"Why?" asked Remo.
"Because Massachusetts is a racist state."
"Why?"
"Because it's The Blade's policy. Speak to Mr. Wakefield, if you don't like it, but I tell you now, anyone who thinks differently is a racist."
"Who says?"
"Mr. Wakefield. Why do you think I got shipped up here to work, when my house is in Boston? I wrote that a store owner shot a burglar."
"What was wrong with that?" asked Remo.
"The store owner was white. The burglar was black. I'll never- make that mistake again. But I didn't even recognize a racial incident until then."
"So Mr. Wakefield controls the news at The Blade," said Remo.
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"No, no. Never say I said that. Mr. Wakefield does not interfere ever. He just makes sure we maintain the highest standards. And you'd better know just what those standards are."
Remo hung up and looked at the stack of six months of The Blade. It almost reached the ceiling at the far corner of his lab. And there were months and months of television news shows. How the hell was he going to find out how somebody had reached other scientists through the media?
Suddenly the phone was ringing. As long as Remo was answering the phone, he wouldn't have to be reading those newspapers.
It was a woman's voice. She was terrified. She was the office manager of this section of the lab, and she was telling Remo that he and the other professor had better jump out the window now.
"It's only three stories to the street," she said in a desperate whisper. "You still have time."
"I'm not jumping through any window," Remo said. "It's eleven in the morning. Is the place on fire?"
"Worse. The biggest, ugliest man I ever saw is headed for your office. He's got giant hands. He's the one who was always seen around here when the other professors were killed."
"It's eleven o'clock in the morning," said Remo. "Tell them to come back at three maybe. I've got all these papers to read."
"You know there have been five professors in your discipline killed in the last three years? Do you know that? Do you know that a giant of a man with giant hands was seen at everyone's death? He's coming for you, don't you understand? And he's got a friend, and I think the friend has got a gun. Jump. You can't get out by the hallway. They're already there."
"Listen," said Remo. "You wouldn't know how I could get a lot of papers read and television news shows watched, would you?"
"You're going to be dead in minutes." 63
"No, no. Calm down. Look, do you know of people we can hire to read newspapers?"
"You don't need people. There's a computer system, but you've got to be alive to use it. Please. I don't want to see someone killed again. Please, jump."
"So you can rig up a computer to do it," said Remo. With a roar, the door to the lab cracked off its hinges and two men entered, one of them enormous with giant hands.
The smaller man waited for the two scientists to flee in desperate panic. Dice always loved it when Bubba entered a room by pushing a door in. You could see the desperate panic in the room. You could do just about anything to anyone in the room after Bubba entered.
A real old yellow-faced gook with, long fingernails was staring out the window. The young white one was on the telephone.
The older one didn't jump because he was probably deaf. But what about the white one? Dice had never seen people not jump when the door went flying into the room.
"Sweet Bubba, make Whitey jump," said Dice. "De arms or de legs?" asked Bubba. "Suit yourself. Make yourself at home on his body." Bubba saw the white man. Bubba would break the white man. Bubba moved on the white man. Bubba grabbed an arm of the white man. Big Bubba's hand enclosed the entire forearm. Big Bubba got ready to yank the arm out of its socket.
Bubba could do this sometimes if he had the right leverage and got a good yank. Usually, though, he would just damage the socket
Bubba yanked. The arm didn't move. The white man kept talking. Bubba yanked again. "What?" said Bubba in confusion. "Shhhhhh," said the white man. "I'm on the phone." "He doesn't believe in getting paid. He is worthless," said the yellow man.
"You next, Pops," said Dice. He thought Bubba 64
could snap the frail old man in the funny-looking yellow robe with just one blow. He had never seen Bubba do a one-blow kill. But the old Chink looked as if a good spit would do him in.
Dice decided to teach the old man some manners before Bubba finished him. He sauntered over to the old yellow man while Bubba was tugging on the white man's arm.
"Don't sass me," said Dice. "Don't ever sass me." He slapped the old face, but something strange happened. He felt only air. He slapped again. His hand didn't connect. He didn't even see the head move, but the wisp of a beard was quivering. Therefore the head had moved but so quickly he hadn't seen it. Unless, of course, he was imagining this.
"I do not kill for free," the old yellow man said.
He was talking to the white man. Dice turned. The white man should be dead by now. Dice saw a giant black hand flail at the sky. It grabbed a lamp and shattered it. It clutched onto a gray metal lab table and cracked it in two. It latched onto a chair, crushed it like a soft aluminum beer can, sending splinters flying around the room. Dice had to duck.
The other black hand was useless.
And Big Bubba was seated helplessly, his legs stretched out, his big head erect, held very tightly by a telephone receiver cord that had come around his neck and had stopped all the air from going into his lungs.
Bubba was being strangled with a telephone cord. In one hand the white man had one end and the other he held the end with the receiver. And he was talking into the receiver as he was strangling Big Bubba.
"No, nothing's wrong. What noise? Oh, a table or something. I don't know. Listen, can you really get me a computer to do all that newspaper reading and television watching? No, nothing's going on here. Stay to the point, please. You have such a computer program? That's definite? Right. Okay. Come in, say in ..."
