Lords of the Earth td-61 Read online

  He got clearance from his bodyguards to descend and walked down the stairway from the jetcraft to his limousine and found two men waiting for him in the backseat.

  One wore a kimono. The other wore a black T-shirt and black slacks.

  "Who gave you permission to ride in the car with me?" asked Ndo.

  "Hi," said Remo pleasantly. "We've come on business."

  "I do not discuss business except by appointment."

  "Your secretary was uncooperative too," Remo said. "He is in the front seat."

  Ndo glanced into the front seat. A very big man was curled up in a fetal position. The big man was his favorite bodyguard and could break someone's arm with one hand. Ndo had seen him do it. His favorite bodyguard, was not moving.

  "Ah, business, yes," said the director general of IHAEO. "Well, I am on my way to the United Nations. Let us do our business quickly."

  Ndo gave the pair his most attentive look, even while he set off his emergency alarm to alert bodyguards and local police. Ndo had long-standing orders on what to do if he was abducted. The long-standing orders were to give any terrorists exactly what they wanted if they would return Ndo unharmed. Of course, he had already eliminated the danger from most of the terrorists in the world by putting them on the IHAEO payroll.

  Ndo listened politely to some claptrap about bugs and laboratory experiments and a rainy season. He listened until he saw the blue bubble of a police car in front and then another one in back. Gas suddenly filled the backseat but he knew enough to hold his breath. A dark mask fell down from the car's ceiling. He pulled it over his face and breathed pure oxygen.

  He waited for a full count of four hundred, far longer than anyone could hold his breath. Then he pressed the gas-exhaust lever and waited until there was absolutely no trace left in the backseat, then replaced the mask in its compartment. The police would have to take care of the bodies.

  But there were no bodies. The white man just continued talking. He was still talking about bugs when Ndo tried to stab him with a little ceremonial knife he carried. The knife had the poison of the Gwee bush. It would send anyone cut with it into painful paralysis, like an execution which took a week of dying, every moment in agony.

  The knife somehow wouldn't cut the man's skin. Remo put it away on the floor.

  "So that's what we want," he said finally. "The good points are that you are going to help millions. The bad points are that if you don't do it, we are going to take off your face."

  "I am not afraid," Ndo said.

  Remo pressured the thumb up against the forearm, creating a shock through Ndo's nervous system. But he accepted the pain, accepted it as he had learned to accept pain for the initiation ceremony of the Inuti. "

  Remo cracked the thumb and still the man didn't surrender. He did not surrender as his ribs strained close to his heart, even though sweat began to pour from his forehead. Then, with a smile, Ndo passed out.

  "I don't want to kill him, Little Father," Remo said. "We need him to give orders."

  "He is afraid of death," Chiun said. "But not of pain."

  "I've never seen anything like that," Remo said.

  "Because you have not adequately studied the history of the Masters of Sinanju."

  "I have," Remo said.

  "Not adequately."

  Remo glanced at the police cars. Uniformed officers stood alongside the cars, guns down. He did not want to have to hurt them.

  "Not adequately," Chiun repeated.

  "I don't care," Remo said. "I'm not wearing a kimono."

  "If you had read the histories, you would," Chiun said.

  "What do the histories say about kimonos that's of any help?"

  "The histories say that only pale pieces of pigs' ears refuse to wear the kimono."

  "Where does it say that?" Remo asked. "I'm the first white Master ever."

  "It says it in the latest history of Sinanju, called 'The Persecution of Chiun' or 'How Benevolence Is Never Rewarded.' "

  "Skip that. What about this guy?" Remo said.

  "The Inuti are like that. They once had great emperors. It is manhood training he used to resist your pain. Don't worry. The Inuti are a reasonable people," Chiun said.

  "Meaning that they paid their assassins," Remo said.

  "In goats and goat products. But at least on time," Chiun said. He reached into the vest pocket of the diplomat's three-piece suit. With a gentle working of the nerve endings around his solar plexus, Chiun brought the director general of IHAEO back to consciousness.

