Chesterfield sat up amid the debris. Splinters rained down from his close-cropped white hair. "I guess one little face-to-face with the injured won't hurt," he said. His voice lacked its usual boom.
As the faces of a few concerned soldiers stuck hesitantly in around the gaping hole, the general lumbered uncertainly to his feet.
Chapter 11
If science fiction had taught him one thing, it was that all aliens were not necessarily good. Arthur Ford considered this notion as he bounced across the desert in the company of his own personal Man Who Fell to Earth.
Rescuing the alien who called himself Elizu Roote had been very exciting at first. Especially after the dramatic display he had put on defending himself against the evil Army helicopters. It was like in Starman, except it wasn't Karen Allen in the driver's seat, but Arthur Ford, ufologist. But Ford's illusions about all space aliens were soon shattered when he began to sense how downright nasty his passenger was.
"Careful on the bumps, asshole," Elizu Roote muttered, one ghost-white cheek propped against the seat. "I already feel like I'm gonna upchuck."
Roote had looked sickly pale when Ford had dragged him out from underneath his stolen jeep. His batteries low, he had only gotten sicker as they drove into the setting sun.
Gripping the steering wheel tightly as they crested a slight hill, Ford glanced over at Roote. The dust on his face had turned to mud as beads of perspiration broke out across his waxy forehead.
"It's our fault isn't it?" Ford said, concerned. "We've poisoned our water and air to the point where they've made you sick. We've built up an immunity to the toxins, but an innocent like you couldn't possibly have. Damn this shortsighted military-industrial society!" Ford balled an angry fist, punching down on the steering wheel. The horn beeped. Ford jumped.
Roote rolled his head toward Ford, fixing him with a baleful eye. If he could have worked up the strength to electrocute him, he would have. But the truth was, he was feeling completely drained from his earlier exertions.
There hadn't been enough gasoline in the Last Chance generator for him to recharge to capacity. The battle with the Apaches had depleted his remaining reserves. With his capacitors virtually at nil he felt a numbing fatigue.
He hadn't been told about this feverish, enervated sensation by the so-called experts at Fort Joy. Probably it wasn't anticipated. He was the first. This was just an unforeseen side effect.
The liquor hadn't helped. On top of everything else, Elizu Roote was hungover. As Arthur Ford's jeep sought out every uneven surface in the vast desert, it was an effort to keep down the frothing acidic liquid in his belly.
"I said watch the bumps," Roote snarled. A small spark hopped between his thumb and forefinger.
"I'm trying," Ford apologized. "We just passed the first Fort Joy sign," he added hopefully.
It was a struggle, but Roote pushed himself up in his seat. In the side mirror he saw the receding image of a battered wooden sign sticking up out of rock and sand.
A thick droplet of mucus ran down from one nostril. Roote sniffled at it, pulling the thick slime, as well as a line of trailing black mud, back into his nose.
"Think ole Ironbutt'll welcome me home?" he asked. His demonic eyes were watery as he glanced, smiling, at Ford.
Arthur Ford didn't know what his alien passenger meant. He wondered if the cryptic phrase referred to the spaceship that had crash-landed up in Roswell decades ago. He also wondered why an alien from an obviously advanced civilization would choose to speak English with a Southern accent.
But as the speeding jeep bounced closer to the perimeter fence of Fort Joy, the ufologist dared not ask either question.
REMO WAS OUT OF BED and dressed when Smith and Chiun returned to his hospital room. "Remo, I'm surprised you are up," Smith said.
"Can't keep a good man down," Remo replied with a tight smile. He was still pale, but seemed otherwise fine.
"How do you feel?" Smith asked.
"Never better," Remo said. "Chiun's bedpan cocktail was a real pick-me-up."
"Next time I must remember to brew a shut-you-up," the Master of Sinanju said, crossing to him. "Sit."
"Chiun, I'm okay. Really."
A glare from the elderly Korean stifled further protest. Throwing up his hands, Remo sat on the edge of the bed.
Scowling, Chiun pressed his slender fingers on the white cotton T-shirt Remo had found in the infirmary linen room. The examination was over in two seconds.
"Your heart still does not beat correctly," the Master of Sinanju pronounced.
"Yes, but it's filled with love." Remo held up a hand, stemming any protest. "Look, I've adjusted for it," he said. "And my system has almost corrected the problem. It's gotten at least ten times better in the last five minutes."
"Is this true, Master Chiun?" Smith asked.
Chiun nodded grudgingly. "He is healing quickly." Hands met inside his voluminous kimono sleeves.
"See?" Remo said to Smith.
"He is still pale," Smith pointed out.
"Hey, I'm no George Hamilton, but at least I'm not gunmetal gray," Remo countered, peeved. Smith ignored the insult.
"Has he recovered enough to return to active duty?" he asked the Master of Sinanju.
Chiun nodded. "If you insist, Emperor. With supervision," he added quickly.
"That is a relief," Smith said. He turned his attention to a more urgent matter. "What happened, Remo? Presumably Elizu Roote caused these injuries."
Remo leaned his fists on the unmade bed. "Chiun didn't tell you?" he asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.
"No."
"I did not want the Emperor to think I endorsed your tall tale," Chiun interjected. Frowning, he sank to a lotus position in the center of the floor.
Remo took a deep breath. "Okay, first off, this is gonna sound crazy, Smitty," he cautioned.
"Go on," Smith pressed.
"I found the guy in a bar off the base. There were three bodies there already. They all looked like burned toast. When I tried to take out Roote, he zapped me."
Smith crinkled his nose at the word. "What do you mean?"
Remo raised his hands in an impression of Elizu Roote. "Zapped," he explained. "There was this kind of...jump of electricity. From all of his fingers. He had some kind of weird fingertips. Like metal. Anyway, the voltage must not have been as high as what he used on the dead guys, because I was able to throw most of it off. He did manage to overload my system. Next thing I remember was waking up with Chiun staring down at me."
"An angelic vision after your walk through the valley of the shadow of death," the old Asian said blandly.
"Chiun thinks I'm crazy," Remo said.
"I believe no such thing, Emperor Smith," Chiun interjected quickly, lest their employer think madness an excuse to seek a discount for their services. "Remo has been gravely injured. I believe his mind, as well as his body needs time to heal properly."
It was as if Smith didn't even hear Chiun. He took a seat next to Remo's bed.
"Out of his fingers?" he asked, intrigued. Remo seemed mildly surprised that Smith hadn't already laughed him out of the room.
"Yeah," he said. "He aimed both hands at me like he was freaking Bela Lugosi, then fired."
"What about his fingers?" the CURE director pressed.
"What do you mean?"
"You said they were metal?"
"Oh, yeah," Remo nodded. "Sort of. But not all of them. Just the tips. The electricity came from there."
Smith considered Remo's words. After what seemed like an eternity, he nodded slowly.
"It makes some sense," he admitted somberly.