The Color of Fear td-99

by Warren Murphy

  "We can't let this go on all day."

  "They are doing no more killing. See? The vultures have realized this and even now circle hungrily."

  Remo looked up. TV news helicopters were beating near, camera lenses angling around like the electronic orbs of robotic voyeurs.

  "Vultures is right," said Remo, picking up a rock and letting it fly. The stone whizzed skyward and bounced off a Plexiglas chopper cockpit. The cockpit spiderwebbed, turning white as snow. The pilot wrestled his ship to an open patch of turf. The other ships withdrew out of what they assumed to be the range of stray musket balls.

  "I can't just watch," Remo said, starting down off the ridge.

  "You can if you are on strike," Chiun pointed out.

  "I'll strike in another way," Remo said, and moved into the fray.

  "And I will help you, if only to hasten you along in your folly," sighed Chiun, following reluctantly.

  MICKEY WEISINGER HEARD the not very distant thud and jostle of battle from the open clearing where Beasley technicians were laying great colorful swatches of silk on the grass as the hot-air engines began firing.

  He said, "I think the shooting's died down."

  "Our musketeers are under strict instructions to close with the enemy as quickly as possible so things don't get too bloody," Bob Beasley said affably. "After all, this is a media event."

  "The radio says it's practically civil war."

  "Think of it as a sort of a made-for-TV movie with light casualties."

  The first balloon began to take shape. It was pink. They were all pink. Even the wicker baskets were painted a creamy pink. As the fabric filled, the smiling face of Monongahela Mouse, world-famous mascot of the Sam Beasley entertainment empire, swelled into merry life.

  "That's your car," Bob Beasley said, guiding Mickey to the waiting basket. Beasley concepteers were fitting giant pink disks to each side of the basket, from which trailed insulated wires.

  "What the hell are these things?" Mickey wanted to know.

  "Mongo's ears."

  "Mongo's ears are black. These are pink. Hot pink."

  Bob Beasley chuckled. "You don't know how right you are."

  "Huh?"

  "Just climb in."

  Mickey clambered in, finding himself standing amid a profusion of wiring and stacked car batteries.

  Other balloons filled with hot air, revealing the faces of Dingbat Duck, Mucky Moose and other famous Beasley characters. All were smiling the identical vacant grin that, market researchers informed Mickey Weisinger when he'd first ordered them redesigned, people interpreted according to their own moods. And since they reflected each person's mood exactly, they could not be improved on.

  Every basket was fitted with four pink Mongo Mouse ears, like lollipops made from frozen pink lemonade, so no matter what angle they were viewed from, the famous mouse ears jutted unmistakably. As he looked closely, Mickey realized that they were transparent plastic, like lenses. Inside each ear networks of filaments and semiconductors formed electronic webs.

  "Do these things light up?" he asked.

  "Do they ever," Bob Beasley grinned as he climbed aboard.

  "Huh?"

  "You'll catch on. In time."

  "If I fucking live," muttered Mickey Weisinger.

  The ground crews released the anchor ropes, and before his fear of heights could kick in, Mickey Weisinger was high in the sky over the peaceful Virginia countryside. Only then did he notice who rode the other balloons.

  They were the concepteers, wearing official Beasley greeters costumes. One basket contained Gumpy Dog, wearing a Confederate soldier's trappings. Dingbat Duck also wore gray, as did Mucky Moose, Screwball Squirrel and others. Missy Mouse was dressed in the hoop skirt of a Southern belle.

  In the second balloon, grinning like the idiot he was and waving inanely, stood Mongo Mouse. In Union blue of course.

  "This isn't so bad," Mickey Weisinger said, relief in his voice. "This is kinda like an observation balloon, isn't it? We're going to observe the battle from a safe height, aren't we?"

  "No," said Bob Beasley. "We're going to land smack dab in the thick of it"

  "Meshugga schmucks," muttered Mickey Weisinger, clutching one of the guy ropes for support.

  REMO WAS COLLECTING keppies. It was the Master of Sinanju's idea. As they moved into the fray, Chiun pointed out how the battle surged like tidal pools, with waves and streamlets of men following the officers who swirled about with a mad frenzy of their own. In the thick of battle, all men blended into a riot of milling uniforms. But the officers could be picked out from the rest by their upraised sabers holding keppies aloft.

