Sole Survivor td-72

by Warren Murphy

  "But if everyone gave to charity now, there might not be any homeless people in future generations," Remo said.

  "Sure, just because I'm an actor and I gross seven figures every year, people think I should give it away to anyone who asks. I earned my money. Why should I share with those who didn't? You know, I nearly died filming Armageddon Yesterday. Would you give away money you earned at the risk of your life?"

  "If it would help the unfortunate, yeah," Remo said.

  "That's a very simpleminded view of the problem."

  "You know, I never liked any of your movies," Remo said as he walked away.

  There was a frumpy woman in a purple sweater over a print dress. Remo knelt down beside her.

  "How about you, ma'am? Do you think all this sitting on the Capitol steps is going to help you find a home?"

  "I have a home," the woman snapped. "I happen to be president of the Grosse Pointe Council of Churches Women's Auxiliary, I'll have you know. And I heard what you said to that wonderful crusader. You should know better than to think giving away money will solve this terrible problem. Only galvanizing the government into providing more social programs will end this national tragedy."

  "Oh no," said Remo, noticing for the first time her open-toed I. Miller shoes.

  Remo went to the next person, a dusty young man whose face might have emerged from a coal bin. He identified himself as a yet-unpublished author working on a book chronicling the plight of the homeless. It was being financed by a Harvard grant. There were also two reporters for the local newspapers who, when they overheard one another identify themselves to Remo, started a fight over which had exclusive rights to the homeless story franchise.

  Remo jumped to the highest step and threw out his hands. "Is there anyone here who is really homeless?" he shouted.

  The unpublished writer raised a blackened hand. "I was thrown out of my parents' condo last week."

  "That does it," said one of the actor's young sons. "I'm not hanging around with bums. I'm outta here."

  "Me too," said the other son.

  "You two punks get back here," the father yelled at them. "Where's your social conscience?"

  "Up our asses," replied the first son.

  "Where yours is," said the second son. "You don't care about this crap any more than we do. You just want publicity for a stupid film about a homeless family starring the three of us. Well, screw that. My box-office pull is bigger than yours now. I'm sticking with solo projects from now on."

  "You ungrateful bastard," shouted the father, jumping up.

  Another fight started, and Remo Williams, a look of disgust marring his features, walked away. He didn't bother to slip past the cordon of police silently. One of them called to him.

  "Excuse me, are you part of this demonstration?"

  "No," Remo snarled.

  "Then I'll have to ask you to leave. Participation in this activity is by engraved invitation only."

  "It figures," said Remo. Then he paused. "Hey, have you seen any real homeless people hereabouts?"

  The cop looked at Remo skeptically. "In Washington?" he said. "The seat of our government? Are you nuts?"

  "If I am, I'm not the only one," Remo answered, looking back at the Capitol steps, where a mini-riot of pseudo-homeless people was ensuing.

  The Master of Sinanju was waiting for him when Remo got back to the hotel room they shared in Georgetown.

  "And how many homeless have we helped today?" Chiun asked as Remo slammed the door.

  "I don't want to talk about it," Remo grumbled.

  The Master of Sinanju sat on the couch watching television. Television watching was his chief leisure activity, and always had been during the days they worked in America. But Remo couldn't get used to seeing Chiun sitting up on the couch. He was old, over eighty, a wrinkled little wizard of a Korean with frail wisps of hair clinging to his chin and hovering above his ears. He belonged on a reed mat, in a saffron kimono. In the old days of their service to America, such a sight was a familiar one.

  Now the Master of Sinanju was sitting on the stuffed couch, wearing an impeccable tailored suit. Or it would have been impeccable had Chiun not forced his tailor, under penalty of broken fingers, to make the jacket sleeves extra long and wide enough that he could tuck his long-nailed hands into them, as he did now.

  "I told you there were no homeless in America," Chiun said, his hazel eyes bright. "America is too great, too generous a land to allow its people to live in boxes or to sleep in alleys."

