Remo The Adventure Begins (15 page)

“What about sex?” said Remo.

“When you are ready to make a child, then you will do it.”

“I’m ready now. I have been ready every day, and I’m getting readier every day that passes by. I am more than ready. I am ready to explode.”

“Then we will teach you soon how to do it. There are many steps leading to the end of your explosion—thirty-six to be exact—and twenty to bring the woman to perfect sexual bliss. Actually, seven usually gives them bliss. Women like bliss.”

“Go ahead. I’m listening,” said Remo.

“The left wrist locates the woman’s pulse with the middle finger and, tapping in time with the pulse . . .” Chiun paused, pondering the rice in his mouth.

“Yeah. Then what?” asked Remo.

“Then we cook the rice longer,” said Chiun.

“The sex. What about the sex?”

“Later,” said Chiun.

“You know, Chiun, sometimes I could kill you.”

“Good. We will practice that after supper. And heights, too. You must learn heights. You will learn heights. Heights.”

“My mind is on something lower than a belly button, to tell you the truth.”

“Then don’t tell me the truth,” said Chiun. He had made his decision. They would go on as long as they could. Unless of course devious Smith tried something new. He did not tell Remo all the plans Smith had for him. That would be too sad. And besides, who knew if Remo would survive the heights?

In the morning, they went to a seaside part of this gigantic city of the west. Remo needed more training outside the room. It was a place unlike great Roman arenas because people were not killed on purpose here. It was not a park, although it was called that, because there were no trees, or plants like the English or French had in their parks. They called it an amusement park and an island. Coney Island. And like everything else in this land, it was filthy.

Remo and Chiun would take the Ferris wheel. It was the largest Ferris wheel in the world, they said, with the top being more than ten stories above ground.

“This will help you with heights,” said Chiun.

“How will riding in a Ferris wheel help me with heights?”

“Who said you were going to ride in it?” said Chiun. “I am going to ride in it.”

And Chiun did, as Remo held on to the outside, learning to move between pillars that threatened to crush him as Chiun repeated, “Breathe, very good, that’s right, movement breath. Using the air, not wasting it, good. Using the air, using the air.”

Remo missed a girder by a hair, crawling up to the side of the cage where Chiun sat with his hands crossed in his lap.

“Jeeesus, Chiun,” yelled Remo.

“No prayers. Concentrate,” said Chiun, who recognized the name of a western god of the last two thousand years. It helped, when you trained whites, to be familiar with their deities.

Remo crawled up the Ferris wheel cage in which Chiun sat comfortably, to the top, and kept on crawling as the cage made the gigantic circumference.

It was early winter and the amusement park was virtually empty but for the garbage that seemed to infest its lanes and booths. Remo mentioned it might be nice to have a warm coat. Chiun said thank you, but he didn’t need one. Remo said it wasn’t for Chiun who was inside the cage on the rim of the wheel. Chiun said Remo didn’t need one.

Remo said he did. Chiun said he wasn’t concentrating. Remo said he didn’t care. Chiun said Remo might fall. Remo answered he didn’t care about that anymore either.

Good, thought Chiun. He is learning the first thing about heights.

When they were done, Remo in the manner of whites expected a compliment for not getting killed.

“I was pretty good, huh?”

“Because a caterpillar is faster than a flower does not make it a bolt of lightning.”

“Am I ever going to do something you think is all right?”

“To be proud of what you do is to look behind you. You must look ahead. You must see what you have to do. An ant can carry one hundred times its own weight. Why?”

“Because you taught him?” said Remo.

“Because he uses his powers fully. You must use your mind. You must believe in your powers. The mind is your power. You must believe.”

Remo noticed a stand that openly sold hot dogs, openly sold hamburgers, hamburgers cooked in grease then served with fried onions and tomato catsup alongside, fizzy sugary drinks to wash them down. He was steps away, just upwind from whole hamburgers cooking on a grill.

“I do believe,” said Remo. “I believe I am hungry.”

“Pale piece of a pig’s ear. I cast pearls of wisdom. I attempt transforming, and I get this. But I get what I deserve. You once asked if a Sinanju Master ever had a weakness. I do. My weakness is that I am too nice.”

