed far from the places in their belts or under their armpits where handguns could be tucked. He could even see the bulges of some of the weapons. Sloppy, he thought. They might as well have been wearing neckties with the word "Bodyguard" stitched on in Day-Glo thread.
With the amplified voice of Lyle Lavallette echoing over his head, Remo noticed a cameraman moving along the fringe of the pack of newsmen. Remo realized he was watching the man because he carried the video camera awkwardly, as if he were not used to its weight. The man was tall, with dark hair, and had a scar running down the right side of his jaw. His eyes were hard and cold and Remo thought there was something familiar about them.
As he watched, the cameraman moved through the crowd and then emerged on the other side of the pack, facing the spot on the dais where James Revell and Hubert Millis, the heads of the other two car companies, were sitting.
From the corner of Remo's eyes, he saw Chiun moving up toward the dais. Perhaps Chiun had noticed something too. Was this it? Was this what Chiun had warned him to stay out of?
He should just turn and walk away. This was none of his business, but as he made up his mind to do that, he saw the cameraman fumble with his right hand into the grip of the camera which he was carrying on his left shoulder. He was rooting around for something, and then his entire body tensed in a preattack mode that meant only one thing: a gun.
"Chiun! Watch out!" Remo called. The quickest way to the cameraman was through the reporters and Remo moved through them like a one-ton bowling ball through rubber pins.
The man with the scar dropped the video camera and suddenly there was a long-barreled black pistol in his hands. He dropped into a marksman's crouch and before Remo could reach him, four shots came. One, two, three, four. Their reports blended into a short burst that was almost like the percussive burp of a machine gun.
Remo looked toward the dais and saw Chiun's body lying across those of James Revell and Hubert Millis.
None was moving. Lyle Lavallette was running down the slightly elevated stage toward the fallen men and the bodyguards were coming from the other side.
Remo swerved away from the gunman and ran toward the platform. Newsmen were moving close now and Remo vaulted over them and landed atop the pile of bodies. "Chiun, Chiun," he called. "Are you all right?"
The s
queaky voice from under him answered, "I was until some elephant crashed upon my poor body."
The gunman had stopped firing; there were probably too many newsmen in the way for him to have a shot, Remo realized. He started to his feet, even as he felt the bodies of Lavallette and the bodyguards drop on top of the pile.
"I'll get the gunman, Chiun," Remo said.
He started to slip through the pack, but could not get free. Something was holding his ankle. He reached down to free it, but the pressure was suddenly released. He tried to stand again and the pressure was on his other ankle. Through the cluster of bodies, he could see nothing.
Remo lunged backward with his body and suddenly the pressure was released and Remo went sprawling onto his back on the platform.
He stood up and looked over the heads of the reporters who were clustered milling about in front of the dais. The gunman was gone.
Remo darted into the crowd but there was no sign of the man. All around him, reporters were babbling.
"Who was it?"
"Who did the shooting?"
"Did anybody get hit?"
He heard one reporter say, "I know who did it." Remo moved quickly behind that reporter and grasped his earlobe between right thumb and forefinger.
"Who did it, buddy?" he said.
"Owwww. Stop that."
"First, who did it?"
"A cameraman. He came when I did and I saw his name on the guest list."
"What was his name?" Remo said.
"A funny name. Owwww. All right. His name was Remo Williams."
Remo released the newsman's ear, swallowed hard, then ran back to the dais to collect Chiun so they could get out of the mob scene before they wound up as stars on the six-o'clock news.
As they left the parking lot, they could hear the whooping of approaching police sirens.
Chapter 11
The Master of Sinanju was not hungry. The Master of Sinanju would not be hungry for the foreseeable future, at least so long as his ungrateful wretch of a pupil continued to intrude upon his privacy.
"Well, I'm hungry and I intend to make some rice."
"Good," said the Master of Sinanju. "Make it in Massachusetts," he added, repeating a slogan he had once heard on television.
Remo bit back an answer and went into the small kitchenette of the hotel suite. On the counter, on a room-service tray, were six packages of whole-grain brown rice, and as a concession to variety; one package of white rice, which according to Chiun had less nutrient value and an inferior taste. Not to mention being improperly colored.
Remo opened the package of white rice. "Yum, yum. White rice. My favorite."
He glanced into the living room and saw a disgusted expression wrinkle Chiun's parchment features. But the old man did not move from his lotus position in the center of the floor.
"I haven't had white rice in so long, just the thought of a steaming bowl makes my mouth water."
Chiun sniffed disdainfully.
Remo put on a pot of water and measured out a half-cup of rice grains. While he waited for the water to boil, he made pleasant conversation although he was not in a pleasant mood. Still, after a half-day of argument and pleading had failed to move Chiun, he had decided on this approach.
"Sure wish we had this rice in the desert, when my plane crashed. Do you know, Chiun? I was the leader of all the survivors. Surrounded by sand. And I found myself enjoying it."
"You would," Chiun said. "I will have Smith buy you a sandbox for Christmas."
"I enjoyed being appreciated. There we were surrounded by sand and these people I had never met before looked up to me. "
"So did the sand probably," said Chiun.
The first bubbles of water surfaced in the pot and Remo looked for a wooden spoon but had to settle for a plastic one.