The white man lifted the giant Bubba up by the cord and looked at the face.
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"Come in, say, in four minutes. Don't worry about it, there's no problem here. Yes, they did come in. We're talking. They're very nice. Yes. Four minutes."
The white man hung up and waited. Bubba's eyes bulged out. His giant face contorted.
Dice smiled. He smiled very broadly. He had worn a white fedora with a red, white, and blue feather. He took off the hat. Dice understood how impolite wearing a hat indoors could be. Dice held the hat in front of himself. He heard his own feet do a shuffle. Good for you, feet, thought Dice. He bowed. The word sir flowed from his lips. The word flowed easily. Good for you, lips, thought Dice.
He smiled at the yellow man.
"I always like Chinamens, suh. Yessuh. I do like de Chinamens." Dice showed a lot of teeth when he said that.
"I am Korean, imbecile," said the old man.
"Yessuh, like dem Chinamens."
"Korea is not China. Koreans are not Chinese. Chinese are slothful."
"I like all dem Chinamens," said Dice, whose ears were not working that well. He was trying to like everyone living in the room. He was hoping to promote niceness as a way of life, now that Bubba was on his way out of this Ufe. Dice could not find it in him to exclude any group from his niceness.
"Koreans are different inasmuch as virtue is different from sin," said Chiun.
"I like all mens. All brothers. Yessuh. Koreans and Chinamens, dey be one," said Dice. His voice rang with sincerity. Good for you, voice, thought Dice.
And then everything was very dark. He did not see the hand move and flick at his spinal cord with just enough force to sever all motor responses.
He saw only darkness and felt a great floating away.
Good for you, floating away, thought Dice and then thought no more.
Remo looked at the big one who was inside the telephone cord. He had just expired.
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"Did you kill that man?" said Remo. "We were supposed to save one. I wanted to save one."
"I did it free. You should be happy," said Chiun.
"If I knew you were going to kul yours, I would have saved mine," Remo said. "What if they don't send someone else? How are we going to find the source? You know you can't find out who sent someone unless they're living."
"I thought you liked killing for no tribute."
"You should have told me, that's all."
"He called me a Chinamen. Not once but four times."
"All you had to do was tell me," said Remo. He unraveled the phone cord, which snapped away from Bubba's neck in a small shower of blood. The big body dropped to the lab floor.
"I can't talk to that," Remo said. He wiped the cord clean with a piece of paper. "I could never talk to that now. You could at least have told me."
"I wasn't talking to you. How could I tell you?"
"You can talk enough to tell me I'm an amateur," Remo said.
"That's not talking to you," said Chiun.
"Now we have two bodies," Remo said.
"I'm not cleaning them up."
"You killed one."
"I'm not cleaning it up," Chiun said.
"Kill it, clean it," said Remo. "I'm not running around picking up bodies after you."
"Of course not," Chiun said. "Why show any respect? Mock everything you are taught. Ignore traditions thirty centuries older than your country. I would be shocked if you showed any respect after all these years."
"Respect, my ass. A deal's a deal. Our deal is I don't pick up your bodies and you don't pick up mine."
Chiun turned back to the window. He was ignoring Remo.
"I take it you're back to not speaking to me again," 67
Remo said, and when he got no answer, he was sure he was right. He looked around for someplace to store the bodies. The woman would be in soon to tell him how to scan the newspapers by computer.
He found a large cart for refuse outside the office, put both bodies inside and covered them with copies of university regulations that someone had stacked on his desk. He stored the broken table in a closet. He whisked up the broken lamp and tossed the pieces on - top of the refuse cart to make it look more like garbage. Then he put the cart in the corner.
"Thank you," he said to Chiun. "For your help."
"You're welcome," said Chiun with a happy little smile.
Then Remo went out to the office manager. She seemed relieved that he was alive.
"What else would I be?" said Remo.
She told him that MUT had developed a computer program to measure a norm of accuracy in the American news media. The computers could read and evaluate material and then give a breakdown and examples of story aberrancy.
"Aberrancy?" asked Remo.
"Where a story differs from the usual accurate norm."
"Right," said Remo. "Keep up the good work. I'll be gone for a few hours. There's a large pile of newspapers in my office to start with. There is also a very unpleasant person in the lab. Do not call him a Chinaman."
"Your colleague?" she asked.
"Yes."
"We already met him this morning. I hate to say this, Professor," she said, kneading her hands. "I know it's not my position, but... well."
"Go ahead," said Remo.
"Would you please show him a little more respect? He's done so much for you."
"You certainly have met him," said Remo. "But did he ever tell you what he did for me?"
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"It must have been wonderfully sweet. He's so precious, I could die. We all love him."
"Sure. He can con anybody."
"He certainly is not unpleasant as you said. And all the suffering he's gone through to make sure you were brought up properly. Well, we'd all be so happy if you would show him a little more respect."
"I'd like to do a biopsy on your mind," said Remo.
