"What happened to it?" he wondered, face concerned.
"Oh, they do that all the time," Barry Kranish said airily. "That's the beauty of the addled woodsy owl. Check out the claws."
Remo did. He was no bird expert, but Chiun, leaning over worriedly, proclaimed the problem.
"It does not possess a back claw."
"Precisely," Kranish said with enthusiasm. "Addled owls are mutants. They lack the rear balancing claw, which is why they're always falling off their perches. There are only twenty-eight of them in the whole world, one here. The other twenty-seven are in Oregon, happily falling out of the trees and waking up in confusion. That's why they're called addled."
"This one does not look happy," Chiun pointed out. "Confused, yes. But not happy."
Kranish accepted the limp owl from Remo. "That's because they haven't fully acclimated themselves to their adaptation," he explained. "We think they are the next stage in owl evolution, designed to perch on something other than tree branches. We haven't figured out what yet, but we're committed to preserving them until the owls work it out among themselves."
"Did it ever cross your mind that these might simply be deformed owls?" Remo wondered as, humming, Kranish swiftly rewired the owl to his cage perch. When he was done, it hung upside down.
"That's a very unprogressive attitude you got there," Barry Kranish said disapprovingly.
"Sorry," Remo said contritely. "I really want to join Dirt First!! I'm Remo. This is Chiun. Where are the others?"
"Off doing the good work. I see you've come dressed for war."
"War?" Chiun squeaked.
"We are ecowarriors. The first politically pure vanguard that will sweep the earth clear of all unprogressive elements. When we're done, the global ecosystem will be safe for all life. We will happily coexist, man and monkey, cobra and weasel."
"I'm all for saving the weasels," Remo said with a poker face. "Where do I sign up?"
"In my office. Come, come. But watch your step."
"I see the guano," Remo said.
"I meant the cockroaches. They're rare Venezuelan bull roaches. We had a nest of them shipped in so visitors could appreciate their raw brute beauty."
Remo and Chiun stepped with care. A cockroach that looked like a cross between a very large beetle and a midget armadillo scuttled out of a crevice and went up the side of a fish tank with electrifying speed. As they watched in horror, it reached tiny forelegs into the water and dragged out a squirming fingerling.
Holding it above its waving feelers, it scuttled back for its lair.
Remo and Chiun exchanged glances.
"I will follow," Chiun whispered.
Remo nodded. He went through the door with Kranish.
The Master of Sinanju intercepted the cockroach and crushed it under a white sandal. Pinching the struggling fish between his nails, he returned it to its tank, where it resumed swimming happily.
Wearing a pleased smile, Chiun glided to the closing door.
Inside, the office was paneled in cherrywood. The smell was less rank in here, largely due to the open bay window.
Remo and Chiun gravitated to that window, making a concerted effort to breathe only outside air.
"As I was telling your friend here," Kranish relayed to Chiun, "in order to join Dirt First!! you must sign a release absolving the organization of culpability in any activities you undertake on our behalf."
"Why is that?" Remo wanted to know.
"So if you're arrested or sued, the organization can go on unimpeded," Kranish told him.
"Sounds like you don't place high value on your recruits," Remo muttered, looking at the release form.
Chiun accepted his upside down and made a pretense of reading it. He frowned in mock concentration.
"Listen," Kranish said, "Dirt First is about the environment. It is not about people. People are the disease, not the cure. If you join us, you must sublimate your identity to the group ethos."
Remo looked blank. "Ethos?"
"In Dirt We Trust!" Barry Kranish said sternly.
"In dirt . . . T"
"Surely you understand dirt. You're smeared with it. Are you ready to undertake the initiation?"
"What's it involve?" Remo asked suspiciously.
"Oh, not much. You take a little swim and commune with a few of nature's rare creatures. After that you imbibe a natural beverage that purges the system."
"Doesn't sound too bad," Remo said slowly.
"Spoken like a gullible white," Chiun hissed.
"What'd he say?" Barry Kranish asked.
"He said, 'Let's get it over with.' "
"Excellent. Come this way, please."
