"Waste, you son of a bitch," the policeman said. He jammed the car angrily into drive and sped off, his rear wheels kicking gravel and pebbles back at Remo and Chiun.
Remo watched him leave, then turned to Chiun.
"You get it?"
Chiun brought his hand from behind his back.
It held the red blinking light from the car's dashboard.
"How'd you open the door?" Remo said. "It was locked."
"Clean living," explained Chiun.
"Let's go," Remo said.
Back in the car, Remo wired the light to the two clips behind the cigarette lighter of his rented auto. The light began to rotate and flash.
Remo pulled off onto the shoulder, stepped on the gas and zoomed off toward Darlington. Acid rock freaks waved at him as he sped down the road. Some of them, already stoned, wandered out into the shoulder of the road and Remo was forced to swerve his way through them like an open field runner.
"Not so fast," Chiun said.
"Concentrate on the centrality of your being," Remo suggested.
"What does that mean?" Chiun asked.
"I don't know. It's what you always tell me."
"And good advice, too," Chiun said. "I shall concentrate on the centrality of my being." He lifted his legs up onto the front seat of the auto and folded them into his meditation position. He stared straight ahead out the window. Ten seconds later his eyes were closed.
Remo would have sworn Chiun was asleep, that is, until he almost sideswiped a car moving out onto the shoulder, and Chiun said:
"Careful, lest you kill us both and leave Mr. Nilsson with nothing to do." As he spoke, he opened his eyes and looked out the side window. An elderly man with gray hair, carrying a doctor's bag walked rapidly along the shoulder of the road. Chiun saw him, watched him for a moment and nodded to himself. He turned toward Remo but
Remo had not seen the man. Chiun started to speak, then changed his mind and closed his eyes again. Why tell Remo anything? Particularly about an upstart House.
Gunner Nilsson looked up at the car whizzing past him and felt a distaste for soft Americans. Walk where they could run; ride where they could walk. No matter. Only a few miles left and he had plenty of time. Today he would not fail.
Maggot had breakfast in bed, Vickie at his side.
"What do you really think about Christmas trees as a tax shelter?" he asked, munching on a soy-flour roll.
"Not bad, if you're prepared to wait five years for some return," she said. She reached toward her canvas bag and fished a hand inside it. She pulled out a vial of blue pills and her face lit up with pleasure.
"Why not eat?" Maggot said. "There's plenty for both of us."
"Sure, Maggot, sure. But I always have my morning tonic."
She took out one of the pills, but on its way to her mouth, it was intercepted by Maggot's hand.
"Eat, I said." He tossed the blue pill off toward a corner of the room, then picked up a roll and stuffed it into her mouth.
Vickie Stoner looked at Maggot with a new sense of appreciation. In bed, he wasn't much, nothing like that short-haired straight, Remo. But the thoughtfulness was nice.
"Come on," Maggot said. "Eat that roll and let's kick around those soybean futures."
CHAPTER TWENTY
The sun was high and the air was still and the heat lay over the twenty-five-acre concert site like an airproof iron blanket.
Remo and Chiun moved slowly through the grounds, looking for the bandstand.
"Where's the bandstand, pal?" Remo asked a young bearded man, who sat cross-legged on the ground, rocking back and forth.
"What bandstand, man?"
"The place where they're going to play."
"Yeahhhh, they going to play and I going to listen."
"Right. But where?"
"I going to listen right here. In my ears. My pretty pearl-drop ears that hear all the good and reject all the evil. In with the good and out with the bad." He giggled. "That's my secret formula for artificial respiration."
"And what's your secret formula for lunacy?" Remo asked in disgust. He turned away and continued walking with Chiun.
"Very enlightening," Chiun said. "They come to see and hear but they do not know who or where. It is very interesting, how clever you Americans are. And what is this smoke that covers these grounds?"
"It is just burning grass," Remo said maliciously.
"It does not smell like burning grass," Chiun said. "Yet if it is, why is no one afraid? Do they not fear fires?"
"If you burn enough grass, you're not afraid of anything," Remo said.
"That answer makes no sense," Chiun said.
Remo looked pleased. "It's vague only to you."
A quarter of a million people had already jammed into the site and more were marching in every moment, making movement almost impossible. All pretense of ticket taking had stopped and now field and concert area was just open country. The promoters of the concert had made their money on advance sales, and with that in the bank, they did not care how many freebees ripped them off for admissions.
The old farm area was now a sea of dots, each dot a cluster of three or four or five people, some sitting on the ground, some lying on air mattresses, others in pitched tents. Normally, Remo would have looked to see which way the tents were facing, but these small groups were formless, pointed in no direction, having come not to see or hear but to be seen and to be heard. Each protected his own little piece of turf, and Remo and Chiun drew dirty looks, a few curses and much mild abuse as they moved through the little pockets of territoriality, looking for the stage.
Up ahead, Remo heard a motorcycle rev up, start up with a cough, then roar the engine into warmth.
"We're going right," he told Chiun.
"How do you know that?"
"Find the motorcycles and you find the stage," Remo said.
"It is part of the music?" Chiun asked.
"No, but the sounds are almost indistinguishable," Remo said. Resolutely he moved ahead, Chiun behind him, his head swiveling around, looking in wonder at the flow of humanity there.
"Look, Remo," he said. "That one is wearing the costume of your Uncle Samuel."
"Swell," said Remo, without looking.
"And there is Smokey the Bear."
"Great."
"Why is that one wearing a General Custer uniform? And there is a gorilla suit."
"Terrific."
"Why do you not pay attention? As the youth goes, so goes your country. Do you not want to see your people's next generation of rulers? Look! There is a boy dressed as Mickey Mouse and a girl dressed as Donald Duck."
"Good. What are they doing?" Remo asked, still moving forward.
"I would rather not say," Chiun replied. He speeded up his steps to come alongside Remo. "If this is what the next generation of rulers will look like in your country, I think you and I should begin looking for a new emperor," Chiun said.
"I agree," said Remo. "Just as soon as we get Vickie Stoner out of here in one piece."
"And settle with Mr. Nilsson," Chiun said.
"You think he'll be here?"
"I know he will be here."
"Well, keep your eyes open for him," Remo said smartly.
"Keep your eyes open for him," Chiun mocked. "No, I will keep my eyes closed."
The two had gotten past the last clustered clump of bodies now, and were standing alone on a fifteen-foot grassy strip that ran in a huge semicircle at one end of the property. At one side of the grassy band were the customers of the rock festival; fifteen feet away at the other side, a long string of motorcycle bums, wearing their leather jackets, standing almost elbow-to-elbow in front of their machines, trying to look tough. Behind them rose the stage, elevated 15 feet in the air. Sound towers rose on both sides and in the back, to pump the sound out over the entire area.
Remo and Chiun moved forward.
"Hey, you. You're in no man's land. Beat it."
The speaker was a black-suited motorcycle rider who stood facing them. His voice brought three or four others to his side. They were wearing identical costumes. On their peaked gestapo hats, Remo could read the legend: "Dirty Devils."