  "I said I didn't want to talk about it," Remo said shortly.

  "You wanted to talk about it earlier," Chiun went on. "Earlier it was all you would talk about. You said you wanted to help the poor wretches of America who were without food for their mouths or roofs over their unhappy heads. I told you there were no such wretches to be found between Canada and Mexico. I assured you of this. But you would not listen. You insisted upon coming to this city to help these unfindable people with their nonexistent problem."

  "You didn't have to come," said Remo.

  "But I did. I came. I walked the streets with you. I saw no homeless. So I returned to this hotel to wait for you and your admission of same."

  "What are you watching?" Remo said in an effort to change the subject. "More Three Stooges?"

  Chiun wrinkled his features unhappily.

  "No. I no longer watch them," he said disdainfully.

  "No?" said Remo. "I thought you loved them. They represented all that was great about America. Isn't that what you said?"

  "That was before."

  "Before what?"

  "Before the runovers."

  "What runovers?"

  "The runovers where they show the same stories again and again until the mind turns to porridge."

  "True Americans call those reruns," Remo pointed out.

  "Reruns. Runovers. What is the difference? Why would anyone want to watch the same thing twice? In the days when I watched my beautiful dramas, there were never any runovers."

  "Soap operas don't do reruns." Remo smirked. "Probably because they know no one would watch them twice. Watching them once is like watching them twice. They take forever to tell stories."

  "Attention to detail is important in storytelling," Chiun sniffed.

  "So what are you watching, Little Father?" Remo asked, sinking into the sofa beside him. The cushion gave too much under his weight. He had grown to dislike chairs, feeling more and more at home on hardwood floors. He slipped down to the carpets, and instantly his spine realigned itself into a more centered configuration.

  "I am watching Cheeta Ching," said Chiun.

  "Oh, her," groaned Remo. The pancake-flat face of a well-known lady anchorperson filled the screen. Her voice, screeching like barbed wire going through a shredder, filled the room.

  "She is seen in this city too," Chiun said happily.

  "She's seen in most cities now. She's nationwide."

  "It is good to see another Korean come to fame and fortune in America. Truly this is a land of opportunity."

  "It must be if that barracuda can get airtime. What ax is she grinding tonight?"

  "I do not know. I never listened to her words, only to the music of her voice."

  "You can do that?"

  Chiun shrugged. "It is necessary. They force her to read nonsense."

  "I'm glad you admit that much at least." Remo smiled.

  "I am not as blind to some of the little faults of America as you may think, my son," Chiun said loftily. "And I have been thinking. I am nearly done with my latest Ung poem. It is only 1,076 stanzas. If read in Yang cadence and if the television people agree to omit the unnecessary commercials, it would fit into the allotted time Cheeta Ching is given."

  "I don't think the networks will agree to let Cheeta Ching read an Ung poem in place of the seven-o'clock news, Little Father."

  "Of course not. Not even Cheeta Ching is that important."

  "I'm glad you appreciate the harsh reality here."
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  "We will do a duet, Cheeta and I."

  "Forget it."

  Chiun's face fell. "I was hoping that Emperor Smith would agree to make the necessary arrangements."

  "Smith can order the Army, Navy, and Air Force into a state of high alert," Remo said. "His computers can bring the American economy to a halt or fry an egg in Tuscaloosa. Any egg. But I doubt if even Smith could convince a network president to preempt the evening news. "

  "I understand that these so-called news-story programs are currently suffering severe financial setbacks," the Master of Sinanju said hopefully.

  "You and Cheeta Ching and Ung poetry are not the solution to the rating crunch. Trust me, Little Father. I know. "

  "No, I know. I am the Master of Sinanju, not you. I know many things. It is true that you have progressed remarkably in the ways of Sinanju. You have achieved full Masterhood. You may become as able as I am one day. Yes, I admit it. As able as I. And why not? You had a wonderful teacher."

