"Who was it?" Maria asked.
"I don't know. It was either Chicken Little or Henny Penny."
"I do not know these people," said Maria. As Remo turned, he saw Maria was up out of bed and full dressed.
"Where are you going in such a hurry?" he asked.
"To Denver. To see what I can find. You have pumped me… is that the word?"
"Almost," Remo said.
"Anyway, you have pumped me and I have pumped you, and we have found out that neither of us knows anything and so I will go to the Fielding warehouse in Denver to find out what I can find out." She smiled. "You were very good. I enjoyed myself."
"I won't tell Fidel," Remo said.
But Maria did not hear him. She was out of the room and gone, and Remo watched the closed door for a moment before sighing heavily and dressing himself.
CHAPTER TEN
Seven secretaries did not know where James Orayo Fielding was. The eighth and ninth knew but would not tell. The tenth knew and told, particularly after Remo had said that if she did not tell him where Fielding was, he would not come back to her apartment that night and explain to her, at very close range, why his facial bones were so hard and why his eyes were so dark.
Fielding had a penthouse suite atop the Hotel Waiden, which differed from the Hotel Needham in the presence of hot water and cleanliness and the absence of hot-and-cold-running occupants all named John Smith.
"Of course I remember you," said Fielding. "We had that talk out in the Mojave, after that unpleasant violence. You're a government man, aren't you?"
"I didn't say that," said Remo.
"You didn't have to. You've got that look of someone who has a mission. I've found in life that the only people who have that look are people who work for a tight structure like a government… or people who are dying."
"Maybe they're the same people," said Remo.
"Could be," said Fielding, walking back away from Remo and sitting himself again behind his desk. "But on the other hand…"
Remo, who had no tolerance for philosophy, jumped in with "I think people are trying to kill you, Mr. Fielding."
Fielding looked at Remo with large open eyes, bland and blank. "It wouldn't surprise me. There's money to be made in food. Anywhere money is to be made, there's potential for trouble."
"That's my question," said Remo. "Why don't you just give away the formula for Wondergrain? Just publish it and let it go at that?"
"Sit down… Remo, you said?… sit down. There's one simple reason, Remo. The same greed that may have people trying to kill me. That's the same greed that stops me from giving away my secrets. Human nature, son. Give away something and people think it's valueless. Put a price tag on it-any price tag, no matter how small-and it becomes like gold. People just won't accept what's free. Another thing. I had to make a deal with Feldman, O'Connor and Jordan to publicize Wondergrain. Well, they took over the ownership of it from me. And they want a profit. I thought I explained all this to you. Didn't I?"
Remo ignored the question. "I understand you've got a Denver warehouse?"
Fielding looked up quickly and his eyes hooded over. "Yes," he said slowly. He seemed about to say more, then stopped.
Remo waited, then said, "Don't you think you should have security guards there?"
"That's a good thought. But guards cost money. And frankly, all I had, my personal fortune, it's all gone into Wondergrain. I wouldn't worry too much about it though." He smiled, the satisfied smile of a cat licking its face after an uncooperative meal.
"Why not?"
"It kind of guards itself," said Fielding. "Anyway, anybody in there wouldn't know what it was all about anyway."
Remo shrugged. "I think you ought to be protected too. There's been just too much violence at your plantings."
"Are you volunteering, lad?" asked Fielding.
"If I have to."
"We have an old saying, at least in the Army I was in: never volunteer." Fielding essayed a small smile. It was the smile of a man who didn't care, Remo thought. Was it possible that Fielding's only purpose in life was to get his Wondergrains to the world and to hell with everything else?
"You aren't afraid?" asked Remo.
Fielding picked up the digital calendar from his desk. It read three months, eleven days. "I have no more than that to live. You think I've got something to worry about? Just let me get my work done."
Later, talking to Chiun in their room, Remo said, "He's an incredible man, Little Father. All he wants to do is some good for mankind."
Chiun merely nodded. He had taken to becoming morose in the daytime hours lately since he had begun boycotting the television soap operas. Instead, he spent his time with pen and inkwell and large sheets of paper, writing letters to television stations, demanding that they stop introducing false violence into their daytime dramas or he would not be responsible for the consequences. He gave each of them three days in which to acknowledge the acceptance of his demand. The three days was up today.
Remo noticed Chiun's nod was unenthusiastic.
"All right, Little Father, something's wrong. What is it?"
"Since when have you become so interested in mankind?"
"I'm not."
"Then why are you so interested in this Fielding person?"
"Because even if I'm not interested in mankind, it's nice to meet someone who is. Little Father, he's a good man."
"And As the Planet Revolves was a good story. Good and true. But it isn't anymore."
"Meaning?"
"One spells out small words only for children." And Chiun folded his arms and stubbornly refused to explain his remark.
"Do you know why organizations should never promote people?" asked Remo.
"No. But I am sure you will tell me."
"Now that you're a coequal partner, you've stopped working. It happens all the time."
Chiun snorted.
"All right," Remo said. "You sit there, but I'm going to make sure that no one rips off Fielding's formula. If he wants to give it away on his own terms, well, then I'm going to make those terms work."
"Waste your time anyway you wish. Since you picked this assignment, I will sit here thinking of something important to do on our next assignment. Since I am a coequal partner now, I have the right to choose."
"Do what you want." Remo went into the next room and flopped onto the bed. First things first. He was dealing now with two threats: some force that was using violence and might have Fielding as its target, and Maria Gonzales who was trying to steal Fielding's formula.
He dialed the Hotel Needham and recognized the oily desk clerk.
"Remember me?" Remo said. "I came by to see Maria Gonzales, the Cuban one, the other day."
"Yes sir, I certainly do," said the clerk.
"Is Maria back?"
"No."
"There's another fifty in it for you if you let me know when she comes back to her room."
"As soon as," the clerk said.
"Good. Don't forget," said Remo, and gave the clerk his number, then closed his eyes and slept.
But when the phone rang, it was not the clerk. It was the lemony whine of Dr. Harold Smith.
"I wouldn't like to hang by my thumbs waiting for you to report."
"That's funny. That's just what I'd like you to do," said Remo.
"There were three persons… er, found at that planting site in Ohio. Any of that yours?"
"All three of them." Quickly Remo filled in Smith on what had happened and what he had learned. "I don't know why," he said, "but it seems someone's gunning for Fielding."
"It could be. I'll leave that with you. It's not why I called."