  "You are Inuti," said Chiun, who had told Remo before that to know the tribe of an African was to know the man. Unlike whites, Chiun had said, Africans had a history and loyalty to their villages. No proper African would defy his father as Remo defied Chiun.

  Ndo smiled. It was a cold smile because pain was still in his body but it was a smile of triumph.

  "We are Sinanju," said Chiun.

  Ndo had heard the tales of the dreaded ones from the Orient who had served the ancient kings of the Inutf.

  "What does Sinanju care about bugs?" asked Ndo.

  "What cares about what Sinanju cares about," said Chiun.

  "Whereas I respect the House of Sinanju, my hands are not my own," Ndo said. "I have obligations, commitments. What can I do for you other than this?"

  "When Sinanju wants something else, it will ask for something else," Chiun said. "Tell me, Inuti, do you think that your ancient conquest of pain is enough to build the wall that stops Sinanju?"

  And with that he held before Ndo his Ga, the little wooden statue. Ndo was fast but his hands were like great slow muffins compared to the speed of the long fingernails. Ndo reached but the statue was out of his grasp.

  Slowly Chiun broke off Ga's right leg. Ndo wept. "Ga's manhood is next," Chiun said.

  "No," cried Ndo. "Do not. My seed will die with it."

  "So, Inuti, we understand each other," said Chiun. Ndo offered to make Chiun the wealthy director of any agency he wished but Chiun's answer again was: "Sinanju cares about what Sinanju cares about."

  "You mean we all have to go into the bush to look at bugs? There will be a revolt."

  "There will be the glorious vindication of Dr. Ravits' work," Chiun said.

  "Dr. who?"

  "One of the scientists," said Chiun.

  "I don't know them. Who heads his department?"

  "Dara Worthington," Remo said.

  "I don't know her. Who is her director?" Both Remo and Chiun shrugged.

  "Give me Ga and I will find out," Ndo said.

  "You will find out because I have Ga and will keep him until you do," Chiun said.

  Ndo looked at the old Oriental, then dropped his eyes and nodded.

  As he waved the police away and told them it was all a misunderstanding, he heard the two men from Sinanju talking. They were arguing about kimonos and Ndo knew he never wanted to see a kimono again in his life.

  Chapter 7

  Waldron Perriweather III watched the news on television, heard the commentators talk about the good work of IHAEO and its fight to prevent famine; heard what was billed as the final battle against the evil Ung beetle.

  He stormed into the laboratory on his estate and promptly passed out from the DDT. When he recovered he asked just how much DDT his entomologist was using now and when he was told, he commented that surely everything must be ready by now.

  "Not yet, Mr. Perriweather, but soon," the scientist said.

  "Just let me know when everything will be ready," said Perriweather.

  He had his lawyers find out certain things about the demonstration IHAEO was going to mount to show the world how it was fighting against famine.

  When he learned the demonstration would be outside, in the fields of central Africa, he muttered a small "damn" under his breath. "Still," he mumbled, "sometimes it can work outside. We'll see."

  Nathan and Gloria Muswasser did not want to see millions of man's fellow creatures poisoned painfully to death. They could no
t bear to wait around for another injustice before the inalienable rights of all creatures ware, protected under the law.

  They would strike now. They loaded the barrels of TNT onto the rented truck and drove it to the front gate of the IHAEO laboratories in Washington, D.C.

  "Order by two of your new members. Part of their great new breaththrough," Nathan called out to the guard. They delivered the TNT to the crates being loaded for the Ung-beetle demonstration in central Africa.

  They did not stay to see the barrels loaded but turned the truck around quickly and drove away. They drove for twenty minutes and then Gloria said to Nathan:

  "Do you make the phone call or do I?"

  "I don't know. This is my first time. I feel so relevant," said Nathan Muswasser.

  "The hottest place in hell," said Gloria Muswasser, "is reserved for those who in a time of crisis do nothing. Or something like that."