  It was just a matter of getting to the officers.

  Chiun, being short, simply ducked low and flitted between combatants until he got within range. A stabbing fingernail to an elbow brought a Confederate saber and forage cap into his hands. He moved on.

  Remo stood taller than most of the soldiers. The bulk of the fighting was being done with musket stocks, heavy stones and the stray bowie knife. Remo weaved out of the way of them all, his exposed skin functioning like an enveloping sensor array. He felt the body heat of attackers, shifted wide, and sensing the advancing shock waves of muskets aimed at his skull, artfully evaded all until he zeroed in on an officer.

  Harvesting the keppies was simple enough. The officers fired off their Dragoon pistols, but since their free hand was occupied with their keppie banners, they couldn't reload. So they contented themselves with waving saber and pistol and accomplished nothing more useful than to shout themselves hoarse leading their men. Mostly about in circles.

  Remo grabbed Union saber wrists, bent them against the natural flex and the sabres dropped obligingly into his waiting hand.

  "Much obliged," Remo made a point of saying before moving on.

  When they had collected every officer's saber on the battlefield, Remo and Chiun broke all but two and threw the others away. Remo went one way and the Master of Sinanju went the other, holding up opposing headgear.

  It was a good plan. Perhaps brilliant strategy. The opposing forces, thinking most of their officers were down and needing leadership to carry them through the fog of war, began moving in opposite directions. Fighting began to break off.

  That was the point when the balloons appeared.

  They were hard to miss, hanging in the sky like great pink clusters of grapes, but amid the din no one noticed them arrive. Except the news helicopters, which hastened to get out of the way lest their rotor wash cause an aerial catastrophe.

  When they were almost directly overhead, the pink mouse ears began to glow.

  The sky turned pink. The entire battlefield was bathed in a hot pink glow.

  All eyes were drawn to the source of the radiance.

  And the magic began.

  WHEN THE FIRST CHRONICLES of the Second American Civil War were penned, it was set down that the Third Battle of the Crater was halted by an angelic light streaming down from heaven. And when the forces of the two Americas looked up toward heaven, their anger was smitten by the smiling faces of familiar creatures who reminded them of their shared culture, their common heritage and their deep and abiding love of cartoon characters.

  At least that was the way the Sam Beasley Corporation press release represented the event.

  ON THE GROUND battle-sweaty men turned, faces lifting then slowly softening, curious eyes filling with a blazing pink radiance.

  "Day-am! That be the pinkest pink I ever did behold!"

  "Never had much truck with the hue myself, but I purely like that particular shade."

  "It's a powerful shade of pink, all right."

  "Right purty."

  All across the battlefield hands that a moment before had been turned against other men because of the color of their uniforms or the queerness of their accents fell quiet. Arms hung slack in unthinking hands, all faces turned to heaven as the bright pink lights drew closer and closer.

  "Ah do believe Ah sp
y the famous ears of Mongo Mouse," said Captain Royal Wooten Page, spanking dust off his hybrid uniform.

  "Could be. But seems I recollect that mouse sports ebony ears."

  "There's no mistakin' them hearin' appendages. Must mean Mongo Mouse hisself is a-cumin. "

  And as the hovering balloons began venting hot air, dropping them toward the Crater in a silent string, the unmistakable figure of Mongo Mouse, waving from the lead balloon, became visible to all.

  Forage caps and chapeaus were pulled off heads and clutched to chests both blue and gray in worshipful respect.

  "It's that day-am mouse, all right."

  "Gotta admit, it brings a catch to my heart to see his grinnin' ole puss."

  "Shouldn't we be shooting that varmint?" Colonel Dixie asked in a wary tone.

  "You wouldn't ventilate ole Mongo, now, would you?"

  "He's come to despoil Old Dominion, ain't he?"

  A man spit on the ground. "That mouse never harmed a fly."

  "What about that other guy?" Colonel Dixie said unhappily, pointing to the strained white face in the second balloon. "Ain't that that Weisinger scamp who's pushing Beasley U.S.A. down our throats?"