  "No one could be as good as you, Little Father."

  "I will accept that. Humbly, of course."

  "Of course."

  "But I am still reigning Master," Chiun said firmly. "Full in years and brimming with wisdom and experience that as yet you know not. Remember that power is not alone equal to all occasions, Remo. Wisdom is important too."

  "I bow to your wisdom, Little Father. You know that."

  Chiun shook an admonishing finger in Remo's face. "Not in all things. It has not been so of late. Of late you have belittled my desire to remain in America."

  "I don't belittle that. It's just that we have outgrown America, you and I. We should return to Sinanju. You to your people and I to Mah-Li."

  "Please do not change the subject, Remo. I think that because you have grown into full Masterhood, you think you no longer need me."

  Remo started to object but Chiun raised a quelling palm.

  "I hope that my impression is not true. Perhaps I am wrong. But it has been weeks since you sat at my feet thirsting for the wisdom that only one who has memorized the histories of Sinanju may impart. In the old days, it was different. In the old days, you hung on my every pronouncement."

  Remo, who could remember no such thing, remained silent.

  "I am not merely an old man," Chiun went on. "I am the Master of Sinanju. I am the last of my line. The last of the pure bloodline of Sinanju. When I am gone, there will be no pure link to the Masters who came before me. You should not squander the resource that is Chiun, last reigning Master of Sinanju, Remo. You should be imbibing my wisdom while there is time."

  Remo spun on the floor to face the Master of Sinanju. He looked up into Chiun's pleasantly wrinkled features. "Okay."

  "Good. Now ask me a question. Any question. Any trifling question that comes to mind. I have all the accumulated wisdom of the House of Sinanju at my command."

  Remo thought. His brow furrowed. His mouth puckered. He struggled for a question, hoping to ease Chiun's fears of being unwanted-the true reason, as Remo saw it, that Chiun clung to America, where he and Remo had lived for so long together.

  Finally Remo asked his question.

  "Why is it before you step into the shower, your body feels dirty but your mouth feels clean, but when you step out, it's the opposite?"

  Chiun's face shook with surprise. His mouth opened. His beard trembled excitedly. His hands, resting palm-up in his lap, closed into tiny long-nailed fists.

  "Is this a trick question?" he demanded angrily.

  "It was the only question I could think of," Remo said.

  "Well, I will not answer it. There are no showers in the histories of Sinanju. I will not answer such a question. And you offend me with this frivolous and cheap waste of my magnificent mind."

  "You said any question," Remo protested.

  "I did not say any frivolous question."

  "You said 'trifling.' I distinctly heard the word 'trifling' used."

  "Trifling I would have accepted. But not frivolous."

  "I'm sorry, Little Father. I . . ." Remo stopped in mid-sentence. The shrill voice of Cheeta Ching cut into his thoughts with one word. The word was "homeless."

  "Please, Little Father. I want to hear this," Remo said.

  "I was just leaving," said Chiun. "I am returning to Folcroft. "

  "Be with you in a minute," Remo said. Then he listened to the harsh voice of Cheeta Ching lament the fate of a single man, an American who had no home because unthinking, unsympathetic people refused to let him live in their communities. Here was a man who was truly homeless, she said.

  After the report was over, Remo punched the Off switch and stepped into the next room, where the Master of Sinanju was packing.

  "I have to go to Washington," Remo said stonily.

  "We are in Washington," said Chiun, not looking up. "We are in Washington, D.C. I have to go to Washington State," Remo said.

  "Only you would split hairs like that," said Chiun. "Why do you have to go to this other place?"

  "There is a homeless man there. A real one. He has nowhere to go. Every place he goes, people send him away. I have to do something about his situation."

  The Master of Sinanju looked up. He saw the anger in his pupil's eyes.

  "This is very important to you?"

  "Yes," said Remo coldly.

  The Master of Sinanju, seeing the whitened knuckles of Remo's clenched fists, nodded sagely.