  "I'll make the call. You're too nervous," said Nathan. He went into a telephone booth near a diner and dialed a local television station.

  The paper he held trembled in his hands. Finally he was doing something for the world.

  As soon as he heard the newsman's voice, he read the statement on the paper:

  "We, the Species Liberation Alliance, take full and total credit for the revolutionary act this day at the murderous center of oppression, the IHAEO laboratories in Washington, D.C. We, the core cadres of the SLA, call upon all people to join us in our just and legitimate struggle against the oppressors of all creatures. Other liberating acts will follow."

  "What are you talking about?" the newsman asked.

  "I am talking, man, about the explosion at the IHAEO labs. We must have killed at least two hundred people, man." Nathan Muswasser liked calling people "man"; it made him feel relevant.

  "No explosion at the labs, buddy," the newsman said.

  "You're lying. We did it. We're claiming credit. It's our revolutionary act and we have a right to get credit."

  "There wasn't any explosion," the reporter insisted.

  "Listen, man," Nathan said. "We bought the dynamite. We planted the dynamite. We set the fuse and we want credit. It's our act."

  "Can't give you credit; you haven't killed anyone," the reporter answered.

  "What's going on here? Let me talk to the station manager," Nathan said.

  Gloria, seeing Nathan turn red and hearing his voice rise, leaned out of the cab of the truck and yelled, "What's the matter?"

  Nathan covered the speaker with his hand. "They won't give us credit, honey."

  "What?" screamed Gloria.

  "The guys says we can't get credit."

  "Dammit," snarled Gloria. "Let me speak to him." She climbed out of the cab of the truck. Nathan handed her the telephone.

  "I told him we planted the dynamite."

  "TNT, dummy," she snapped. Into the telephone, she said, "Okay, what's the matter?"

  "Nothing's the matter," the reporter said. "This station is not giving credit without deaths. If you want credit without deaths, try some wire service. We are just not giving credit for bombings or any kind of killing anymore without some real killing going on. New policy."

  "We had to have five hundred pounds of TNT," she said. "Do you know how much that is? We had the best fuse and I checked it myself. If my husband had checked it, I might say all right, but I checked it, and I get things right. Now that thing went off at the height of the work hours. We set it for when there'd be the maxium number of people there."

  "Lady, it's not up to me," the reporter said. "Just two months ago we got a call from a liberation group that wanted credit for blowing up a day school. They say they killed 350 kids. We sent a reporter out and you know what he found?"

  Gloria didn't answer; she was still fuming.

  "Do you know what he found?"

  "What?"

  "There were no 350 dead preschoolers. There wasn't even a nosebleed. The flowers were growing in the schoolyard. The sun was shining and the mothers were picking up their children. Now where would we be if we went ahead and gave credit for that?"

  "Who was it?" Gloria asked. "Which liberation group? Maybe I know them."

  "I don't know. One of them. It was valid. It had a lot of support. Church groups. Professors."

  "Oh, that kind," Gloria said in dismissal. "Anybody can get professors. But that's not us: We're the SLA. We have a tradition. You know we're good for those deaths. We've been good before," said Gloria. "What about the pilot? Those farmers? The oil drillers? That entomologist? They're all ours, you know. The people who did those are dead but the struggle continues."

  "I'm sorry. We just can't give credit anymore without the bodies."

  "What's he saying?" Nathan asked.

  "Shh," said Gloria. "Look, we planted the damn thing. I'm sure it went off."

  "Sorry. Station policy," the newsman said.

  "You know, it's people like you who make this a crud world," Gloria said as she slammed down the telephone.

  "No credit?" asked Nathan.

  "Not for even a bruise."

  "What went wrong?"

  "Nothing went wrong," Gloria said. "Just a bunch of fascists at that damned station. Little men running big things."

  "Maybe we should have heard the explosion," Nathan said. "Even this far away."

  "I don't know. Come on. Let's get out of here. Sometimes these stations sicken me, you know?"

  "Yeah," said Nathan. "What the hell. We still have the thing that'll do the real damage."