  "Sure, but we can hear him out."

  "Yeah. Besides, he's with the mouse. Anybody with Mongo is all right with me until I see different."

  Colonel Dixie's broad, slab-of-beef shoulders drooped. "What's got into ya'll? That be the high enemy cumin'."

  But not a hand was raised as the balloons dropped into the Crater, pink bags collapsing.

  The combatants, fingers well away from triggers, crowded close to the long gash that was the infamous Crater.

  The roar of trucks came up Crater Road, and the few heads that could tear their gazes away from the angelic pink radiance spilling up from the Crater saw that they were TV satellite trucks.

  No one moved to stop them.

  Then, as camera crews leaped out and began recording events at a safe distance, a white flag bearing the three welded-together black circles that emblematized the most famous mouse that ever lived came out of the Crater and fluttered in the wind. When it was not shot to rags, the peas shaped figure of Monongahela Mouse himself came out and planted his flag into the good rich soil of Old Dominion, as if daring a thousand muskets to cut him down.

  But no one fired a shot. Faces impassive to the point of tranquillity, the soldiers simply leaned on their rifles, awaiting developments.

  Then Mickey Weisinger stumbled up from the pit, escorted by polyurethane cartoon animals wearing Confederate gray.

  "WHO IS THAT ONE, Remo?" the Master of Sinanju said with quiet interest. "I do not remember him from any cartoon."

  "That's Mickey Weisinger."

  "Who is Mickey Weisinger?"

  "CEO of Sam Beasley Corp.," said Remo without concern.

  "No doubt he is the perpetrator of this madness."

  "The big cheese, without a doubt."

  Chiun looked to his pupil. "Are you not going to seize this big cheese as planned?"

  "Not now. I'm on strike again." Remo looked down. "How about you?"

  "I feel a strike coming on, as well."

  Remo nodded. "That's a nice shade of pink."

  "A most excellent shade," Chiun agreed.

  "Peaceful," said Remo. "I'm not big on pink, but the guy who came up with that shade knew what he was doing. I haven't felt this relaxed in years."

  The Master of Sinanju lifted his bearded chin. "He may be a vassal of wicked overseers, but Mongo Mouse is a great mouse."

  "The greatest," said Remo.

  As they watched, the cartoon figures upended a wicker basket for Mickey Weisinger to climb atop.

  He was greeted with a polite ripple of applause, which he acknowledged with a Richard Nixon-like raising of arms.

  "Gentlemen, gentlemen," he began, "I have come in peace."

  More applause. Smiles.

  "On this glorious Memorial Day weekend, I offer a truce to the people of Virginia. I know we've had our past differences, but I think they can be worked out."

  The smiles grew broad in faces washed with a warm pink glow.

  "I have come not to exploit history, but to enhance it. The Sam Beasley Corporation is willing to work not only with the gentle people of Virginia, but with its noble reenactors. Those who desire them will have jobs."

  Sustained applause.

  "You hear that? He's offering us jobs!"

  "He's been offering you'uns jobs for months," Colonel Dixie barked. "I thought you folks said never."

  "He didn't offer it to us face-to-face like that."

  "Yeah. He comes across right sincere in person."

  "Sincere and in the pink."

  "Pink?" said Colonel Dixie.

  "Can't you see the honest pinkness of his words?"

  "Search me. I got me a spell of color confusion."

  "What say?"

  "I don't see my colors right. Get my reds and greens kinda mixed up. Pink might as well be purple to me."

  "You're missing out on one of the great pleasures of life if you can't see the color pink."

  "You don't say?" said Narvel Boggs, wondering what had gotten into folks.

  "And because we respect the sentiments of Virginians and other Southerners," Mickey Weisinger went on, "when we build Beasley U.S.A. we will have an If the South Had Triumphed Pavilion."

  A rebel cheer went up.

  "And virtual-reality games in which the South always wins."

  A greater cheer. Even the Union reenactors cheered.

  "You will know what it was like to have been a slave!"

  An even greater cheer.

  "Of course," Mickey added, "we will also serve history by reflecting the true denouement of the events of the-"

  Mickey Weisinger replaced the earphone that had popped out of his ear.