"I think I may have helped save some lives," Remo said. "That was the part that stays with me. I guess I can understand how important you think it is to feed the villagers of Sinanju."
The rice swirled in the boiling water.
The Master of Sinanju opened his mouth to speak, a softer light in his hazel eyes, but he caught himself before the breath became a kind word and resumed staring into infinity.
Remo saw the momentary softening and went on, as he put a lid on the pot: "I used to think those people in Sinanju were lazy ungrateful bastards. Every one of them. Living off the blood money of the Master. But I've changed now."
Chiun brushed a long-nailed finger against an eye. Was he brushing away a tear? Remo wondered.
"I can understand now how it is a Master's obligation to feed the village."
He waited five minutes then opened the pot. The rice was soft and fluffy.
"Maybe someday, I'll be the one to feed the people of Sinanju," Remo said, putting the rice into two identical bowls. "I'd like that."
Remo looked at Chiun from the corner of his eye but the aged Korean averted his face.
"Care for some rice?" Remo said casually.
Chiun came up from his sitting position as if being catapulted from the floor. He cleared the space to his bedroom like a flash of golden light, the color of his day kimono.
The door slammed behind him and through the door panel Remo could hear the sound of the Master of Sinanju noisily blowing his nose. It sounded like a goose honking.
A moment later, the door reopened and Chiun stood framed in the doorway, calm and serene, a beatific expression on his face.
"Yes, my son. I think I will have some rice," he said formally.
After they had put aside their empty bowls and eating sticks, Remo said, "I would speak with you, Little Father. "
Chiun held up a hand. "The proprieties must be observed. First the food."
"Yes?" said Remo.
"I think you are finally learning to cook rice properly. That rice was correctly done, not like that insidious mortar that Japanese refer to as rice. This was done in the Korean style."
"That's the way I like it in Chinese restaurants," Remo said.
"Pah," said Chiun. "The Chinese stole the correct cooking technique from the Koreans, who are widely acknowledged to be the world's greatest chefs."
Remo nodded his head in agreement, although the only Korean dish he had ever tasted was some kind of pickled cabbage that tasted like rancid crabgrass.
He lowered his head and waited and finally Chiun said, "And now you may speak of other things."
"I know this subject offends you, Chiun, but I must ask. Who was that gunman this afternoon?"
"Some lunatic who likes to shoot people," Chiun said casually.
"He gave his name to one of the reporters there," Remo said.
"An alias," Chiun said. "American gangsters are always using aliases."
"He gave his name as Remo Williams," Remo said.
"He probably picked the name at random from the telephone book," Chiun said.
"There aren't a lot of Remo Williamses in the telephone book, Little Father. Why did Smith send you to Detroit?"
"Business," Chiun said.
"I figured that much. That gunman's your target?"
"You should have figured that out too," Chiun said.
"I'm trying to be respectful and hold a decent conversation with you," Remo said, and Chiun, looking as chastened as Remo had ever seen him, said nothing.
"I thought about a lot of things when I was out in that desert," Remo said. "I thought about who I am and what I was, and how I never had any family, except for you. I guess that's why I was impressed when the other passengers looked up to me. It was almost like having a family."
Chiun remained silent and Remo said, "Funny that guy would have my name."
"It is one thing to have a name," Chiun said. "It is quite another just to use a name."
"You think that man was just using my name?" Remo said.
"Yes. That man is a cruel trickster, a vicious deceitful white. Without his cruel guile, I would not now bear this scar on my aged head," Chiun said.
"
The wound will heal, Little Father."
"The shame will not heal. Not until I have erased that deceiver from this existence. He cannot be allowed to live." Chiun's voice trembled with a low anger.
"I am ready to help," Remo said. What was that strange look that came into Chiun's eyes? Remo wondered. It was a flash of something. Was it fear?
"No," Chiun said, too loudly. "You must not. It is forbidden."
"The shame that you feel on your shoulders rests on my shoulders too," Remo said. "You know that."
"I know that and I know many other things. Some of which you do not know, my son."
"What things?" Remo asked.
"I know what must be done and I know what must not be done. And since I am the teacher and you the pupil, you must accept this as a fact."
"I accept it as a fact," Remo said. "But you must tell me these things or I will never learn them." Chiun was hiding something, he knew. But what?
"Wait here," Chiun said quietly. He rose smoothly to his feet and padded softly to the lacquered trunks neatly stacked in the corner of the living room.
He bent deep into one of the trunks, looked around for a while, then grunted in satisfaction and came back holding something carefully in his bony fingers.
He sat down across from Remo and handed him the object he was holding.
"This is one of the greatest treasures of Sinanju." Remo looked at it. It was fist-sized, gray and flecked with shiny particles like bits of fused sand, and cold to his touch.
"A rock?" said Remo.
"No," Chiun said. "No ordinary rock. It is a rock taken from the moon."
Remo turned it over in his hands. "From the moon? Smith must have gotten it for you." He looked up. "How'd you get Smitty to con NASA into giving you a moon rock?"
"No," Chiun said. "This rock was given to me by my father, who received it from his father, and so on, back to the one who plucked it from the mountains on the moon, Master Shang."
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