"I want to tell Colonel Baraka about an oil substitute I've discovered," said Remo.
"An oil substitute?" The woman was interested.
"Right. He might want to buy it from me. Because if he doesn't, I'll sell it to the West and all this economic blackmail over oil will stop cold."
"I didn't know there was such a thing as an oil substitute."
"There wasn't until I invented one. Go ask your friend, Clogg. Tell him I've invented an oil substitute and you'll find out how important it is."
"I think I'll do that," she said. She got up from her seat and walked toward the back of the plane, where a broad pork-faced man with a pushed up nose and large nostrils sat in the middle of a three-seat section, obviously uncomfortable at being mixed in with such trash.
Remo thought he would watch Clogg's reaction, then he decided he would prefer to contemplate the left wing of the plane.
Chiun spoke: "I have decided."
"Oh, the wing is staying on. Good."
Chiun turned to him with a withering stare. "What are you talking about?"
"Nothing. Forget I mentioned it."
"I already have. It is the way to handle nonsense. I have decided. I am going to talk to this Baraka and give him a chance to abdicate before I do anything else."
"Why? That's not your usual way."
"Yes, it is. The thinking man's way. Avoid violence whenever possible. If I can convince him to leave this throne and give it back to the honorable King Adras, then he may go in peace." Chiun's benign and loving face made Remo instantly suspicious.
"The truth, Chiun. Does Adras owe you money?"
"Well, not exactly. One of his ancestors defaulted on a payment."
"Then your house doesn't have a contract."
"Yes, we do. The payment may just have been delayed. The contract was never ended. The ancestor was probably going to pay. Most people do pay their bills to the House of Sinanju."
"No wonder," said Remo. Across the aisle, Father Harrigan overheard only the last syllable of Chiun's remark. "Jew," he said aloud. "Infidel Jews. Burn them. Got to burn them."
"Ignore him," Chiun told Remo. "He is not a holy man. Anyway, I will talk to this Baraka first."
"Suppose you can't get to see him?"
"I am not selling brushes," said Chiun haughtily. "I am the Master of Sinanju. He will see me."
"He'd better."
"He will."
Chiun resumed staring at the wing, and Remo turned over his shoulder to see how Jessie Jenkins was getting along with Clayton Clogg.
Jessie Jenkins had slid into the empty seat alongside Clayton Clogg.
Clogg looked at her, distaste flaring his already distended nostrils. "I'm sorry, this seat is reserved," he said.
"For whom?" she said.
"It is for my use," Clogg said stuffily.
"Well, since you're not using it, I'll use it till you need it."
"If you don't vacate my seat, I shall call the stewardess," Clogg said.
"What's the matter, Mr. Big Oil Company man, I'm not good enough to sit in your seat?"
"If you wish to put it that way," Clogg said.
"You know, I think the people aboard this plane would like to know that you're the president of the blood-sucking Oxonoco Company."
The thought frightened Clogg who had thought he was traveling unrecognized. Resigned, he said, "Sit there if you like."
"Thank you. I will. Now tell me why you are going to Lobynia and what the oil business is like."
Clogg ignored the first question and took ten minutes to answer the second, carefully explaining how not only his oil company but all oil companies were really benefactors of the public, servants of the people, and how it would be a better world if people would just understand who their true friends were.
Through the lecture, Jessie Jenkins smiled and sometimes giggled.
"What are you going to do," she finally asked, "now that Lobynia has cut off its oil sales to America, and the other Arab countries are going to follow suit?"
"We have plans for massive oil field exploration and development. We will meet our responsibilities to the energy needs of a vibrant, growing country in a vibrant, growing world."
"That's good," she said. "And it takes you five years to find a well and another three years to make it produce oil. What are we going to do for eight years-burn blubber in our lamps?"
Clogg turned and looked at the girl with sudden respect glimmering in his eyes. The question was more pointed than he had expected from a crazed, sex-fiend black revolutionary who didn't wear a bra.
"We'll do the best we can to make our supplies go around."
"And that means raising prices so that they'll go around to the people with the most money."
Clogg shrugged. "The free marketplace, you know."
Jessie Jenkins giggled again.
"See that man up there?" She pointed toward Remo. "You ought to talk to him."
"Why?"
"His name's Remo Goldberg. He's invented an oil substitute."
"There is no such thing. Oil is irreplaceable."
"Was irreplaceable. He's made it expendable."
"And what is this Mr. Goldberg doing on his way to Lobynia?" Clogg asked.
"He's going to sell the formula to Baraka. And if Baraka won't buy, he'll sell it to the West."
"That's interesting," Clogg said, who began to stare at the back of Remo's head long enough and hard enough as though to prove that he did find it interesting.
Later, Jessie Jenkins left Clogg's seat and went to the front of the plane. Clogg waited until he was sure she was forward before walking down the aisle toward Remo and dropping heavily into the seat next to him.
Remo looked at the man.
"Power to the people," said Clogg.
"What people?"
"What people are you on the side of?"
"All people," said Remo.
"Power to all people. I understand you're a scientist."
"That's right," said Remo. So this was the man that Smith thought might be involved in the murders of the scientists back in the states. Unlikely, Remo thought. Killers didn't have pig noses. '
"In oil, I understand."
"Right," said Remo. "I work on energy substitutes."
"Where are you employed?"
"I'm not anymore. I'm a private researcher."
"How is your research coming?"
"Fine. I've got an oil substitute,"
"That's fascinating," Clogg said. "You know, I don't know much about oil but it sounds like it would be a great thing to have. What do you make your substitute out of?"
"Garbage."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Garbage," Remo repeated. "Rubbish, offal, litter, detritus. The real thing. What comes out of cans on Tuesdays and Fridays, except in New York, where you're lucky to get a pickup once a year."
"That's not possible," Clogg said. "Is it?"
"Of course it is," said Remo, trying to remember some of the things Smith had told him. "What is oil anyway? Animal and vegetable matter, decomposed under great pressure. And what is garbage? Mostly animal and vegetable matter. I've found a cheap simple way to simulate the pressure of millions of years and convert the garbage to oil."
"That's very interesting, Mr. Goldberg. I've heard of experiments like yours."
"Yes, there've been some. Most of the people doing them are dead now."
"That's too bad," Clogg said.
"Yes, isn't it?" Said Remo.
"Kill all Jews," mumbled Father Harrigan across the aisle, and popped a pill into his mouth.
CHAPTER TEN
"Do you have it?" Baraka asked his minister of transportation.
"Yes, sir. Right here. It was very easy, too. All I did was call the French ministry and they got clearance from Paris, and Paris called the aircraft and the aircraft beamed back its entire passenger list to the embassy. And I made them hand-deliver it to me here, because I am not a servant to stand around waiting while they decide to do something, but instead the personal emissary of the great Colonel Baraka."