"And now. A demonstration of the Dynacar in action." Lavallette felt the eyes of Revell and Millis on him as he made his way through the crowd. While the cameramen crowded around, he opened a small flap in the hood of the automobile and slid in the tiny cube of compressed garbage.
"That, ladies and gentlemen, is enough fuel to run this vehicle for a week."
He sat behind the wheel of the car and as the cameras zoomed in, he held up a golden ignition key for all to see.
At first, the reporters thought Lavallette was having trouble getting the car to start. They saw him slip the key into the ignition and turn it, but there was no answering rumble from under the hood, no throb or vibration of an engine.
But suddenly, with a cheery wave through the window, Lavallette sent the Dynacar surging ahead. The perimeter of the parking lot had been kept clear of automobiles and so it served him as a test track. One reporter timed it as moving from zero to sixty-five in ten seconds flat, which was high quality for a nonracing car. Lavallette sped the car around the lot and brought it back to the starting point to a quiet stop. Throughout the entire drive, the Dynacar had made no sound but for the squeal of its tires.
When he stepped from the car, Lavallette was grinning from ear to ear. He struck a heroic pose. On the dais, Miss Blaze started to clap. Reporters clapped too, not because they thought it was proper for them to do so, but to encourage Miss Blaze so that she would continue her bosom-bouncing ovation.
Lavallette gestured to the workmen, who came forward to stand in front of the Dynacar. One spoke into his walkie-talkie and a moment later, the helicopter popped back into view, still holding, suspended from its underside, the giant silver box that had covered the car. Swiftly, as with a well-rehearsed operation, the copter flew in and lowered the container down over the Dynacar. The workmen unfastened the ropes that held it and the helicopter chopped off, as Lavallette went back to the podium and said into the microphones, "I'll take your questions now. "
"You claim this car is nonpolluting?"
"You can see that for yourselves," Lavallette said. "There's no exhaust, no tailpipe. Not even a muffler, I might add."
"What about the smell?"
"What smell?" asked Lavallette.
"There's a distinct odor of garbage. We all smelled it when you drove past."
"Nonsense," said Lavallette. "That's just the aftersmell of the refuse that was sitting around before. And I apologize for that, but I wanted to get the worst, most rancid waste we could just to show how efficient the process was."
"You should have used shit," yelled the reporter from Rolling Stone.
"You were shot earlier this week by someone claiming to represent an environmental group. Do you think that shooting would have occurred if that group had known about the Dynacar?"
"No," Lavallette said. "This car is the answer to every environmentalist's prayers."
"What do you think, Chiun?" Remo asked.
"I think you should go home," the old Oriental said. His eyes still flicked around the crowd.
"We've been through that. What the hell are you looking for?"
"Peace of mind. And not getting it," Chiun snapped.
"Fine," Remo said. "You got it. I'll see you around."
"Remember. Do not interfere," Chiun said.
Remo walked off in a huff. He could not figure out what was troubling Chiun. All right. The old man was allowed to be disturbed because he'd been nicked by someone's lucky shot, but why take it out on Remo? And why come here? What made him think that the gunman might be here?
Behind him, as he walked through the clusters of media people, Remo heard Lavallette still answering questions. "Mr. Lavallette. While everyone knows that you're the Maverick Genius of the Auto Industry, you've never been known as an inventor. How did you manage to make the technological breakthroughs necessary for the Dynacar?"
Lavallette said smoothly, "Oddly enough, there are no technological breakthroughs in this car, except for the drive train. All the other technology is on line. In the East, some apartment buildings, even some electric plants, are powered by compressed garbage used as fuel. The trick involved adapting existing technology in a form that could be afforded by the average American family. We've done that. "
"When will you be able to go into production?"
"Immediately," Lavallette said.
"When do you think you'll be ready to compete with the Big Three automakers?"
"The question is," Lavallette said with a grin, "when will they be able to compete with me?" He turned and smiled at Revell and Millis, who sat at the end of the dais, staring at the box covering the Dynacar model.
"Actually," Lavallette said, "since the tragedy that has befallen Drake Mangan, I have been contacted by a number of people involved in the management of National Autos. There may be an opportunity there for us to pool our forces."
"You mean you'd take over National Autos?"
"No such position has been offered to me," Lavallette said, "but with Mr. Mangan's death, it may be time for that company to look in a new direction. The Dynacar is the car of today and tomorrow. Everything else is yesterday."
"Revell. Millis."
Reporters began to call out the names of the other two car executives at the end of the dais.
They looked up as if surprised in their bathtubs. "Would you consider joining forces with Lavallette to produce the Dynacar?" The two men waved away the question.
Off to the side of the dais, Remo saw a group of men in three-piece suits conferring in low voices. They were supposed to look like auto executives but Remo could tell by the way they stood, their hands floating free, that they were armed. Their hands never strayed far from the places in their belts or under their armpits where handguns could be tucked. He could even see the bulges of some of the weapons. Sloppy, he thought. They might as well have been wearing neckties with the word "Bodyguard" stitched on in Day-Glo thread.
With the amplified voice of Lyle Lavallette echoing over his head, Remo noticed a cameraman moving along the fringe of the pack of newsmen. Remo realized he was watching the man because he carried the video camera awkwardly, as if he were not used to its weight. The man was tall, with dark hair, and had a scar running down the right side of his jaw. His eyes were hard and cold and Remo thought there was something familiar about them.
As he watched, the cameraman moved through the crowd and then emerged on the other side of the pack, facing the spot on the dais where James Revell and Hubert Millis, the heads of the other two car companies, were sitting.
From the corner of Remo's eyes, he saw Chiun moving up toward the dais. Perhaps Chiun had noticed something too. Was this it? Was this what Chiun had warned him to stay out of?
He should just turn and walk away. This was none of his business, but as he made up his mind to do that, he saw the cameraman fumble with his right hand into the grip of the camera which he was carrying on his left shoulder. He was rooting around for something, and then his entire body tensed in a preattack mode that meant only one thing: a gun.
"Chiun! Watch out!" Remo called. The quickest way to the cameraman was through the reporters and Remo moved through them like a one-ton bowling ball through rubber pins.
The man with the scar dropped the video camera and suddenly there was a long-barreled black pistol in his hands. He dropped into a marksman's crouch and before Remo could reach him, four shots came. One, two, three, four. Their reports blended into a short burst that was almost like the percussive burp of a machine gun.