  "You didn't forget that, did you?" Gloria asked.

  "Are you kidding?"

  "Maybe it won't work out-of-doors, did you ever think of that?" Gloria said.

  "No," said Nathan.

  "Then again, it might work better outdoors," she said. "We might get some real good numbers without walls to prevent it from spreading."

  "We'll get credit then," Nathan said.

  "Who knows? You go out of your way. You buy the best materials, you buy the best fuses, you triple-check them and nothing. Not even a bruise."

  "You don't think it went off then?" Nathan asked.

  "No, it didn't go off," snarled Gloria. Sometimes Nathan was enough to send her up a wall.

  "Should we go back and check?"

  "No, dummy. They would probably have people waiting for us."

  At the lab, Dara Worthington threw the defective detonator in a separate trashcan and had the barrels of TNT carefully carted away from the area by police. The would-be terrorists forgetting to erase the TNT markings from the sides of the barrels and being spotted by a cautious workman, had been her second lucky break.

  But the biggest break of the day had been the announcement by Director General Ndo that IHAEO was going to mount a major effort, immediately, against the Ung beetle. They were calling the world in to watch. Everyone was going to be there. Even the IHAEO delegates.

  She didn't know what had produced the turnabout in the IHAEO position. All she had done was mention to that nice old Oriental gentleman in the kimono the troubles she had, and a few hours later, Ndo made his announcement.

  Well, she wasn't one to look gift horses in the mouth. She would take her good luck where she found it. Maybe now, she thought, IHAEO would see what could be done and they might devote more funds to fighting disease and pestilence. There was hope now. And she wasn't going to let this afternoon's crude attempt at mass murder discourage her.

  With the TNT out of the way, she made one last inspection of the laboratory. Oddly enough, Dr. Ravits' cat had gone crazy. It had thrown itself against the reinforced steel plate walls of the laboratory and somehow smashed itself to death. There were three small lines cut sharp into the steel just above the small cat's body.

  If Dara didn't know better, she would have sworn that the three lines were claw marks.

  But she did know better. No cat's claws were ever able to score steel.

  Chapter 8

  Harold W. Smith finally made contact with Remo. He was takin
g Barry Schweid out for some sun when one latch clip on the case popped open. That was the sign. There was no beep, no buzzer, nothing to attract attention. Smith had designed it that way because he did not want people alerted to the fact that he was being contacted.

  Smith opened the case on the small keyboard that looked like an ultraportable computer, he punched in the proper code for receiving a call. Then he put the microthin line to his ear.

  Schweid saw all this but only cared about how the storage access related to the communications modem. He had to be reminded by Smith not to disconnect him. So while Barry played with the workings inside the case, Smith talked. They continued to walk down the rutted dirt road to a boat which would take Barry snorkeling at one of the safest beaches on the island.

  "Smitty, we had a bit of a problem at the lab," came Remo's voice.

  "I know. They buried the sponge with Dr. Ravits' remains today. I made a promise to someone else because you made a promise to me."

  "I don't know how it happened," Remo said. "We blew it. But we think we're going to nail these guys now."

  "I hope so. This is a greater danger than people realize," Smith said, thinking of the Ung beetle's ability to counteract all known poisons and how dangerous it would be if that ability spread to other creatures. It was as if there was a giant chess game going on over what species would survive. Why anyone would champion the cause of insects over people, Smith did not know, but he did know that this new world somehow seemed to tolerate the most outrageous of acts. It seemed that the more mindless and more virulent the group, the greater support it got from the placard wavers and the marchers.

  It sometimes seemed to him that the fabric of civilization itself had been torn and the last threads were being shredded. But because of the way he had been raised, he would defend those last threads because that was all there was.

  "Remo," he said, "that experiment against the beetle in central Africa has got to work."

  "I'll be there," Remo said.

  "You were at the lab," Smith said.

  "But this time I think they've got to be coming at me and Chiun," Remo said.

  "Good luck then."

  "Smitty, you worry too much."