“You already told me that,” said Remo, turning away from the hamburgers.

“I will not tolerate these insults anymore.”

“You already told me that too.”

The two walked to the deserted beach. Remo had to work on his running. The first run sent him dashing across the beach with sand spitting up behind him. He waited at the other end, looking at the watch he had bought despite Chiun’s admonition that time was internal not external, that the more one relied on things instead of oneself the more one lost oneself. Look at the appendix. Unused for thirty thousand years, and now useless.

Still there was Remo grinning. Chiun moved to him without haste.

“I swear, I must have done two hundred yards in twelve seconds. That would be a record,” said Remo. Chiun looked sadly back at the heavy tracks in the sand.

With great patience he took Remo to where the water covered the smooth sand and then washed back, leaving a flat glistening surface.

“You were not running. You were making holes in the sand. Big banging clumps. Look, there are your footprints. If you wish to kill sand you did well. If you wish to run, run.”

“Hey, if you guys are better, then why didn’t you enter the Olympics. You could make fortunes running.”

“Yes, perhaps this century. Perhaps in the year you called 500
B.C.
, but those fads change. The world always needs an assassin. Run.”

Remo ran down the beach even faster this time. He could see Chiun shake his head.

“No. No. No.” Chiun ran to him.

“You were slower than me,” said Remo.

“I wanted you to see.”

“See what?”

“And you didn’t see,” said Chiun, pointing to the flat glistening part of the beach where one set of footprints was just being washed by the western sea the whites called the Atlantic.

“You didn’t leave footprints,” said Remo.

“Ah,” said Chiun.

“I am supposed to run without leaving footprints.”

“Ah,” said Chiun.

“Okay, how do I do it?”

“Now, he asks,” said Chiun. “Next time, perhaps, you will help us all by asking beforehand? Yes?”

They practiced running most of the day, until Remo got it almost right. On the way out they passed a ring toss for stuffed dolls, and Chiun won twelve pandas and a Miss Piggy. Remo wanted the Miss Piggy. It reminded him of a long time ago in another life when he had kept it under the dashboard of his squad car. A gang of motorcyclists thought it was funny that two grown men would be carrying dolls. They made comments about the same. Then two of them tried to take away a panda from the elderly oriental.

They were admitted to Brooklyn Mercy Hospital almost as soon as ambulance workers could pry them from the boardwalk of Coney Island. One of them even managed to reach stable condition by midnight.

10

M
oscow was burning. The woman shrieked. She wasn’t heard. The buzz from below drowned it out. Glasses clinked, people talked. And then Moscow burned itself out and the ash blew away over the crowd gathered beneath the thirty-foot model of the world, where the woman had moments before flicked her cigarette ash so casually. It landed on Moscow because that was near the top of the globe. On the other side, where the partygoers could see from below, was the United States of America, protected by what appeared to be a metallic spider.

The legs, thin glistening wires, were supposed to represent rays. The body was a polished metallic box atop those rays.

“Those rays,” explained Mr. Grove’s secretary, whose name was Wilson, “will make America and the west invulnerable into the next century.”

“We don’t want to be invulnerable,” said the guest in an accent that sounded vaguely British. He was an official from New Zealand.

“I beg your pardon,” said Wilson. Grove Industries had learned long ago that one did not confront pacifists directly, rather one drew them out. At this party in the main ballroom of Grove Industries’ Washington office with the elaborate models of the guns, gunships, and now HARP atop the western world, Wilson was performing his duty even if that duty meant making mindless conversation.

George Grove was at this party, and if Wilson could occupy one fool, then that meant one fool less that George Grove had to deal with instead of dealing with congressmen and senators. It was more critical that Grove himself spend time with the people who would be deciding the future of America, which of course meant the future of Grove.

Hearings were under way concerning HARP. Whereas an undiscovered leak would be a problem under any circumstances, Wilson knew so well that a leak now, with HARP coming up, might be disastrous. Exactly why HARP should be more vulnerable than other projects, Wilson honestly did not know.

He was not part of manufacturing. He only did special things for George Grove, like keep this New Zealander occupied.

