“Exactly.”
“A letter in the mailroom. A letter to the pilot,” said Smith.
The President nodded.
“So this substance can be transferred on paper. By touch, I imagine. Weren't some of the people who attacked you stricken also by loss of memory?”
The President nodded again.
“What a wonderful way to cover up a trail. Have your hired guns forget everything about who ordered them to do the dirty work.”
“All of these people had Poweressence backgrounds, we found out through investigations.”
“They forgot, of course,” said Smith. “But what about the girl who turned state's evidence?”
“The problem with her was she didn't see the person who gave her the orders.”
“How can that be?”
“Poweressence may be all hustle but it is part religious cult. And they have ceremonies. Have you ever read Dolomo's books?” asked the President.
“No,” said Smith.
“Neither have I. But the Secret Service is beginning to. Almost all of the nonsense is in his books. Part of the cult is hearing voices in darknesses, among other things including being able to cure yourself through finding pieces of your body that don't hurt. I don't know how it works, but you are going to have to look into it.”
“We have, somewhat,” said Smith. “We are on their trail, but for another reason. We're after them on this witness program. They have been able to turn witnesses, also by getting them to forget. It's clear now they didn't bribe or threaten. They are using this substance, and this substance, whatever it is, is the danger. I think you have got to change the way you work, Mr. President. That's the first order of business.”
“I am not going to change a damned thing for those two frauds. I won't give in.”
“I am not asking surrender. Just protect yourself while we nail them.”
“I don't know,” said the President. “I hate to give even a change in schedule to those two murderous hustlers. I represent the American people and, dammit, Smith, the American people deserve something better than to have two of those... those whatever they are change the presidency. No.”
“Mr. President, not only can I not guarantee your safety if you don't change things, I can virtually guarantee you are going to lose to those two. Just for a little white, sir, just for a little while. I think you should make it a definite rule that you do not touch any paper, because that seems to be the device they transfer the substance on. I would also suggest you do not allow yourself to shake hands or get close to anyone but your wife,” said Smith. He held up a hand because the President wanted to interrupt.
“Also, sir, I would suggest that you do not use any office cleaned by regular staff. They could leave something around you might touch. I will personally do the cleaning. And if I lose my memory, have someone else you trust do it. Touch nothing. Your touch can destroy you.”
“What about you? What happens if you lose your memory, Smith? Who will run your organization?”
“No one, sir. It was designed that way. It will automatically shut down.”
“And those two, those specialists you use?”
“The Oriental will happily leave this country. He has always wanted to work for an emperor and doesn't understand what we are doing or why we are doing it. I think he is embarrassed that he works for us. So he won't talk. As for the American, he won't talk out of loyalty to the country.”
“Might they sell out? Might they go to some magazine and for money say what they have been doing in the country's name?”
“You mean, can we stop them?”
“Yes. If we have to.”
“The answer is no. We can't. But I know we won't have to. Remo loves this country. I don't know exactly how he thinks anymore, but he loves his country. He's a patriot, sir.”
“Like you, Smith.”
“Thank you, sir. I remember a man we lost a long time ago once said, 'America is worth a life.' I still think so.”
“Good. I've got so much on my mind. I will leave it all to you, Smith. It's your baby. Now, where were we?”
“The connection to the Dolomos.”
“What connection?” said the President.
“Don't move. Don't touch a thing,” said Smith.
“I just momentarily forgot,” said the President.
“Maybe,” said Smith. “You're under my care now. I want you to go to the door to your living quarters. Don't touch it. I will open it. On the other side, slip out of all your clothes. Can you walk to your living quarters in your underwear? Will anyone see you?”
“I hope not. I feel sort of foolish doing this.”
Smith got up from his seat and followed the President's nod to a door. He opened it. The substance might be on the handles. At every step Smith was acutely aware of his mental activity, exactly what he remembered and where he was. Even so, he did not touch the doorknob any more than he had to.
“Use another office while we have this one cleaned. We'll monitor everyone who works in the office. I am going to call the Oriental back from assignment. We were after the Dolomos for other reasons.”
“Don't call off your efforts against them,” said the President.
“I won't. But I want Chiun here. He can sense things routine examinations would miss. I don't know how he does it, but it works.”
“The older one?” asked the President.
“Yes,” said Smith.
“I like him,” said the President.
“He can stop things we can only imagine.”
“We'll have to give him a suit. He can't be around me wearing a kimono without attracting attention.”
“I don't think we could get him to change his clothes, sir,” said Smith. “He really doesn't change much. He probably won't change anything. He doesn't even understand our form of government. He won't accept the fact that some emperor doesn't run the place.”
“Hell,” said the President of the United States, unbuttoning his shirt. “Nobody runs the place. We all hang on for dear life.”
He left his clothes in the Oval Office and walked with as much dignity as he could muster in his underwear through the passage to the presidential apartments.
Smith made sure the Secret Service examined all the clothes and all the objects in them. Then he made sure everyone who touched anything in the office was given an immediate test for memory. Everyone passed.
Still, the only real test was to have human hands run over everything in the office. It might have been that a minute amount was secreted on something, so minute that it might have been entirely rubbed off by the President. But on what? And how would they deliver it?
Smith sighed as he looked around the office, wondering who or what had entered it to deliver the substance. He looked at the American flag and the presidential flag. He looked at the office he had known of since childhood. He had always been taught such respect for it and he had always treated it with that respect.
It struck Harold W. Smith hard that he had told his first lie to a president of the United States right in this office.
Chiun was not going to be brought in here solely to protect him. Because if the President could not be protected, Harold Smith had a duty to his country and the human race to assassinate his President as quickly and as surely as possible.
If a person regressed to childhood, as the plane's black box indicated, then what would happen to America if the President succumbed to that? What would happen to the ship of state with a child running it, one who could trigger a nuclear holocaust in one angry fit?
Smith resolved that at the first sure sign of childish behavior, the President would have to die. Smith could not take chances. He looked at the Oval Office one last time, shook his head, and left.
It had been so long since he had been ordered to start the organization by a now-dead president, so long and
