"That last part sounds like a lesson to me."
"That is because you are new to full Masterhood," said Chiun, chuckling.
When Remo did not chuckle back, Chiun asked what was wrong. They were approaching the long ramp that led to the main building's entrance.
"This place is wrong, Little Father."
"It is ugly, yes, I will agree to that."
"It shouldn't exist. Not here in America, not ever."
"Soldiers are as numerous as ants. You step on one anthill and they build another elsewhere. What can you do?"
"These people aren't soldiers," said Remo. "They're racists."
"No!" said Chiun, shocked. He had heard the word spoken in very disapproving tones by white newscasters many times on television. "Racist?"
Remo nodded grimly. "This place is a racist paradise."
"Racism is despicable. It is a plague among the inferior races, especially sub-Koreans. Why do Americans not stamp out these foul racists?"
"Because these people are Americans too. They claim the same rights as other Americans, and they use those rights to preach hatred against other Americans."
"If thev are Americans as you say, then why do they fly the Zingh flag of Germany?" asked Chiun. They had come to the door of the main building.
"They think Nazi Germany had the right idea about some things. Or maybe they just like the losing side. Most of these people also think the fall of the Confederacy was the end of civilization. I don't know, Little Father. None of it makes any sense to me either."
Remo found the double doors locked. Because he wanted to continue his discussion with Chiun, he knocked instead of breaking the lock with his hands.
Chiun asked, "Then why do they not live in Germany?"
"It's hard to explain," said Remo, waiting patiently. "They think they are the only true Americans, and that everyone else is inferior."
"Everyone else?"
"Mostly blacks and Jews and members of other religions they don't like."
"Koreans too? That is hard to believe. I have lately found Americans to be very enlightened people."
"You could ask him," said Remo as the door opened and a square-faced wan with a beet-red complexion and brushcut hair glared at them.
"You are both out of uniform," he said. And then, noticing Chiun, he asked Remo, "What's he doing here?"
"We're taking a poll," said Remo. "It's a word-association poll. We'll say a word and you say the first thing that comes into your pointy head. Ready? Start. Chinese."
"Scum."
"See," said Remo. "You try, Little Father."
"Japanese," said Chiun.
"Sneaky."
"Vietnamese."
"Sneakier. "
"Actually," said Chiun, "they are more dirty than sneaky, but you are close." Turning to Remo, the Master of Sinanju demanded, "How can you call this intelligent and true American a racist? He got two out of three correct."
"Ask him about Koreans," Remo said.
Chiun addressed the man. "Koreans."
"Worse than Japs. Stupider, too."
Chiun puffed out his cheeks in indignation.
"Racist," he said loudly. "Foul despicable round-eye racist. You are like all stupid whites. Ignorant."
The man suddenly pointed a handgun at the Master of Sinanju's angry face.
"I don't like being called names."
Chiun said to Remo, "He is truly ignorant, isn't he?"
"I don't think he knows who you are. Why don't you tell him?"
"I am the Master of Sinanju," Chiun said proudly. "Currently I am in disguise."
"What's that mean?"
"It means I am a Korean, possibly the most awesome and merciful creature you could ever imagine."
"You make yourself sound perfect." The man sneered, cocking his revolver. "Well, this gun makes me perfect."
"By what reasoning do you claim that?" asked Chiun.
"Because I can shoot off your gook head for what you called me."
"No, all that proves is that a gun, correctly aimed, can kill. Everyone knows that. It has nothing to do with your alleged perfection. It proves nothing."
"Good-bye, gook," said the man, pulling the trigger.
"Good-bye, racist," said Chiun, his open palm batting upward. It struck the muzzle of the pistol a precise quarter-second before the hammer fell, and because exactly a quarter-second after Chiun struck it the pistol was pointed up into the soft underside of the man's jaw, the bullet mushroomed against the man's tongue and the top of his head geysered a spray of blood and confused thoughts.
Remo and Chiun stepped past him.
"Let us find Ferris quickly so that we may he gone from this nest of inferior racists," said Chiun. He was unhappy because Remo had proven that there were Americans who were not as enlightened as Chiun had claimed.