It was a pleasant spring afternoon, and since it looked like garbage Remo was pushing, no one bothered him or even noticed. He rolled the cart along Memorial Drive until he found a pleasant tree-shaded grassy knoll where he parked the cart and the bodies and returned to the lab. The computer program was under way.
The office manager had gotten a half-year's television tapes from the studios, the MUT name being magic in Boston. She showed Remo how to do a scan of the television tapes.
Remo did the scan while the office manager brought Chiun a light ginseng tea. She was middle-aged and plump. She cooed whenever she approached Chiun. Remo asked for a glass of water. She informed Remo that getting refreshments was not among her duties.
"We do extra things for people who are exceptionally pleasant. Or people who treat those who deserve respect with respect."
"A gracious woman has spoken," said Chiun as the office manager nodded approval. Chiun sipped the tea. Remo didn't need the water anyway.
The first readout on aberrancy of the Boston media concerned the television news. The report read: "Television reporters apparently function under the assumption that they themselves are the news."
Remo pressed the scanner. There was the face of Deborah Potter. There was Deborah Potter announcing the pregnancy of Deborah Potter. She was announcing it to her husband, Paul Potter, who was co-anchor. The main news story for the city that day was what Paul Potter thought of conception.
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The Boston Blade carried a story on the conception. The other networks commented. In one six-month period, there were 176 news stories on which television anchor person was having difficulty with which personnel manager at which station. It not only was on the television news, The Blade reported on it too.
There was the monthly report on Deborah Potter's pregnancy.
And then came one section that Remo was especially interested in. It was about oil.
There was a debate over the Middle East. Three reporters monitored the debate between two people who agreed about everything. Everyone was agreeing. The reporters were telling each other how wonderful they were.
Someone said Egypt was in Europe. It was one of the reporters. No one contradicted hún.
Every reporter looked alert and responsible. They could look alert and responsible asking for someone to pass the ashtray. The debate concluded that Boston had the best news media in the world. The final note sounded was that everyone should listen to the Boston media, and the Middle East problems would be solved. The Boston media called for niceness and a civil rights act for the Middle East. This was logical because one reporter thought that the Palestine Liberation Organization was some sort of civil rights group. He also thought it was based in Israel. No one contradicted him. They were too busy congratulating him on his five-part series on the Middle East.
Remo couldn't make sense of the anchor people. They all sounded like clones of each other, except for one black sports announcer. He showed insight and enthusiasm, and it was a pleasure for Remo to hear about something that a reporter thought was more interesting than he was. The black reporter was fired before the last month of tapes, and none of the other stations picked him up.
The Blade was even more confusing than the television nets. There were many articles on oil. One of
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them said that America should be more responsive to Arab demands because of Arab oil. There were many articles about how America was paying a high price for oil because the Arabs had been offended. There were ominous threats of cutoffs of oil by the Arabs.
Then there was a five-part series about how America was being unfair to the Arabs by blaming them for using oil as blackmail. It was written by Melody Wake-field.
At the time the Iran-Iraq war broke out, splitting Arab countries into different sides, Melody Wakefield covered a convention of Arab-Americans in Boston. Melody Wakefield asked 107 incisive questions at the convention. Not one of them mentioned the Iran-Iraq war. Most of them had to do with how unfairly the Arabs were being treated in the news media in America. The rest had to do wit
h how unfairly the Arabs were being treated in the Middle East. A few had to do with major Arab contributions to world civilization and why Americans wouldn't recognize them.
There was only one question in the 107 that didn't sound as if it had been drafted by the Arabs' public relations staff. That question was, where was the ladies' room. It was the one question that didn't get an answer.
The Blade called the Melody Wakefield series hardhitting and explosive, "telling you what some people don't want you to know about the Middle East." The implication was that there were vast forces fighting the courageous truth of Melody Wakefield.
Remo gave up and called the office manager, who had returned to her desk.
"I can't get what I want from this thing," he said. "The media up here is all aberration."
"That's not so," she said. "It only seems like it. The computer just gives you the bad parts, not the good work."
"How long would the good work take?" asked Remo. "A minute?"
"I would not expect you to understand, sir. Anyone 71
who could treat such a kind, decent, gentle person with
such depraved lack of gratitude certainly isn't fit to
pass judgment on the media of our city." "Who?" said Remo. "Who have I mistreated?" Chiun cleared his throat in the background. He
smiled and the office manager brought him another cup
of ginseng tea.
Bradford Wakefield III waited for the telephone call from his contact, telling him that all had been taken care of with the two new scientists at MUT. He waited past noon and past three p.m., when his granddaughter, Melody, called from Hamidi Arabia.
Melody didn't know whether to do a ten-part series for The Blade on how the West defamed Islam or a twenty-part series on how the West defamed Islam.
She had plenty of time to think about it in Hamidi Arabia because no mullah would speak to her in the clothes she was wearing. She had also been told to read the Koran, but she thought it was boring. And one thing the world was not allowed to do was to bore a Wakefield.
"Melody, I am waiting for an important call," said Bradford.
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