  "War Between the States, you jackass," came the crusty voice of Uncle Sam from the earphone.

  "War Between the States," said Mickey Weisinger to the cheering of the Union reenactors. The Southerners also cheered. They cheered as if the outcome of the Civil War was a cause for great jubilation and always had been.

  "Before all these cameras," Mickey went on, "I would like to close ranks with you men, bury the hatchet and ask for your support in this great project."

  Reenactors surged forward with such suddenness that Mickey Weisinger hastily jumped off the wicker basket and would have sought the safety of the Crater except that Gumpy Dog and Mucky Moose grabbed him and pushed him back atop his wicker-basket soapbox.

  Outstretched hands reached eagerly for his. Mickey shook them as fast as they came.

  Then, with a crack and flutter, like canvas in the wind, a gray-and-scarlet figure surged through the crowd to lay a choke hold on Mickey Weisinger's thick neck.

  "Urrk!" said Mickey.

  "Maybe all the rest of you have turned milk-liver," thundered Colonel Dixie, "but Ah ain't! Ah aim to break this Jew Yankee's neck."

  "No, no, don't."

  "Please don't, Colonel Dixie."

  "He's Mongo's pal. He don't mean no harm."

  "Urrk!" said Mickey Weisinger as the world and Virginia turned dark all around him and a roar like a distant ocean began in his ear canals.

  Over the roar a harsh voice said, "I can see everything that's happening. Promise him--"

  "I can make you rich," Mickey Weisinger said in a squeezed voice, repeating the words in his ear.

  "Colonel Dixie don't need wealth. His heart is pure as Georgia rain."

  "I can offer something better than wealth. I can make you an official Beasley licensee."

  "Huh? How's that again?"

  "You'll join the honored family of Beasley characters."

  The hands slackened their strong, choking grip.

  "You mean pal around with Mongo?"

  "Tell him, Mongo."

  "Sure," Mongo squeaked from off to the right, gesturing with his yellow-gauntleted hands. "We'll have tons of neat adventures togeth
er."

  "Will I get my own comic book?" Narvel asked his captive.

  "Comics, cartoon shows, video games and all the personal appearances you want. We'll make you Beasley U S.A.'s official mascot."

  "It's a damn deal," said Narvel Boggs, who had shingled his last home and because of the events this day would ultimately be worth a quarter-billion dollars by the turn of the century.

  Mickey Weisinger hacked and coughed as the red went out of his face and his lungs resumed normal functions.

  "MAYBE THIS WAS ALL a misunderstanding," Remo was remarking to the Master of Sinanju as Mickey Weisinger and Colonel Dixie were lifted on the shoulders of the cheering throng.

  "Wars are always fought over treasure. This land is the treasure, and now those who contested it have reached a truce. The war is over."

  "Guess we can go home now," said Remo. His head suddenly turned as he tracked a moving figure.

  "What is it, Remo?"

  "There's that French reporter."

  The woman in the beret and blue slip dress was creeping around the periphery of the Crater, which was jammed with fighting men turned peaceful. She had a satellite phone up to her face and was talking into it with obvious vehemence.

  "What's she saying?" Remo asked. "I don't understand French."

  "She is saying that the battle is over."

  "It sure is," agreed Remo.

  "But she cannot discover why."

  Remo shrugged. "She'll figure it out."

  But she didn't. She hung well back of the mob, moving back and forth like a wary tiger. Eventually she backed toward Remo and Chiun, unawares.

  "J'essaie de constater cela, " she was muttering. "I am trying to ascertain this."

  "Boo!" said Remo.

  She whirled, face a stark white. "You again!"

  "Yep. Me."

  She straightened and the spooked light went out of her eyes. She smoothed her skirt with a nervous gesture. "Perhaps you can 'elp me."

  "If we can," Remo said agreeably.

  "I did not see what 'as 'appen' here. Ze fighting 'as ended. Can you not tell me why?"

  "They saw the balloons."

  "Oui. I saw ze ugly balloons descended, as well. But why would zey stop fighting? Were zey not against ze Beasley people?"

  "I wouldn't call them ugly."