"Some say you had everything to gain from his death," said Remo.
"Such talk slanders the proud name of the People Against Protein Assassins. My ancestors refused to slaughter the proud beefalo for food. How could I harm my fellow man?"
"We just came from the Snappers," said Remo.
Theodore Soars-With-Eagles shook his feathered head sadly. Remo noticed that his bald spot was gone, and his hair moved a half second behind his headdress.
"Poor misguided ones. Gitchee Manitou weeps every time they bite off the head of one of his children."
"According to them, only your side is suffering from HELP."
"A lie. It is only them."
"When we got here, we saw you lead a funeral service."
"The committing of clay to clay. But when one of our number dies we put aside all disagreement and I preside over the ceremony of ashes."
"I didn't see any cremation going on," Remo said.
"We buried three Snappers today. They have been returned to the good earth, never to be seen again. They are ashes."
"They are on their way to your well," said Remo. "Look, we want some straight answers."
"It is only the white skins who speak with false tongues."
"That is a good start," said Chiun, nodding approvingly. "Speaking the obvious truth."
"Stay out of this, Little Father."
"When you are in my tepee," Theodore Soars-With-Eagles said indignantly, "you will treat my yellow brother as you would me."
"Listen, you-" Remo started to say.
Just then a girl in braided pigtails poked her head in and said, "Brother Theodore! Senator Clancy has come to Nirvana West!"
Brother Theodore Soars-With-Eagles came off his Navajo blanket, revealing a "Made in Japan" tag.
"Senator Clancy is here? I knew he would come. Whenever there is need, the great senator from Massachusetts arrives on the wings of the Thunderbird."
"I think he came in a limo," growled Remo.
"I must go to him. We will parley. There is much we have in common. We are both men of the people."
"Bring your own booze," said Remo, letting the man go.
They watched him lope off in his buckskin breeches.
"We are getting nowhere," Chiun said thinly.
"That's because we are nowhere," Remo complained. "We're going to have to grab Eagles when there aren't so many people around."
"Long have I dwelt in this land, Remo. There are times when its size and greatness have reminded me of the Rome of the Caesars. We worked for the Caesars and although they were white, they were good to work for."
"America hasn't exactly been shy with its gold," Remo pointed out.
"True, but in the days of Rome only the Caesars were crazy. Here, it is the subjects who are the maddest."
"There I can't disagree, Little Father. With all the beef we have in this country, we've got people who are eating bugs."
A disgusted look came over the Master of Sinanju's face.
"Who would eat the dead meat of cows?" he sniffed. "I mean, with such a wonderful range of good-tasting bugs, who would eat an insignificant thing like this lazy dunderbug?"
Remo stared.
"Of course," Chiun added in a lofty voice, "I do not eat bugs. But if lesser creatures wish to eat bugs, should they not eat the best bugs?"
Someone overheard him and said, "Bugs are the next rice."
"There is only one rice," said Chiun. "And it does not have legs."
Remo noticed that the sun was starting to go down.
"Well, we might as well make the best of it. Maybe we can claim a wigwam."
"I am not staying here."
"Look, we gotta infiltrate this lunatic's reservation. How are we going to do that?"
"I will not sleep among people who eat bugs," Chiun insisted. "People who eat bugs may try to eat my toes while I slumber. We will find a suitable hotel. One which boasts a presidential suite."
"Out here, we'll be lucky to find one without roaches," Remo growled.
"If you wish to stay here for the evening, that is your privilege," Chiun allowed. "I am certain that Jane Goodwoman will make space for you in her personal tent."
"You win," said Remo.
They stepped out of the tepee and gave the bugeaters a wide berth. They were too busy scooping thunderbugs out of the communal pot to pay Remo and Chiun any attention.
"The way they're going at it," Remo muttered, "it's a miracle they aren't all overweight."
"The way they eat what they eat," Chiun sniffed, "it is a miracle they are not all dead."
Chapter 7
Senator Ned J. Clancy loved a crowd. He loved people. All people. But especially the half of the human race that wore skirts.
That half of the human race he loved in restaurants, bathroom stalls, sandy beaches-but especially in the backs of limousines.
Most U.S. senators didn't travel by limousine. Most U.S. senators weren't the sole surviving son of a political dynasty that had put its stamp upon American political life for more than a half century now, owing to the fortune the senator's father, Francis X. Clancy, had amassed in the first half of the century, largely through stock manipulation and smut.
So when Senator Ned Clancy traveled, he traveled in style.
These days, Senator Ned J. Clancy no longer entertained teenyboppers in the back of his limousine. Much. He was married now. And as befits a newly married man who is also the senior senator from Massachusetts and who also just turned sixty, he conducted himself as the epitome of probity.
Which didn't mean he couldn't have a little innocent fun now and again.
The white stretch limousine was barreling along at a decorous seventy-five miles an hour along Highway 101 in Mendocino County. The driver was under strict orders never to go any slower and if necessary to force over to the side of the road any blocking vehicle that refused to yield. This was because during a lifetime of public service, irate voters had a distressing habit of shooting innocent Clancys. This had pretty much died down since Ned Clancy had publicly renounced any lingering White House ambitions. But not everybody could be trusted to have gotten the word.
The public renunciation had been a great disappointment to his family and especially to his aged mother, Pearl. But secretly, Ned Clancy was relieved. He never wanted to be President in the first place. He just wanted to draw a government check without having to work too hard for it and enjoy a little nookie when both flesh and spirit were moved. Not unlike his cousins who had remained in the Emerald Isle. Over there, they called it the dole.
Ned Clancy had been married for over a year now and married life was beginning to chafe. He felt like cutting loose.
There was a school bus coming the other way, he noticed.
Talking an asthma atomizer from his pocket, Senator Clancy took two quick hits of vodka-he was officially on the wagon now-and pressed the button that lowered the side window.
"Honk the horn when I tell you," he told the driver.
And Ned Clancy dropped his drawers and jammed his loose cellulite-pocked backside into the open window frame. It was a very tight fit.
"Now!" he shouted.
The driver obeyed. The horn blared.
And the students seated on the left aisle of the bus all turned to look at the speeding pink blob that ejected a blatting sound in their direction. Unfortunately, Ned Clancy wasn't in much of a position to enjoy their expressions, but he imagined they had to be priceless.
Clancy tugged his pants back on and resumed his seat. He had the back all to himself. No wife this time. She was becoming a ball and chain already.
The backseat telephone buzzed and Clancy picked up the receiver.
"Yeah?"
"This is Nalini," said a musical voice. "Your mother is becoming very agitated, Senator."
Clancy looked back at the trailing limos. There were two, both black.
"She saw it?"
"I am afraid so."
"Did you?"