  "I will return to Folcroft and await you there," he said.

  "Thank you, Little Father," said Remo, bowing slightly.

  "I do not need thanks."

  "I know you do not," Remo said, the tension going out of his face.

  "But I would accept a personal introduction to Cheeta Ching," Chiun added mischievously.

  Chapter 3

  The President of the United States looked at his Secretary of Defense. The Secretary of Defense looked back, his mouth hanging open.

  "What did he say?" the Secretary of Defense said slowly.

  "It sounded like 'Hello' to me," the President said, doubt shading his words.

  "Actually he said, 'Hello is all right,' " inserted the NSA stenographer.

  "Let me see that," said the Secretary of Defense, tearing loose the long roll of paper on which the transmissions from the Soviet shuttle were recorded. " 'Hello is all right,' " the Secretary read aloud. "What does that mean?"

  "Probably broken English," suggested the NSA man. "They are sending us greetings and assuring us that they are well."

  "Why us?" demanded the President, his face gathering in concentration. "Why are they communicating with us and ignoring their own control people?"

  "Perhaps they are unable to receive the Russian ground transmissions," the NSA man suggested.

  "Is that possible?" asked the President of the Secretary of Defense.

  "Hardly."

  In the background, the Soviet ground control requests had grown more shrill. They, too, had overheard the brief burst of English from the shuttle craft and were demanding equal time. But there was no response to their urgent demands.

  "I think we should attempt to contact the shuttle," the Secretary of Defense said after scanning the stenographer's running transcript of the Soviet pleas.

  "Won't that annoy the Soviets?" asked the President. The Secretary shrugged. "It will serve them right for trying to get the jump on us. Besides, they're not getting through to their people. We can call this a humanitarian gesture on our part."

  "Can you patch me through to the shuttle?" the President said after a thoughtful pause.

  "You, Mr. President?"

  "Why not? They can't accuse us of doing anything underhanded if I handle this personally and it's page-one news in tomorrow's papers."

  "I see your point, Mr. President," said the Secretary of Defense, and excused himself to confer with a tracking officer at a nearby radar console.

  A moment later, the Secretary of Defense returned carrying a portable telephone set.

  "
You can start at any time, Mr. President," he said, handing the device to his commander-in-chief.

  The President of the United States took the receiver and turned to face the elaborate computer tracking simulator which showed the Soviet shuttle as a coded green triangle floating over a wire-frame simulation of the globe. He cleared his throat.

  "Hello, Yuri Gagarin. Can you hear me? This is the President of the United States speaking."

  The President waited. After a pause, the flat toneless voice came again through the loudspeaker.

  "There is no Yuri Gagarin here," it said.

  "You can speak English?"

  "Yes. Of course."

  "Well, I'm happy to hear from you. The whole world is worried about you and your crew, Yuri Gagarin."

  "I am not called Yuri Gagarin," the voice said.

  The President chuckled. "Yes, I know," he said. "Yuri Gagarin is dead."

  "It was necessary to kill him," the voice said. "He and the others would have interfered with my reentry, which is necessary for my continued survival."

  The President looked at the Secretary of Defense doubtfully.

  The Secretary shrugged.

  "I don't understand," said the President.

  "It is not important that you understand," said the voice. "It is important that I survive."

  "That accent is not Russian," whispered the Secretary of Defense. The NSA stenographer nodded in mute agreement.

  "Yuri Gagarin, why don't you answer the requests for acknowledgment from Russia?"

  "Because I do not speak Russian," the voice said. "I am programmed for English only."

  "I see," said the President. Cupping a hand over the receiver, he turned to the Secretary of Defense. "What the heck is he talking about?"

  "I don't know, Mr. President," the Secretary of Defense said worriedly. "Why don't you ask him what he wants. "

  "What do you want?" the President said into the receiver.

  "I wish to land."

  "Here?"

  "I do not know where 'here' is. Please clarify."

  "I mean in America."