Barry Kranish led them back out to the reception area, where a bull cockroach was silently fishing at another tank.
Chiun brushed it in passing. It plopped into the water, where its weight carried it to the gravel bottom. The hungry fish began to bite off its waving legs.
Passing through a paneled door, they descended a flight of steps to a cool basement area lit by fluorescent lights set in long ceiling tubes. The lights were reflected in a long Olympic-size indoor pool. The water reflections shimmied and shook at the vibrations of their approach. Or Barry Kranish's approach, inasmuch as Remo and Chiun sent out no more vibration than a legless bull cockroach.
Remo looked onto the pool. It was not the cleanest water he had ever seen. At the other end, he detected sinuous needlelike shapes swimming in languorous circles.
"Cockroaches?" Remo asked doubtfully.
"No, catfish. A rare South American variety, I might add."
Remo visibly relaxed. "So what do I do?"
"First, you get naked."
"I am not getting naked," Remo said firmly.
"It's the rules. No naked, no membership."
"I am not getting naked," Remo repeated.
"He is only saying that because he is ashamed to reveal that he is hung like a duck," Chiun said archly.
Remo shot the Master of Sinanju an ugly look. "I'll get naked," he relented.
"And I will turn my back," Chiun said, quickly suiting action to words. Unseen, he grinned broadly. American slang had its uses.
Stripping off his T-shirt, Remo stepped out of his shoes.
"What do I do after I'm undressed?" he asked, reaching for his belt.
Barry Kranish smiled benevolently. "Simple. You step into the pool, wade to the other end, and come back. I'll give you a little libation and you're officially a member of Dirt First!!"
"Okay," Remo said, dropping his pants. Leaving his underwear at poolside, he stepped into the water, setting himself for what he expected would be a cold and clammy experience.
To his surprise, the water was tropically warm. He slipped in up to his waist and started for the far end of the pool. The vibrations of his approach sent waves that disturbed the catfish at the other end. They ceased their circular swimming activity, paused, and then, as if homing in on a school of fishy mates, made a concerted rush toward Remo.
"This isn't so bad," Remo said. "Here, fishy, fishy."
The fish came at him like speedy brown needles. They seemed unafraid. Probably trained, he thought. Remo advanced to meet them.
The water rose up to his lower ribs. Then it sloshed around his armpits. It felt good, especially on his cork-dusted arms. Remo lost sight of the catfish. But as they swam by, their tiny bodies disturbed the water slightly, just enough to tickle the cilialike hairs on his legs, his natural warning antennae.
"They tickle," Remo said, smiling tentatively.
His expression froze. "Hey!" he said. Then, "What the dingdong hell are they doing!" in a louder voice.
"Just relax," Barry Kranish called. "They won't hurt you. They're only doing what comes naturally."
Remo didn't hear Barry Kranish's words of reassurance. He executed a sudden back flip. It lifted him straight up into the air. He landed barefoot and dripping on the edge of the pool, where he started slapping at his legs. His finger
s came away with bright spots of blood. His blood. He felt one slick slimy shape on his inner thigh and ripped it free. He threw it back into the water.
Fists clenched, he advanced on Barry Kranish.
"What the hell were those things?" Remo thundered.
Backing away from the venomous glare in Remo's dark eyes, Barry Kranish sputtered, "Catfish. Just South American catfish. Genus Vandellia. They're called candiru."
"Never heard of them."
"They're an endangered species. Really. The Jivaro Indians of the Amazon have been trying to exterminate them for years."
"Gee, I wonder why," Remo said, grabbing Kranish by one quaking pinstriped shoulder.
"They wouldn't have hurt you," Kranish protested. "They wouldn't have taken very much blood. You see, only one or two could enter you at one time."
"Enter? Enter where?"
"Yes," Chiun chimed in, turning around. "What do you mean by enter my son?" Then, seeing Remo's glistening backside, Chiun averted his eyes. One long-nailed hand went up to his eyes. He peered through the chinks between his bony fingers.