Ilsa Gans ran the videotapes simultaneously on three monitors. The videos covered three angles, one head-high and the others from the ceiling. Each one told the same story, and the story was that the two spies who called themselves Remo and Chiun were invincible.
Ilsa watched them intently. The overhead films showed clearly why the five soldiers had been confused. First, the two men ran faster than the camera could record. Ilsa set the VCR for slow motion, but even then they were just slow-moving blurs. The blurs looked like they were running through a crossfire of water pistols. The bullets were real, though. Ilsa saw the walls behind them collect dusty bullet pocks.
The men were superhuman, both of them. They were more superhuman than Konrad Blutsturz, who Ilsa thought possessed superhuman will and drive. But the Fuhrer's superiority was that of a man painstakingly overcoming great odds. These men seemed to be routinely superhuman, as if it were as normal as walking or breathing.
Ilsa watched the tapes over and over with glowing eyes. The taller one's movements were strangely exciting, like a tiger slinking through the jungle, only this man slinked at high speed. The play of his lean muscles and the flash of his limbs, even from the overhead views, held Ilsa spellbound.
A quick glimpse of his face, handsome, even cruel in a slight way, made her heart skip a beat. It was as if the eyes could see her, even though his eyes were only a videotape image. Those eyes made Ilsa feel like she was prey. She shivered deliciously.
Ilsa forced herself to stop watching. She pulled the tapes and went running to the Fortress Purity auditorium, now being used as the operating amphitheater. Ilsa burst in breathlessly.
They were wheeling Konrad Blutsturz out on a hospital gurney.
"Oh no," she moaned.
"Ilsa, it is finished," Konrad Blutsturz said, his face a ghastly gray hue.
"But you're not walking. You're not walking. It didn't work?"
The head surgeon interjected himself.
"We won't know for several days. We were able to repair the nebulizer. All the parts are in place, but the surgical openings we made in Herr Fuhrer's stumps must heal first."
"We've got to get out of here before then," Ilsa pleaded.
"Out? Why, Ilsa?" asked the pitiful face of Konrad Blutsturz.
"Those new recruits. They didn't die at the rifle range. They killed our brave Aryan soldiers like they were children. They aren't human. Look at these tapes."
"Bring the tapes to my bedroom."
"Herr Fuhrer," the doctor began, "you must not exert yourself."
"Hush! Ilsa knows danger. Come. Ilsa."
In the bedroom, Konrad Blutsturz was laid on a specially reinforced iron bed. Six hulking soldiers handled him. He was covered by sheets. The sheets draped a complete human form.
It excited Ilsa to think that he was whole at last, but she quickly loaded the first tape and, after Konrad Blutsturz had dismissed the others, they watched it together.
After they had seen all three tapes, Konrad Blutsturz spoke.
"You are right, my Ilsa. They are a great danger. And I am too weak to face them just yet."
"I'll bring the van around."
"No. There still may be a way. Remember my plan to invite the Harold Smiths of America to Fortress Purity? I have just now thought of a way to test the feasibility of that plan and to rid ourselves of all of the people who stand in our way."
"Just tell me what you want me to do."
"Call a meeting in the auditorium immediately. Everyone must attend. Tell them I will make a great announcement. The doctors, too. We do not need them anymore."
"Okay. Are you sure you're up to it? You're supposed to rest."
"My fury will give me strength. Do this, Ilsa."
"Look at this, Little Father," said Remo. He pointed to a painting on the wall. They were in an office they had found. Two guards had attempted to stop them in the corridor but Chiun had taken their guns and, after learning that they knew nothing of Ferris D'Orr, spoke to them very quietly on the evils of racism. He held their hands to keep their attention. Sometimes he squeezed to emphasize key points.
By the time the Master of Sinanju was finished lecturing them, the two guards were on their knees nodding in furious agreement.
Chiun had locked them in the next room, where they were collaborating on a paper extolling the superiority of the Korean people especially those hailing from the fishing village of Sinanju. Chiun had told them he would collect it on the way out.
