Chiun and Van Riker had returned directly to the motel room.
Remo had drifted through the growing morning light into the press encampment and had wound up on the fringes of the news conference, trying not to be recognized, watching the lunatics harangue each other.
The press conference soon broke up, however. While publicity was nice, breakfast was better, Petty had decided, remembering the cartons of Twinkies back at the church.
Lynn Cosgrove bumped against Remo as the crowd was breaking up.
"Hail, oh Burning Star, freer of the oppressed, guardian of the heritage and culture of the red people," Remo said.
"Fuck you, mother," spake Burning Star.
Remo shrugged.
"Fuck you and fuck your government and fuck your promises," she continued.
"You speak with fucked tongue," said Remo.
"Why didn't you get liquor?" she demanded.
"You were there. Why didn't you remember it?"
"I trusted you to lead the hunting party, and you failed me. Never again will I trust like that."
She jumped up and down. Her breasts moved solidly under the deerskin, and her red hair flashed around her face.
"Let's talk about it," Remo said. He took her arm and led her away to a TV van. Its doors were open, and there was no one inside. Remo lifted her in easily, followed her, and then locked the door from the inside.
"Your heart is not with the red man," said Burning Star.
"My heart is with you," said Remo, putting his right hand inside the neck of her dress and touching her left shoulder.
"You do not care that we are making history," said Burning Star.
"I'm more interesting in making you," said Remo. He slid his hand behind her shoulder and found one of the three erogenously effective nerve clusters in her back.
Burning Star shuddered. "You are a fascist pig," she said.
"Never," said Remo. "I'm no fascist."
He squeezed her nerves again, and she fell forward into his arms. "Oh, great hunter," she said. "I am yours."
Remo gently settled her on the carpeted floor of the van, moving aside cartons of equipment, then put his lips near her earlobe.
"You sure?" he asked.
"Stop talking so much," she said.
And Remo made love to her as a giant aircraft whose side bore the red hammer and sickle swooped overhead, through the bright morning sky, like a silver bird.
CHAPTER TEN
When Remo returned to the room, he found Chiun sitting on the floor between the beds, staring at a small table lamp without a shade.
"Where's Van Riker?" Remo asked.
"I obtained for him a room next door," said Chiun. "Through there." He pointed to a connecting door.
"How'd you do that? This place is crammed full."
"It was nothing," said Chiun.
"Exactly how nothing?" Remo persisted.
Chiun sighed. "If you must insist upon checking me like a child, there was a reporter there… Walter something-or-other. I told him to go home if he wanted to live."
Remo started to speak, but Chiun said, "I did not touch him. I know your lust for secrecy." He turned again to look at the light bulb that glared brightly in the room.
"That was good work back there," Remo said.
Chiun was silent.
"I said, that was good work."
"Do you praise the light bulb for lighting?"
"What kind of a question is that?" asked Remo.
"A simple question. The kind you answer best."
"A lightbulb's supposed to light," said Remo.
"Aha," said Chiun, as if that solved everything.
"Right," said Remo. "And the rock melts before the water—but slowly."
"That is stupid," said Chiun,
"It is stupid whether you attack it or not," insisted Remo.
"Everything you do is stupid, no matter what anyone does."
"That is the secret of the wonder of it all," said Remo. "It's a negative positive."
"Oh, shut up," said Chiun.
As Remo went to the phone, he said, "We're done here, anyway. Just one more thing to do and then we're finished."
Chiun grunted, and Remo, regarding that as encouragement, continued while he dialed: "Yup, Cassandra's safe. It won't blow. There'll be an attack on those RIP people tomorrow by the Apowa, but that's no concern of ours. Hello, Smitty?"
"Well?" responded the lemon-wedge voice.
"Everything's okay," said Remo.
"Please explain okay."
"Van Riker defused the gadget. It's safe now."
"Good," said Smith. "Then you know what you have to do."
"Yeah, I know. He's kind of a nice old duck, though. Nothing like you."
"Sentimentality," said Smith, as if it were a grand jury indictment.
"Not really," said Remo. "When I do it, I'll just think of you. That'll make everything easy."
"Fine. Just do it."
Remo hung up, not quite as cheerful as he had been when he'd dialed. It seemed like a lousy way to start the day. But anything worth doing was worth doing quickly, he decided, as he strode to the connecting door to Van Riker's room. He opened it softly and heard a huffing sound. Then he stepped inside.
The bed was empty. In front of the window stood Van Riker, his back to Remo, doing deep knee bends.
He heard Remo and turned. "Morning," he said. "Exercises. Do them every morning. You exercise?"
"No," said Remo. "I'm beyond exercise."
Van Riker shook his head. "No way, fella. Nobody's beyond exercise. No matter what shape you're in, exercise can help. It can correct the trend toward dissolution."
"Dissolution," repeated Remo. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about."
"Well, listen," said Van Riker. "If you want, I could draft an exercise program that might help. Some calisthenics, a lot of slow-speed running… It'd start to straighten you out. How fast can you run?"
"What distance?" asked Remo.
"Say a mile."
"Three minutes," said Remo.
Van Riker looked pitying. "No. Really."
"Three minutes," Remo said.
"The world's record is just under four minutes," said Van Riker.
"That's not my world's record," said Remo.
"Have it your own way," said Van Riker, realizing that Remo did not share his passion for unnecessary movement. "Still, regular exercise would do wonders for you. Would you believe I'm fifty-six year old?"
"You've led a full life?"
"Yes," said the general.
"A happy one?" asked Remo, moving toward the bronze-skinned general.
"Pretty much. At least until the last couple of days. Defusing that thing this morning made my life happy again."
"Pleased with that, huh?" asked Remo, advancing another step.
"Yes, sir," said Van Riker. "Cassandra's safe now. About the only thing that could set it off would be some kind of big artillery hit."
"Artillery hit?" asked Remo.
"Sure. But it'd have to be a big one. A .155 millimeter, at least."
"Oh," said Remo, stopping where he stood. "A .155-millimeter shell could set it off?"
"I think so. But it'd have to be a good hit. Hey, where are you going?"
Over his shoulder Remo said, "To find a .155-millimeter cannon."
Chiun heard Remo speaking as he reentered the room.
"If you find a cannon, give it to the nuisance," Chiun said. "Maybe he can figure out another way to blow up his own country."
"Yuk, yuk," said Remo, stomping out into the morning warmth.
He was disgusted. All it would take for Cassandra to blow was a .155-millimeter cannon shell, and the Apowa had a .155-millimeter cannon, and they were going to use it on the town church and monument unless Remo delivered up the RIP members to them by tomorrow morning.
Remo found Brandt in the Big A supermarket, where he was chiding a group of women for squeezing toilet issue. The tissue was piled up almost to the ceiling.
"Why stop them?" asked Remo. "It's squeezably soft."
"Nonsense," said Brandt. "The only thing soft is the air inside the loosely wrapped package. The tissue itself feels like sandpaper."