"Those are candiru," Kranish said nervously. "They're wonderfully specialized creatures. They slip into bodily orifices, where they erect spines to anchor themselves to their host."
"They what!" Remo said, face darkening.
"Then they, uh, drink blood. But only a little," he added hastily. "They're quite small, after all. Just babies. Cute little babies."
"Vampire babies," Chiun chimed in.
"Then what?" Remo prompted.
Barry Kranish swallowed. "Well, if they're not removed, they could suck a man dry in a matter of days, but there's a wonderfully wholesome natural way of purging them from the host. It's the libation I told you about." He grabbed an old milk bottle from a nearby cobwebbed shelf. It was filled with a pulpy liquid that was the exact color of pureed apricots.
"See?" he said, holding it up to Remo's face. "Jagua juice." His hands shook. Yellowish pulp dribbled from the open bottle. "One drink of this and any candiru would have expelled itself in a matter of thirty-six hours. No harm done. A blood test would have taken more serum."
Remo looked into Barry Kranish's fear-haunted eyes.
"I've changed my mind," he said at last.
"About joining?"
"No," Remo said harshly. "About screwing around with you Dirt First dirtbags." Remo pushed Barry Kranish up against the wall.
"Come again?"
"No, you go ahead," Remo said, swiping the bottle from his jittery hands.
"Go?" Kranish's eyes went to the pool. They widened with worry. "You don't mean . . . ?"
"Time to get reinitiated," Remo sang.
Lifting the man bodily, Remo plunged him, pinstriped suit and all, into the pool. The aimlessly swarming candiru took instant notice. From all directions, they arrowed after him.
"No, no, I've already done this!" Kranish moaned, splashing frantically. "Once is enough!"
Struggling to the edge of the pool, Barry Kranish tried to lever himself to safety. Remo's bare feet, feeling more like diver's lead boots than flesh and bone, were there to discourage him. Remo stamped on Kranish's fingers. Kranish retreated, the spiny catfish following him like free-swimming magnets.
"What is this stuff?" Remo asked, hefting the bottle of yellowish juice. "Baby poop?"
"Be . . . be careful!" Kranish cried. "Don't drop it."
"Come to think of it," Remo said, tossing the bottle to his other hand, "this glass is kinda slick." He made a pretense of nearly dropping it to the tiled floor.
"Please," Barry Kranish pleaded, splashing the water all around him. "I'll do anything." He might have been surrounded by ferocious goblin sharks instead of the minnowlike candiru, for all the terror that seized his thin face.
"Talk fast," Remo suggested.
"About what?"
"The neutron bomb. Which one of your lunatics has it?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about. Truly."
"The La Plomo incident," Remo suggested. "Your people were there, mucking up the tragedy worse than it was."
"I know nothing about that. Members are on their own recognizance in matters of ecotage."
"What?"
"Ecotage !" Kranish said, doing a four-limbed splash. "It's our term for ecological sabotage. Also known as monkey-wrenching."
"I thought you guys were trying to save the environment, not sabotage it."
"We are! We are! Really! We just liked the sound of ecotage-it's so dramatic. What do you want from me?"
"A neutron bomb was brought to the gas site to make a statement," Remo explained. "It was stolen. We think your people have it."
"I swear to you. If any of my people had a neutron bomb, they would have brought it to my attention. For legal advice."
"Your people check in from La Plomo yet?"
"Yes. They called. They said something about Palm Springs. I think they're planning a sit-in at the Condome site."
"Did you say condo or condom?" Remo asked.
"Neither. Condome. It's a construction project. I'm surprised you never heard of it. It was on the cover of last month's Mother Jones."
"What are they up to?"
"I don't know and I didn't ask. But they didn't sound happy. If they had a neutron bomb, I would know about it."
Remo turned to Chiun. "What do you think, Little Father?"
"He is telling the truth, Remo," Chiun said through shielded eyes. "Now, put on your clothes. You are embarrassing me, parading around like that."
Remo jerked a thumb at the splashing lawyer. "What about this idiot?"
"He no longer matters."
