"You'll need tickets to see the show," the taller boy declared. He had a face full of patchy whiskers. His younger brother had the girth of a gorilla and was even hairier.
"Shouldn't you be in school?" Remo asked.
"Don't go to school. We got a TV show to run," the taller one explained scornfully. "Now, you got a ticket?" Remo extracted an ID from the front pocket of his Chinos.
"Remo Rottweiler, Secret Service, foreign diplomats detail. Let's see some ID."
The tall one went slack-jawed, then turned and gestured frantically into the barn. A moment later a beerbelly and its owner emerged. The man had the same scruffy whiskers as his sons.
"You the man in charge here?" Remo demanded before the tall kid could get out an explanation. He pushed his ID in the man's face. "I assume you've got federal diplomatic access clearance for all employees?"
"I never heard of federal diplomatic access clearance," the father responded, unable to decide if he should be belligerent or agreeable.
"You've got heads of state on the premises. You'll need FDAC on all personnel."
"Nobody told me that." The beer belly and its owner swung pendulously at them. He apparently decided on belligerence.
"Sorry. You can start the show when you have them. Phone the Department of Justice, and they'll take care of it."
"Oh. Okay. I'll phone right now. How long it'll take, you think?"
Remo shrugged. "Eight weeks is what they'll tell you, but really it'll take twelve."
"What? We got a show to do in ten minutes! You can't make us stop the show!"
"Wouldn't dream of it. But we will be required to escort your guest away from the premises immediately."
"But then we got no show!"
"Then maybe you tell Scruff and Scruffier to cough up some ID. You, too."
Remo glared at the IDs, then ordered Scruff the Youngest and the car-parking kid to go to school. Scruff the Youngest began sobbing. Remo reluctantly allowed the show to go on, under his supervision, and he and Chiun took seats in the audience. The Real People Hour got under way just fifteen minutes late.
"Don't worry about it folks. We're on tape anyway, and we want everything perfect before we get the show on the road!" The host was Missy Glosse, whose complicated hair design and makeup contrasted with her rumpled farm-wife dress and the cheap set. In fact, the only change made to the show since the very first program was the host's new hairdo and several new folding chairs.
After a few handshakes and bad jokes, Glosse disappeared into the curtained livestock stalls that now served as dressing rooms. Minutes later the house lights dropped and the show started with a blare of music from a portable stereo. Missy Glosse came on stage and brought out her guest without delay.
"Who is this whelp?" Chiun asked in a voice so quiet only Remo could hear it.
"Don't let his age fool you. The kid is an elected government leader."
Chlun shook his head sadly. "I am not surprised. You elect felons. You elect actors. You elect professional wrestlers. Why not elect a playground brat? Democracy inspires idiocy."
"Well, he wants out of our particular democracy," Remo explained. "He wants Union Island to go independent."
"Ah. Emperor Smith opposes this."
Remo shook his head. "I don't think Smitty give two hoots in a holler about Greg Grom or Union Island."
Chiun's face pinched. "Then why are we here?" Remo ignored the question. Missy Glosse was effusing to the audience about her recent vacation on Union Island.
"President Grom, your island is just the most beautiful tropical paradise! I have never experienced anyplace like it!"
"Thank you very much, Ms. Glosse. You know, we can only try to protect our beautiful country from the ravages we know are coming-no less than total destruction of the entire island."
"What?" demanded a mortified Missy Glosse.
"You know the poor people of Puerto Rico have been terribly inconvenienced by the military exercises on their out-islands," the youthful-looking Greg Grom recited. "The political backlash has been tremendous and the U.S. is looking for another site-one without a minority population. We have it on good authority that Union Island has been designated. It's close, it's a U.S. property and the population is more than fifty-percent white, so the military can't be accused of racial discrimination."
"But what about that beautiful island and those shining, happy people?" Ms. Glosse wailed.
Greg Grom hung his head. He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He looked up a moment later.
"I am sorry. It just makes me so sad to talk about."
"I can't believe anybody falls for this guy," Remo muttered.
"Most of the charlatans vying for ballots in this failing democracy have some crude acting skills, if nothing else," Chiun observed. "This young faker is entirely insincere."
Grom was looking straight at the camera now. "Our friends in Washington says there is a lockdown on these plans, and we've met with nothing but falsehoods and denials from federal officials. They do not even have the guts to tell us the truth."
"I haven't seen acting this bad since we did Gift of the Magi in fifth grade," Remo complained. "Come on."
"What? Going?" Chiun said. "The show has just begun."
"There's more to see and it's not in here. You coming?"
"Not until I know where."
"Suit yourself."
The entrance had a hand-lettered sign that forbade opening the door during the taping of the show. A padlocked steel bar kept the door firmly closed. Standing guard was another family member-in fact, his age suggested he might be the progenitor of the Glosse species.
"Terlet's in the rear. Can't be opening this door while tape is rolling."
"Terlet's on the stage, if you ask me," Remo replied as he tapped the padlock and it cracked like brittle glass. It clanked noisily on the wooden plank floor. Remo handed the steel crossbar to the dismayed old-timer, but the weight of the bar carried it right out of the old man's fingers. The racket was tremendous. By then taping had come to a stop and Producer-Director Beerbelly Glosse was yelling about "a closed set" and "federal meddlers!"
"I see you are now abusing all the elderly, and not just me." Chiun had slipped through the door of the old pig barn just before it slammed shut.
"I don't know what President Grom is up to, but he's sure telling a tall tale about the U.S. using his island for target practice," Remo commented. "I wonder why."
"There are many other questions one must ask at this time," Chiun said. "Why did we come here? Why did we leave? What insidious plot do you conceal from your Father-in-Spirit?"
Remo led them to the customized tour bus parked in the rear of the barn. The engine was running, and a uniformed driver stretched out on the steps in the open door. He smiled easily but made no move to get up.
"We need to check out the vehicle," Remo flipped out the badge and stalled on the name and agency du jour. The driver waved the badge away.
"Whatever. Coffee's in the pot."
The driver scooted to one side so the Masters of Sinanju could use the steps. Inside they gazed at a vast suite of living spaces created out of compact furniture and built-in appointments.
"Remo!" Chiun exclaimed. "What is this place?"
"The Lost Naugahyde Graveyard?"
"It is beautiful," Chiun enthused, strolling through a small parlor made by a tight grouping of sofas. He descended a few steps into the media center with theater seating and a huge, flat television display mounted in the wall. "Look how carefully it is crafted! See how they have used the finest fabrics and design to create compact living spaces inside a truck!"
"It's a sleazy Vegas hotel room on wheels," Remo said.