“Why are you bothered by such silly things?” asked Chiun. “What is this thing about truth? That you know what is so is the only matter of importance.”
“But these guys are heard by millions.”
“Then it is the problem of the millions. You may not remember, but I once told you that to know the truth is enough for any one person. What another knows is his problem.”
“I don't like to see my country get trashed by its own,” said Remo.
“I do,” said Chiun. “Your country deserves it. Now, if they were to defame Sinanju, the glorious gem of civilization on the West Korea Bay, then we might take proper action.”
“Forget it, Little Father. I am well enough that I remember Sinanju. It's a mudhole of a fishing village. I remember now. We had a big fight there once.”
“You had a fight, I had a glorious homecoming,” said Chiun.
The boat landed and about twenty young men and women with whips met the American newsmen. Some were herded to the old cow barns. Others were taken to the sheep pasture before they were allowed to interview the hijackers.
Remo turned on his communicator.
It was half the size of a loaf of bread and had been designed for absolute simplicity. There were only two buttons to push. Somehow Remo managed to push them four times in combinations that failed to work. He thought that should be impossible. He banged it once. He banged it twice, gently.
“Working,” came Smith's voice.
“What do you want first?”
“Locate that liquid but keep Chiun with you. You know what happened to you last time.”
“When I do that, what should I do then?”
“Probably move on the Dolomos and then on the Powies, and that should take care of the hijacked passengers. Let the Marines rescue them.”
“How does this thing work? I got it going by accident.”
“You press the button on the right to turn it on and the one on the left to turn it off.”
“Oh,” said Remo, and was cut off when he pressed the wrong button.
Chiun was outraged again that they were following a typical Smith insanity. A professional assassin should remove great leaders, he pointed out, not go shopping for formulas. Let his chemist take care of that, not his assassins, Chiun said. None of this would happen if they worked for a legitimate emperor instead of the lunatic.
It was not easy getting out of the corrals set up for the reporters. Remo opened the gate using a Powie head as a battering ram. The reporters did not escape but waited for other Powie guards to return to tell them where to go and what to report.
At the harbor facing the neighboring Bahamian island of Eleuthera, Remo saw that many of the houses were boarded shut. These were pleasant houses, many with pink shutters and pastel walls, with red and yellow flowers growing in abundance over white picket fences. The British had been here and left their influence.
There was a sense of civility about these houses that surpassed anything in Great Britain, however. The homes were warm, welcoming, and open. And yet all the doors were shut.
“Now,” said Chiun, “in an occupied land, to whom do you go to find out what the occupants are doing?”
“I remember that one, Little Father,” said Remo. “You go to the occupiers second.”
“Because?”
“Because while only a top few of the occupiers know what they are doing, almost every one of the occupied knows,” said Remo.
“Correct,” said Chiun.
The thing that hit Remo hardest, while walking these pleasant stone streets amid pleasant bungalows and cottages, was the silence. No one was in the streets. The houses talked of liveliness and the streets talked ominously of silence.
“They're all inside,” said Remo. He entered a pleasant pink bungalow with white shutters bordered by an expanse of bougainvillea over a manicured white picket fence. The air smelled of sea and flowers and it was good.
Remo knocked.
“We are inside as ordered,” said a pleasant British voice.
“We're not the occupiers,” said Remo.
“Then please leave. We don't want to be caught talking to you.”
“You won't be caught.”
“You can't assure us of that,” replied the very British voice.
“Yes I can,” said Remo.
The door opened and a black face appeared.
“Are you from the press?”
“No,” Remo admitted.
“Please do come in, then,” said the man with the British accent.
He shut the door behind Remo and Chiun. The parlor was pleasantly furnished with white wicker furniture. African designs covered the walls, and prominent over an artificial fireplace which never needed use was a lithograph of a very white, almost blond Jesus.
“I will not talk to another American reporter. They came around here asking if we wanted American planes to bomb our homes, and when we all said 'of course not,' they went on to report we were afraid of an American invasion. If we didn't know the British newspapers were worse, we would be outlandishly offended.”
“We're here to get the bad guys.”
“At last, somebody is capable of making a moral distinction. What I don't understand is how so many can say they are for these Powies but against the hijacking. They are the hijacking. They are putting alligators in people's swimming pools. They made the attempt on your President's life. That is who they are.”
“Couldn't agree more,” said Remo.
“And they have bad manners. And they pass out these ridiculous leaflets on their fake cult.”
“Couldn't agree more,” said Remo.
“Then let's have a spot of tea, and you let me know how I can help you. I am simply outraged that every time somebody takes over a place with force, your press calls it liberation and then blithely goes on to the next free country reporting its ills until it too is liberated. Do you know what 'liberated' has come to mean? Any country which will shoot you if you leave.”
“Couldn't agree more,” said Remo. “But I'm afraid we're going to pass on the tea. We're looking for something these people have. It's a formula, a liquid, they're making here. It makes people forget.”
“I wish I could take some now,” joked their host. “I don't know of such a thing, but my children might.”
The man introduced Remo to a boy and girl about ten years old. They were bright, intelligent, neat, and polite.
“I didn't know they made polite children anymore,” said Remo.
“Certainly not in America,” said Chiun, alluding to his problems with Remo.
Remo explained what he was looking for.
“I don't know if it will be any help, but these bad people are making some stuff, like water, that makes people forget. Even if you touch it, you can be affected just as if you drank it. It goes through the skin.”
“Like interferon,” said the boy.
“What?” said Remo.
“It's a drug. Many drugs can be transferred through the pores, you know. They do breathe.”
“I know that,” said Remo.
“That explains what they're doing under the north end of Pink Beach,” said the boy.
“The big rubber bags,” said the girl.
“The big rubber room.”
“Rubber would do it. They'd have to seal it in something,” said Remo.
“And to think the House of Sinanju used to serve czars,” said Chiun. “By all means explain to us about rubber bags. That is what we are here for. Rubber bags for garbage.”