On the wall where Remo pointed was a portrait of the old man in the wheelchair they had seen kidnapping Ferris D'Orr in Baltimore.
"Another clue," said Chiun. "Does this mean we are closer to Ferris?"
"Probably," said Remo. Hearing footsteps coming down the hall, he glided to the door. "Someone coming," he said.
"Probably another racist," spat Chiun.
Remo caught the person as he entered. The he was a she.
"Oh!" said Ilsa Gans, struggling in Remo's arms.
When her struggles only caused the arms to tighten around her, she looked into the face of her captor. "Oh!" she said again. There was fear in her voice, but an undertone of pleasure too.
"It's the blond girl from Baltimore," Remo told Chiun.
"Where's Ferris?" he asked her.
"Somewhere," Ilsa said. His eves, close up, were brown and very large. They looked as warm as polished wood. For some reason, that made her tingle.
"I want an answer." Remo warned.
"I'll give you everything you want. Just squeeze me harder. "
"Damn," said Remo, suddenly thinking of Mah-Li waiting for him back in Sinanju. "Here, you take her, Little Father," and he sent Ilsa spinning across the room.
Chiun plucked her wrist, bringing her to a skidding stop.
"Oohh, you're some kind of icky Oriental," Ilsa cried, looking at the Master of Sinanju.
Chiun released her wrist disdainfully.
"And you are some kind of icky racist," he said. "I am losing my faith in American enlightenment, Remo." Remo pushed Ilsa into a leather chair and towered over her.
"Answers," he said, pointing to the wall portrait. "Who's he?"
"Herr Fuhrer Blutsturz. He is a great man."
"That's open to discussion. He's in charge here?"
"Until you got here," Ilsa said meltingly. She was staring at Remo's belt buckle hungrily. "There's something I must tell you. It's very important."
"Shoot," Remo said.
"I'm a virgin. I've been saving myself for someone else, but you can have me if you want."
Remo groaned inwardly. Women always reacted like this. It was some kind of animal magnetism generated by Sinanju rhythms. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed the effect he had on women. Usually it was a bother turning on the airline stewardesses or secretaries he happened to encounter. Sometimes Remo could use it to his advantage. A little Sinanju sexual stimulation could be a quick interrogation technique. But that was in the past, before Mah-Li.
"I want some answers," Remo said. "Not until I get what I want."
Remo grabbed Ilsa by an earlobe. He squeezed. Ilsa screeched. Her eyes watered.
"Get your mind onto business. Why did you and this Fuhrer what's-his-name-Bloodsucker-kidnap Ferris D'Orr?"
"Blutsturz," Ilsa moaned. "We needed his nebulizer."
"For what?"
"To make Herr Fuhrer walk. He has been in a wheelchair since the war. The creepy Jews did it."
"He's lucky they didn't do worse," said Remo, noticing Ilsa's Nazi armband.
"We needed the nebulizer to rebuild him in titanium. It was important. We tried to kill the Smiths one by one, but there were too many."
"What Smiths? You were talking about the Jews."
"Harold Smith is the leader of the global Jewish conspiracy."
"Harold Smith?" asked Remo.
"He was the evil one who destroyed Herr Fuhrer's magnificent Aryan physique. During the war. We've been trying to locate him for years."
Chiun sidled up to Remo and whispered, "Would that Smith be our Smith?"
Remo shook his head doubtfully. "There are zillions of Smiths."
"That is too many," said Chiun.
"Where's Ferris?" Remo asked Ilsa.
"I don't know." Ilsa pouted. "Dead somewhere."
"Aeeiie!" wailed the Master of Sinanju. "Did you hear that, Remo? Ferris is dead. O woe! O misery! We are lost."
"I didn't know you liked the guy that much," Remo said.
"Like," spat Chiun. "I despise that wretch. First for allowing himself to be captured and second for not defending his life with his last breath. Did he not know that by dying he would disgrace me in the eyes of my emperor? Had he no consideration? How will I break this to Smith? O calamity!"
"Smith?" said Ilsa.
"A different Smith," said Remo. "Our Smith doesn't head any conspiracies, Jewish or otherwise. Next question. The nebulizer?"
