"If you loved me, you'd protect me."
"I'll protect you," said Rodney.
"Now, you won't. You're just using me for my body. You're exploiting me."
"I'm not exploiting you. I'll protect you."
"Really, Rodney? Do you promise? You're not just stringing me along, are you?"
Rodney was not stringing her along and his promise was him bond. Thus it was that Rodney Pintwhlstle, who was excused from gym class because of asthma, chronic bronchitis, anaemia and what one gym instructor called "an awesome lack of coordination," found himself that afternoon standing before a hotel room with a knife in him hands, threatening America's primary secret enforcer and the greatest assassin ever to walk the face of the earth, the Master of Sinanju.
Rodney took on the Oriental first because he looked easier.
"What are you looking at?" yelled Rodney, waving the knife at the Oriental in the flowing kimono.
"My hotel room," said the Oriental, "Please be so kind as to let me pass."
"You're not passing anywhere, Charlie."
"Have I offended you?" asked Chiun.
"Yeah. You've been bothering Joan Hacker. If you guys don't stop this, I'll... I'll maybe use this thing."
"We promise to stop," said the Master of Sinanju.
"Oh," said Rodney Pintwhistle. "I mean, really,"
"Really," said Chiun.
"What about your buddy?"
"He promises too," said Chiun.
"Well, then I guess it's all settled," said Rodney. "You two guys aren't bad at all,"
"Where is Miss Hacker?" asked Remo.
"None of your business," said Rodney, and then feeling sorry for the taller man said: "I mean, she's on campus. But you won't bother her, will you?"
"Do I look like someone who'd go where he's not wanted?"
Rodney had to admit, the man didn't. Rodney fairly glided back to campus. The new Rodney Pintwhistle, lover, strong man, a man before whom women melted and men grovelled. Joan was surprised to see him.
"Oh, Rodney, what are you doing here?" she asked as he strolled into her room.
"Came to tell you you'll have no trouble from those two anymore."
"The Oriental and the good-looking guy?"
"He wasn't so good-looking."
"You're sure you got the right two?"
"I'm sure," Rodney said. "They apologized." He stuffed his hands in his pockets and waited for gratitude. Joan Hacker rose from the bed with a roundhouse swing at the side of his head. It connected with a crack. Rodney hurtled back into and over a chair. He held the side of his head.
"All right for you," Rodney cried. "I'm telling. I'm telling. I'm telling that you gave me a knife and asked me to threaten someone."
"You lied to me, punk," yelled Joan, kicking at the scrawny leg protecting his acne covered face.
"I didn't. I didn't. They apologized."
"You never even saw them. Liar. Liar."
"Don't hit," yelled Rodney. "I have fragile bones."
"Hit? I'll punch your heart out, you son of a bitch. I'll punch your frigging heart out. You tell anyone, I'll punch your heart out."
And Rodney promised. The lad who had backed down the Destroyer and the Master of Sinanju promised he would not tell a soul, but in return he, too, wanted a pledge.
"Just don't hit."
CHAPTER TEN
Joan Hacker was afraid. She dawdled down the street to the football stadium like a toddler forced to go to bed.
First of all, it was not her fault. Rodney was the only thin, really thin, boy she knew. She couldn't foe expected to know right off that he would come back with a nonsense story. How could she know that? She did everything she could.
And besides. Hadn't the German done what he was supposed to do? Everyone was talking about how old Henry Pfeiffer had been attacked by some strange beast that had bitten off his finger and crashed his head. Everyone. Absolutely everyone, and she hadn't said a word to anyone. She had done exactly as she was told. It wasn't as if she hadn't tried.
Joan Hacker stopped in front of the rising concrete structure, so noisy on football Saturdays in autumn, and so quiet now. So . . . so imposing looking, she thought.
She had done everything she was asked and now, because of that stinking Rodney Pintwhistle, she wouldn't be allowed to take any more real part in the revolution. It was downright oppressive. And she had done everything right.
Joan reached into her windbreaker pocket, carefully opened the metal container and pinched some of the powder between her right fingertips. She withdrew her hand, put the powder in her left palm, and raised the palm to her left nostril. She sniffed hard. A stinging sensation showed that she had inhaled one of the cocaine crystals instead of just the powder. Her eyes watered. After a few moments, the pain passed, and in its place came a new resolve and new courage. Joan Hacker marched through the deserted darkened arch of Patton Memorial Field. She would not be oppressed, even though she was dealing with the Third World. But the man wasn't all that Third World, not into it really. He had said something nasty when she asked if he were Vietnamese. Very nasty.
Joan entered the sunlight of the football field, her steps crunching on the cinder track. She looked along the Patton side of the stands. He wasn't there. Glancing toward the visitors' side, she saw him, standing right dab on the fifty-yard line. Now that wasn't a very good place for a revolutionary meeting. The forest by the canal was better. A car in an alley was better. Almost any place would be better. After all, if he could make a mistake like this, then who was he to blame her for Rodney?
"Hi. Uhh, I've got a bit of ... well, not so nice news," said Joan as she reached the man in midfield. He was slightly shorter than she, with smooth yellow skin and hazel eyes. He wore a black business suit with a white shirt and black tie, like one of those little Japanese computer salesmen, only she had better not call him a Japanese again, because he had gotten angry about that too. Not angry angry, but a cold quiet angry. The man nodded to her.
"I, well, I tried. And it wasn't my fault."
The Oriental face was stone.
"Really, it wasn't. I, well, I got the skinny one as you said, and the fat one worked well. Let me tell you. He did make an attempt on the two reactionaries, and they were there at the spot you told me to tell them about. You know, where the soul brothers trained and everything."
"They were coming from the path or going into it?" asked the Oriental, in a thin, cold voice.
"Coming, because Gruenwald or Pfeiffer or whatever he was, left after they left."
"Good. They saw the rock."
Joan Hacker smiled.
"I did well on that, then?"
"Truly revolutionary," said the Oriental and he smiled. It did not look like an approving smile to Joan, rather a contemptuous smile. But who could really tell with the Third World?
"Well, after that I recruited the skinniest, absolutely the skinniest student on campus. He promised me he would threaten those two. He did. I swear it."
The Oriental nodded.
"But then he came back without even a scratch on him and he lied to me. He told me they apologized."
"You did very well," said the Oriental.
"I did?" said Joan in amazement. "I thought he never even went near them. I mean, I could punch out Rodney myself. Why would they apologize?"
"Why wouldn't they, my child? I mean, my revolutionary heroine. The typhoon uproots trees and shatters boulders, but it does not harm the grass."
"That's Mao?"
"It is not the Chinaman. You have done well. There is more to do, and you must join me in doing it, because you are a great revolutionary heroine. You will come with me. But one thing. If the young American or the old man should seek you again, you must tell them the dead animals are next."
"The dead animals are next," repeated Joan Hacker with a little nod. "I don't understand it."
"It's revolutionary," the Oriental said. "A good revolutionary never asks questions, but strives to help the revolution."