“Would you explain to me,” Wilson asked the man in the good pinstripe suit, somewhat old-fashioned but solidly tailored, “how you could be in danger if we make you invulnerable along with the rest of the west?”

“If the Russians don’t think we’re invulnerable they won’t attack.”

“Invulnerable means you can’t be harmed.”

“That’s right, mate. We won’t be harmed if we’re vulnerable.”

“That makes no sense,” said Wilson, guiding the man to the farthest corner of the room where there was a model of one of the first machine guns produced by Grove Industries.

“It don’t have to make sense, mate. Do you really think anyone cares what happens to New Zealand; I mean what other civilized country could look up to Australia, mate?”

Wilson had to laugh. The man was right.

“Honest now, right, mate,” said the man, refusing a champagne and taking a beer. “No one is going to bother dropping an atomic anything on us. What would they destroy? A bunch of footsoldiers in funny hats? Sheep? Dogs? Horses? A garden party?”

Wilson glanced back at Grove. A general with a beautiful major was approaching Grove, who had a senator cornered. Wilson knew the senator would be crucial to HARP. He knew Grove did not want to be bothered by the military when he was working Congress. The general was approaching at flank speed. But Wilson could not get away from the friendly New Zealander who, as was the manner of his countrymen, talked with an armlock on his listener.

“Look, mate, we know we are not really targets. Could you name me one atomic scientist from Australia? Could you name me one great electronics engineer from New Zealand? Name me something we export that could affect the modern world in any way. Ever see a New Zealand camera or an Australian television set? Getting the picture, mate?”

Wilson tried to break free, but the New Zealander was on a roll. “Name me anything that ever came out of New Zealand but our national beer. And there ain’t no place, mate, what don’t have its national beer. And what’s neighbor Australia known for? What is the one thing that continent down under has done? Name it. You know it.”

Wilson watched the general and the major close in. Mr. Grove had wanted congressional time at this party. In fact, that was the party’s purpose. He could see that General Scott Watson anytime. And certainly there was no major in the world that would do anything but take up Mr. Grove’s valuable congressional time. But the New Zealander held Wilson fast.

“Name it, mate. All right, I’ll tell you. We won a bloody boat race, that’s what. A sailboat race. Australia’s great technological breakthrough was a bloody keel. They’ve been coming up with new keels since the Stone Age. Do you know how you tell an aborigine from the prime ministers of New Zealand and Australia?”

Wilson tried a smile and a duck and a good-bye but the New Zealander was too swift for him.

“The difference between the Stone Age aborigine and our elected leaders, mate, can be most readily discerned by turning on the lights. Aborigines are black.”

The New Zealander gave himself a hearty laugh. Wilson was now faced with the horrible dilemma of risking a seam tear in his jacket or watching George Grove lose vital lobbying time. Wilson ripped. The New Zealander let go. Wilson’s unrestrained arm went sailing into someone’s back, knocking a drink into someone else’s face.

“Ever taste our New Zealand lamb?”

“No, dammit,” yelled Wilson, who saw now he had failed. The general and the major had arrived at George Grove. He knew this because George Grove was faking a friendly smile.

“Mr. Grove, this is our Major Rayner Fleming of whom we are most proud,” said General Watson. “Major Fleming, George Grove.”

General Watson waited for George Grove’s charm to work. The message was clear. George Grove for some reason was to turn this young lady’s head.

“My, my,” said George Grove. “If all the majors look like you, I’m joining the Army again.”

General Watson thought that was tremendously funny. He laughed. Grove laughed. Major Fleming maintained a polite silence.

“Major Fleming is our best in-house watchdog,” said General Watson. “She keeps the world honest. And we’re grateful for it.”

“Really, Major Fleming,” said Grove, impressed. “What do you watch?”

“Oh, you know. The usual defense-contract stuff. Fraud. Waste. Shoddy workmanship. The AR-60,” said Major Fleming.

“AR what?”

“The field rifle Grove manufactures,” said General Watson.

“Oh, that. Yes, well, forgive me. My mind is on HARP,” said Grove, nodding to the world whose western half was protected by the metallic simulations of electronic rays. “We can make every city, every home in America safe with that.”