Ilsa Gans hesitated before answering. It was growing clear that the sexual creature who called himself Remo was not going to take her. Not now, not ever. She took a deep breath and gained control of her passion. She would save it for the man she had always been saving it for-Konrad Blutsturz.
"All your questions will be answered at the meeting," she said.
"What meeting?"
"The great meeting. Herr Fuhrer is going to make an announcement of his future plans. I came here to tell everyone," she added, indicating with her head a public-address microphone sitting on the desk.
Remo hesitated.
"Everyone will be there," said Ilsa. "You can ask us all your questions then."
Remo turned to Chiun. "What do you think, Little Father?"
"If we get all the racists together in one place," Chiun said bitterly, "maybe the room will catch fire and there will be fewer racists in the world. Do not ask me, I am inconsolable over the loss of the metallurgist."
"Okay," Remo told Ilsa. "Make your announcement, but no tricks."
"No tricks," said Ilsa, picking up the heavy microphone and flicking the switch that would send her voice out through the broadcast speakers installed in every building in Fortress Purity. "I could not possibly trick superior beings like yourselves."
"This one at least is educable," Chiun sniffed.
Chapter 25
Konrad Blutsturz lay staring at the ceiling. He imagined himself back in Argentina, in the green room, in the 1950's. Only by reliving the horror of those days could he steel himself for what he was about to do, the great test of his will.
The doctors had told him he must have a week's rest. The new limbs were attached through surgical implants and were detachable, replaceable, but the incisions made for the implants that were fitted into the shattered bones of his stumps required time to heal. Unnecessary movement was restricted, even forbidden.
And so Konrad Blutsturz lay on his bed, as helpless as in the days when he was a one-limbed abortion, flopping and twisting in his nightmares.
Except now he was not limited by the lack of limbs, but by the weight of his new limbs. His shining blue titanium limbs.
It was dangerous, but again, Konrad Blutsturz had no choice.
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And so he willed his left arm to move.
It lifted, heavily. Good. He pushed himself to a sitting position using both arms, the strong good one and the stronger blue one. The bed creaked in agony.
He whipped the sheet off his body. The legs twitched like an insect's mandibles. They gleamed like locust armor.
With an effort that sent pain searing along his nerves, Konrad Blutsturz stood up. It felt strange, giddy, to stand so tall after so long. For nearly forty years he had looked at the world from the eye level of a small child. Now he stood as tall as any man. Any erect man.
In the corner stood the motorized wheelchair which had meant freedom and mobility to him. But it belonged to the past. He would crush it, but he needed its use one final time.
Konrad Blutsturz walked to the wheelchair. His legs, powered by battery packs implanted in the limbs themselves, moved with the soundless animation of a marionette.
The first step was easy. The second easier. The motion was smooth. Mere will made each step happen, like real legs. Microcomputers controlled the striding gait. His unfeeling legs carried him with a rolling motion, as if he were on a ship.
With his strong titanium left arm, Konrad Blutsturz lifted the heavy wheelchair.
He walked out of the room, straghtening his torso to control the imbalance. But even the weight of the wheelchair did not deter him. He noticed his walk was becoming smoother as the titanium parts grew used to their task. He grinned.
Passing a hall mirror, he saw himself completely for the first time. But instead of pride. He felt anger. He saw a gleaming monster. He cursed the name of Harold Smith under his breath and strode on.
The Fortress Purity auditorium was deserted. The rows of collapsible chairs had been cleared for the operation, but now even the operating table was gone. There was just the platform stage and a dark stain where Ferris D'Orr had had the life squeezed out of his neck.
Konrad Blutsturz did not think of Ferris D'Orr. Ferris D'Orr belonged to the past. Konrad Blutsturz belonged to the future.
The wooden access ramp cracked under his massive weight as he mounted the stage and set the wheelchair facing where the audience would stand. He was nude, but not as nude as he had been. Something pink and rubbery dangled from the hairlessness of his crotch. But he did not think of that now either as he ripped the great red Nazi banner from the back wall. He thought only of the menace of the two rnen who had followed him to Fortress Purity.
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