"But he tried to feed me to the fish. Literally."
"Candiru," Kranish bleated, tears streaming from his eyes. "Innocent endangered baby candiru."
Remo stepped back from the pool.
Barry Kranish stumbled up, eyes blazing with fear. He stood on the edge of the pool, not sure which was more critical-drinking his so-called libation or getting out of his clothes in order to examine his bodily orifices for spiny intruders.
He ultimately decided to do both.
Remo and Chiun left him squirming at poolside, half in and half out of his clothes, chugalugging viscous jagua juice in sobbing gulps.
Chapter 10
If a human being could truly be called a human chameleon, Dr. Harold W. Smith was a perfect specimen. He possessed the unique ability to blend into any social situation. Especially if the background was a bland, neutral gray.
Smith wore his gray three-piece suit like a badge of uniformity. His crisp hair was a lighter shade of gray, as were his weak eyes. Even his skin possessed a grayish tinge. Only his tie-a striped Dartmouth school tie-displayed any color. If Dr. Smith possessed a soul-and there was some doubt about this-no doubt it would have been gray, as well.
If anything, Dr. Smith resembled a stuffy university professor, perhaps the chairman of the Social Science Department of a rustic New England college. The nameplate on his door said "Dr. Harold W. Smith, Director." Only three other persons knew that Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York, was cover for CURE and that Smith was its director too.
His mouth was a prim line in his studious gray face as he bent over his computer terminal, which, at the touch of a button, could be sent sinking back into a concealed well in his desk. The prim line deepened into a worried frown.
Luminous green lines of text scrolled up his screen-data feeds processed by the bank of powerful computers that huddled two floors below his Spartan office overlooking Long Island Sound.
While Remo and Chiun pursued their end of the La Plomo investigation, Smith had been following the trail of the Lewisite gas that had been loosed on the defenseless Missouri town. After Remo had reported his discovery of the empty gas canisters, Smith had dutifully informed the President of the United States, his direct superior.
The President had ordered the gas canisters removed to an FBI lab for analysis. The preliminary results, moving throu
gh the phone lines to the White House and designated "Eyes Only of the President," had been intercepted by Smith's computers. Their ability to reach out and capture free-flowing data was unrivaled.
The FBI report was succinct. Smith's computers had automatically compressed them into an easy-to-read summary. The gist was that the poison gas was U.S. Army war surplus.
With the post-cold-war build-down, Army stockpiles were ending up in some strange places. These gas canisters had been mislabled as pesticide and sold through a General Accounting Office auction, whose proceeds went to lowering the national debt.
"My God!" Smith gasped as the cold facts sank in.
The red phone at Smith's right hand suddenly rang. An ordinary standard desk model except for lack of a dial, it was a dedicated line to the White House.
Smith lifted it to his ear.
"Yes, Mr. President?" he asked, adjusting his rimless glasses.
"Smith," said the nasal voice of the President of the United States, "I've just received a report on that poison-gas thing. You'll never believe this. It was-"
"Sold by the GAO as pesticide," Smith supplied dryly.
The President gasped. "That's right. How'd you know?"
Because he did not wish the President of the United States to know that his own phones were subject to CURE interception, Smith said, "I have my own sources," and changed the subject. "I understand there is no ID on the final purchaser."
"No. It was a cash transaction. The FBI's hit a dead end."
"Not necessarily. A good FBI sketch of the buyer may give us something to pursue."
"I'll have them get right on it," the President said quickly.
"Do not bother," Smith said crisply. "I will handle that on this end."
"Very well. How are your people doing with that neutron-bomb insanity?"
"It's too early to tell," Smith said evasively.
"Well, I think you were right-exactly right-to put them on that detail," the President confided. "We can't have college students building nuclear devices. What with the crazy college kids these days, there's no telling what might happen. No telling."
"There's more to it than that," Smith said. "I have reason to believe that Dirt First!! was behind the gas attack."
"I'll have the FBI sweep the whole lot of them up. Criticize my environmental record, will they? I'll show 'em."
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