And so Ford was away. Far, far away.
He strolled along the farthest point from Roote's tiny shack.
Touring the perimeter, Ford came upon a pair of men near the line of crippled Camp Earth cars. They were arguing in hushed voices.
"You saw what he did," said the younger of the two. "He's a Being of Light, just like Beta said."
"I don't know," said the other man. He was in his late forties and wore a shirt emblazoned with a single grimy marijuana leaf. "I guess it could be."
"Could be, my ass," the young one scoffed. Startled by a sudden footstep nearby, the two of them spun to face Ford. When the young man turned to him, Ford saw that his T-shirt was decorated with the rough sketch of an alien head common to abductees-lightbulb head, large almondshaped eyes, narrow neck.
The men relaxed when they saw Arthur Ford. "You scared me, man," the young one exhaled.
"Anything yet?" Ford pressed.
"Nope. It's as quiet as a black hole out here," the older one announced.
Ford nodded his approval. "Stay alert," he commanded.
Turning, he headed back for the collection of huts.
As he walked away from the two guards, Ford was disturbed to find that he was suddenly getting the eerie sensation that someone was watching him.
He glanced over his shoulder at the two men. Neither was looking in his direction. They were both staring out into the inky blackness. Spooky.
Shivering, Arthur Ford picked up his pace, hurrying for the safety of the campfires.
"THAT'S THAT DIP from the desert," Remo whispered. He nodded to the retreating form of Arthur Ford.
"I have eyes," the Master of Sinanju replied. They had scaled the sheer face of the mountainside, skirting Camp Earth entirely. The two of them were lying on a bluff overlooking the encampment.
From their vantage point, they had a commanding view of the entire camp. Beyond the cliff at the edge of Camp Earth, the sparkling, midnight-black waters of the Rio Grande shimmered off into the distance in either direction.
"So I guess this is where he brought Roote, but I don't see the psycho anywhere." He squinted down at the camp.
"How can you tell?" Chiun asked. "One dung beetle is indistinguishable from another."
"Come on, Chiun," Remo said. "Smith showed you his file picture. Tell me if I'm missing something."
"You are missing a brain. And I do not see him, either," Chiun admitted, frowning deeply.
"So he must be in one of the buildings," Remo reasoned. "I'll start at the far end. You start down there. We'll meet in the middle."
He began to rise, but the Master of Sinanju placed a restraining hand on his forearm.
"Have you forgotten our bargain?"
Remo slumped back down. "I'm fine," he insisted.
"You mask it well, my son, I will admit," Chiun said softly. "But I have ears. Your heart yet beats incorrectly. Even now, when your eyes fail, you ask me to see for you. In spite of your protestations, you are not completely well."
Though it bothered him to admit it, Remo knew it was true. He had healed greatly since his encounter with Roote, but he wasn't yet one hundred percent.
Sighing, he settled back to the ground. "Remember what I told you," Remo insisted morosely. "The guy packs a wallop. Watch yourself."
"Your concern is heartening, but not necessary," Chiun said, standing. "I will unplug the bulb from your lightning bug and return forthwith."
Gathering up the hems of his skirts, the Master of Sinanju marched down the hillside.
Remo followed him with his eyes. As his teacher's back faded into the shadows beneath him, Remo said a silent prayer to Chiun's ancestors. For both of them.
WALTER MALPA HAD BEEN claiming for many years that he was the victim of multiple alien abductions. He had claimed this even after his parents had thrown him out of their home. He claimed it after his family and friends had disowned him. He continued to claim it even after he'd lost his job.
But even though he claimed it loudly to everyone he met, there had always been a small, shameful part of Walter that actually doubted his own story. A tiny part of him that thought everyone might be right. He might actually be crazy.
That was, until today.
He had seen with his own eyes what Elizu Roote had done. The rest of the Camp Earthers could argue until the cows came home whether the aircraft had been a helicopter or a spaceship, but either way it didn't matter. Roote had blasted it out of the sky.
Elizu Roote was the real deal. A genuine, bona fide, absolute, definite space alien.
The only thing that troubled Walter was the fact that Roote didn't match the typical alien depictions.
Traditionally aliens had long fingers, large heads and big, elongated eyes. At least that was the way they were always being sketched. That was the way Walter claimed to remember them after each of his many kidnappings.
Walter felt that if Roote had only fit the proper alien description, everything would finally make sense. He could go back to his family and prove once and for all that he was not a head case. And that little niggling spot of self-doubt would be banished from his mind forever.
Walter sat on the hood of one of the Camp Earth cars thinking of proper aliens. As he cradled his M-16 in his lap, he stared blankly into the shadows down the road.
A real shame. A crying, crying shame.
As he sat lamenting his misfortune, Walter became aware of a gentle wash of movement at the very edge of his vision.
It was as if someone were slowly turning a control knob on reality, bringing forward from the darkness a shape that had always been there.
When the strange congealing of shadows was complete, Walter Malpa was startled to find himself confronting a genuine space alien.
The creature was dressed in a glittering silver robe. A hairless head was balanced atop the most delicate neck Walter had ever seen. Even the eyes were the right shape-teardrops turned on their sides, tugged up to tiny ears.
Walter slid off the car.
So enraptured was Walter with the wizened figure that strode toward him from the darkness, he didn't even realize he had abandoned his gun. The M-16 lay on the hood of the car on which he had been sitting.
Mouth hanging open in shock, he tapped the shoulder of the man with him. The other guard had been looking in the opposite direction.
"What?" the man said, turning.
Seeing the approaching creature, he stopped dead.
The second man looked at the alien image on Walter's T-shirt. He glanced back at the strange apparition. His jaw dropped open, as well.
Neither sentry said a word as the silvery phantom slid up the path and stopped directly before the two men.
The creature was so tiny, it had to lift its head in order to look them in the eye. When it spoke, its voice was a lyrical singsong.
"Take me to your leader," the Master of Sinanju commanded firmly.
ARTHUR FORD SPIED Chiun while the old man was still conversing with the two guards. He was stunned that the men didn't fire at him. His shock gave way to horror when he realized that one of the men wasn't even carrying a gun. For some reason, he had discarded it.
The other man still held his weapon, but it was down at his side, hanging by its strap. The second guard obviously had no intention of using it.
Mind control. That was the only possibility. Beta RAM was right. Remo and Chiun were extraterrestrials.
The invasion of Camp Earth had begun, and their troops were falling under the spell of the invading army.
Roote would have to be warned. Though an alien himself, he was the last hope for humanity. And for Arthur Ford.
Running, tripping, Ford raced away from the cluster of huts to the lonely shed of Elizu Roote.
ABOVE CAMP EARTH, Remo spied Arthur Ford running in the direction opposite Chiun.
There was only a lonely tin hut beyond the main camp. Ford seemed to be heading toward it and the Rio Grande.