The spider’s torso was shedding black foam chunks.
“Shoddy,” Chiun declared.
“But distracting. I think there’s some mountains behind the actors, but I can’t tear my eyes away to look. They’re being hard on the spider girl, don’t you think? She’s not the slob. It’s not her fault she has to wear a suit that’s falling apart.”
Chiun found himself pleasantly absorbed in the farce. It was as good as whatever would be on the television, at least, and when the actors took a break his eyes wandered up to the glittering mountains. They were majestic, and this was a comfort to Chiun, who dwelled in the land of America, where fakery ran rampant. Where even nature was housed in amusement parks and treated as staged entertainment.
Wryly he thought about how far the fingers of American influence reached around the world. The clumsy vignette playing out in the snow reeked of American influence.
Chiun felt the flutter of dread touch his lungs, lightly brush his heart and fade away again. This episode was subtle enough that it escaped his attention until it was repeated, and he didn’t know from whence it had come.
Chiun felt Remo become aware of his discomfort, but Remo said nothing, and Chiun allowed his awareness to reach into the mountains, into its core of ancient volcanic stone. He imagined the mountains’ warm heart—a trickle of magma. It was all that remained of the magnificent burst of lava and fire that made this mountain and this land…
Somehow he felt that his imagination was steering him incorrectly. The mountain was old and cold, even to its very core. Whatever burned inside once was burned out. But there was something inside the mountain. A thrum. A rhythm.
A pulse. It came from the earth, from far away, carried by the hollow volcanic fluke like a stethoscope that stretched to a patient that was thousands of miles away.
“Chiun?”
He heard his name, but he sensed no urgency, and he was intrigued by his fantasy. From whence did he conjure it? What was its meaning? He imagined himself as a puff of dust that could seep into the earth until it found the hollow, straw-like fluke, and then follow it into the earth and under the ocean to the source of the pulse.
“Chiun?”
Chiun arrived at the source of the pulse, and he saw what created the pulse, and he sensed that the pulse was growing more rapid, and he wanted to shout a warning to himself, to Remo, to someone, but he was in another place, on a balcony of a hotel, a place for tourists, and the sun was hot. The air smelled of the tropic ocean. Something that did not know him was calling his name, taunting him.
“Chiun!”
“Stop it!”
He struck the thing away!
And he found himself looking into the eyes of his pupil, Remo. The sun was gone. The air was frigid. He was on a different hotel balcony before the farcical amusements and the cold, old mountain.
“Jesus, Little Father, what’s the matter?” Remo was holding the old man’s hand. He had caught it before the slap could obliterate the patio glass, and now he released it gently.
“It is a bad omen,” Chiun said.
“What? This stupid show?” Remo laughed without joy.
“It was something I saw. Maybe just an old man’s daydream.”
“Maybe not. You’ve got me worried.”
Chiun smiled, and he looked a little tired. “You are a good son.”
“Cut the crap and tell me what you saw.”
“There is no crap for me to cut. I tell you sincerely, Remo, that you are a good son.”
Remo frowned. “Now I’m really worried. Spill it. Please.”
“I don’t know what I saw,” Chiun said. “I meditated and felt myself in the mountain. I heard the beating of a heart, not originating in this mountain but audible there. It came from far away—that way.” Chiun turned and extended a wrinkled old finger to the north-northeast.
“Uh, Chiun, we’re in New Zealand. Everything is out that way.”
“It was alive. Its heart beat with growing vigor. I recognized it—and then I forgot what I had just seen. Then I was in this place, but it was not this place. The sun was hot…and then I heard you speak. You said my name.”
“Yes? I did that.”
“But it was someone—it was not you speaking. My name was spoken by—” He shook his head. “It was vivid, and then gone, forgotten in an instant.” Chiun was thoughtful, and he reentered their hotel room. The air was fifty degrees warmer, but neither of them took notice of it. They readjusted the circulation in their bodies to accommodate the change. Chiun descended cross-legged onto his mat and was silent, pondering his experience.
This was not the silent treatment Remo was used to—the tense silence that Chiun inflicted on him at the slightest provocation. Remo could handle that. He was used to it. He thrived on it.
But this silence was hollow. Chiun wasn’t angry with Remo; Chiun was simply absorbed in his own thoughts. Remo felt lonely.
He searched out the restaurant and barged into the kitchen, inspecting the catch of the day. “Of course we have fresh fish—we are on an island!” the French-Kiwi chef exclaimed. He calmed down when Remo dumped a wad of bills in the pocket of his apron. There were some hundreds in there. Probably more than strictly necessary, Remo thought, but money was one thing he just didn’t care about.
The money made the chef cooperative, however, and he even allowed himself to be micromanaged throughout the preparation of steamed fish, steamed Jasmine rice and roast duck.
“This is for an old person, yes? Someone who appreciates finely prepared food but must eat it bland?”
“Yes, something like that. But I eat the same thing.”
The chef didn’t press the issue, but he did slip sprigs of greens on the platters before the intruder wheeled off his dinner cart. What harm could a little touch of green do except make the plate more appetizing? He later found the parsley in his apron pocket with the money. Chiun sat there still, as if frozen, when Remo returned, but he roused himself to eat, then stretched out on his mat to sleep. He had failed to notice Remo’s specially prepared meal. Remo failed to notice that Chiun didn’t notice.
He was too worried to think about much of anything.
Chapter 31
Olaf Dasheway was distraught and he wasn’t thinking clearly. When the phone rang he answered it—without checking the display to see who it was. Big mistake.
“It’s me, Dasheway, and I’m as mad as a Mexican.”
“I’ve got my own problems right now, Mr. Pres—”
“You stabbed me in the back and I want an explanation.”
“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Dasheway replied, voice dull. What was going on with Romeo Dodd? That man was the key to his comeback. That story about a trip to New Zealand was obviously a lie. He wasn’t even trying to sound legitimate. The man had something else going on.
“My production schedule gets cut back, and next thing I know I’m seeing ads for this new show you’re doing. The Ladies’ Man. My show is getting shafted!”
“We’re not dropping the Slick Willy show, just postponing production.”
“But, Dasheway, The Ladies’ Man?” The caller’s feelings were hurt. “I’m the ladies’ man. That should be my show. Instead they’re filming me taking naps on the display beds at Sears for a cheap laugh!”