The groups of youths scampered off the plane and marched between the twin lines of soldiers, hard on the heels of the cultural liaison officer. The young man who had been slugged picked himself up and staggered along after them.
Last off the plane were Father Harrigan, Clogg, Remo, Chiun.
Father Harrigan posed dramatically on the top of the plane steps. He raised his arms skyward.
"Lord, thank you for granting my wish to set foot on free soil before I die. Lord, you hear me? I'm talking to you."
His raised voice prompted the soldiers at the bottom of the steps to raise rifles to shoulders and point them at him.
Remo pushed Chiun back in through the door.
"Wait until Marjoe either gets killed or gets down," he said.
Finally, after another long loud demand upon God for his undivided attention, Father Harrigan went down the steps. Remo stood in the doorway watching him. If Harrigan had had a straw hat, he would have looked like something central casting had sent over for a remake of the Wizard of Oz, Kansas segment.
Finally, Remo and Chiun left the plane, with Clogg behind them.
Still waiting at the bottom were the twin lines of soldiers, seven on a side.
Now another uniformed officer came up toward the steps, his face wreathed in a smile.
"Mr. Clogg," he called out. "One of my happiest duties as Minister of Energy is greeting you on your all-too-rare visits."
"Yes, yes, yes," said Clogg. "Let's go. My nerves are shattered after the noisy trip."
"Most assuredly," the energy minister said. He took Clogg's elbow and they turned from the plane.
"Hey, what about us?" called Remo.
The energy minister turned. "I suggest you join your party," he said, waving in the general direction of the seventy-member group of delegates to the Third World Conference. "The guards may become impatient."
He dismissed Remo and Chiun and walked away with Clogg toward a limousine parked on the apron of the landing strip.
Remo shrugged. "Come on, Little Father. We'd better go."
"And what of my luggage?"
"It'll catch up to us. They must have a system for delivering it."
"Look about you, Remo, at this land, and then tell me that. You know they have no system for doing anything."
"Well, we can't stand here all day and night."
"We won't."
Chiun brushed by Remo and walked lightly down the steps to the first soldier on the right side of the line.
"Who is in charge here?" he demanded.
The soldier remained silent, staring straight ahead.
"Answer me, you oil slick," Chiun ordered.
The soldier next in line stepped forward, as he had with the youth who owned the intrusive finger, and smoothly and efficiently, lowered his rifle from his shoulder, grabbed the top of the barrel with his left hand, and with his right hand propelled the butt forward toward Chiun's face.
The rifle never reached the face. It was intercepted by Chiun's thin, frail-looking hand, and then the wooden butt dropped, thudding dully on the sticky tar, and came to rest. The soldier stared in astonishment at the metal barrel still in his hands.
Chiun stepped in front of him. He reached up a hand and put it on the soldier's left shoulder. The soldier's mouth opened to scream. Chiun moved his fingers and the soldier found that no sound would come.
"I will ask you now. But only one time. Who is in charge here?"
He released the pressure. "I am the ranking noncommissioned officer," the man said.
"Good," said Chiun. "Now look into my eyes and pay attention. Your men will get my luggage. They are extremely valuable and ancient trunks and they will treat them with great care. If they drop one, you will suffer. If they scratch one, you will suffer. If they somehow fail to carry out the assignment, you will suffer. But if they do everything correctly, you may live to see another day dawn upon your worthless life. Do you understand me?" Chiun asked, twisting his fingers into the man's shoulder for emphasis.
"I understand, sir. I understand."
"Come, Remo," Chiun called. "This fine gentleman has offered to help us."
Remo hopped down the stairs from the plane and followed Chiun, who set out resolutely after the delegates to the Third World International Youth Conference.
"People are always willing to help, if you approach them correctly," Chiun said. Behind him, the noncommissioned officer with the broken rifle was ordering his men into action.
"Move, worthless scum. Into the terminal. We have an opportunity to render service to that fine old gentleman of the Third World. Move now or feel my wrath."
The men suppressed smiles and began marching in military fashion toward the terminal, six of them on the left foot, while six more were on the right foot, and the other soldier was between steps. Behind them, the NCO looked at the broken stock of his rifle in wonderment. He picked it up and carried it, moving behind his men. Going into the terminal, he dropped both pieces of the weapon into a trash basket. It was no great loss. The gun had never fired properly anyway. And ever since it had come back from the repair shop, he had been afraid to test it. The last man had found that the repair shop had somehow stuffed the barrel with solder, and when the man had pulled the trigger on the firing range the backfiring bullet had scored a bullseye. On his face.
Lobynian Airport Number One-named back in those optimistic days when people thought the Lobynians might have a reason to build a second airport-was a mile outside the capital of Dapoli.
The caravan was going to have to make the trip on foot. Lobynia's bus had been out of order for the past three weeks, having its spark plugs replaced.
The seventy young Americans marched between columns of armed soldiers. Straggling along behind them came Remo and Chiun, and behind them, falling into place one after another, came fourteen soldiers carrying steamer trunks on their heads or in their arms.
At the head of the entire improbable caravan was the cultural liaison officer who counted cadence.
"Hup, tup, turrip, fourp. Hup, tup, turrip, fourp."
Father Harrigan, resplendent in his bib overalls, tee shirt, and Roman collar, fell in with the martial spirit of the day.
He called out, "Cadence count," then led the way in singing. "One, two, three, four, / We won't fight no fucking war, / One, two, three, four, / We won't fight no fucking more."
"Company, halt," screamed the cultural liaison officer.
When the group had staggered to a stop, he turned and addressed the Americans.
"Never having had the opportunity to visit the United States of America, I do not know what kind of country it is you come from," he began.
"No fucking good," shouted Father Harrigan.
"Right on," shouted someone else.
The cultural officer raised his hands for silence.
"However," he said, "Lobynia is a civilized country. We do not use profanity in the streets. In fact, one who utters an obscene utterance in a public place will have his tongue cut out with a dull knife. Such," he said proudly, "is Lobynia's concern for decent civilized humanity and the sensibilities of other persons."
"It would be good if that priest's tongue were cut out," Remo said.
"He would grow a new one," said Chiun. "Useless appendages always grow back."
"Therefore, I must ask you not to utter obscenities in public places." The cultural liaison officer looked from face to face. "Of course, you will be allowed to think obscenities in the recesses of your private mind," he added gallantly.
"Let's hear it for the wonderful Lobynian people," said Father Harrigan. "Hip, hip, hooray. Hip, hip, hooray."
The other delegates joined in with a rousing cheer.
The cultural officer nodded, satisfied, turned, and with a "forward march" led the visitors, who could neither talk nor walk freely, on into what they were sure would be an even greater manifestation of even greater personal freedoms, unlike those in hated America.