"Ah, yes," he said. He looked up smiling.
"You look for someone?"
"Yes. Two men. And here they are. Mr. Park and Remo Goldberg."
"Goldberg? What is a Goldberg doing coming to Lobynia?"
"Do not worry," said Nuihc. "His name is not really Goldberg. He will not contaminate the magnificently pure stock of the Lobynian people," he added contemptuously.
He looked again at the list.
"Who are all these other people?" he asked.
"One is Clogg. He is the president of Oxonoco. One of the oil companies. The others are delegates to the Third World International Youth Conference. Accursed fools."
"What will this Clogg want?" Nuihc asked.
"I do not know," said Baraka. "No doubt, he is supposed to be here to talk about the oil embargo. His real reason for being here may be to take advantage of the little boys in our city's brothels."
Nuihc looked disgusted.
"And the young people for the conference?"
"They are nothing," said Baraka. "A thing common to the United States. Rich, overfed, spoiled, and reeking of guilt because someone else has never tasted escargot. They will make noise. They will pass resolutions condemning Israel and the West. The really fortunate ones will be beaten up on our streets and this will guarantee them happiness because it will confirm to them that they are worthless creatures fit only for the world's scorn and abuse."
"Do you let them wander around your country?"
"By the beard, no," said Baraka. "I keep them under lock and key. The soldiers are instructed to be brutal with them. They enjoy it."
"Why?" asked Nuihc.
Baraka shrugged. "Their entire lives are spent trying to demonstrate their worthlessness. Our soldiers assist them. They are grateful. They smile for black eyes. They laugh aloud when cut bloody. I think they are sexually gratified with broken bones."
"You know, Baraka, you are not such a total fool as you sometimes seem."
"Thank you. Is there anything I should do about the two visitors you have been looking for?"
Nuihc answered quickly and firmly. "No. Just leave them alone. You do not have enough soldiers for that. When I decide the time is right, I will deal with them."
"Are they of the legend?"
"Yes. Leave them alone."
"As you will," said Baraka.
"Yes," Nuihc agreed. "Remember it. As I will."
When the Air France plane landed, armed guards were waiting at the bottom of the boarding ladder.
"Hey, look, real guns," said one of the delegates to the Third World Youth Conference. "Heavy. Real heavy."
The young man was the first one down the ramp of the plane. He grinned at one of the fourteen soldiers who formed a passageway and stuck his finger into the barrel of the man's rifle.
The soldier next to him stepped forward and slammed the butt of his rifle into the young man's jaw, knocking him back onto the ground. Blood poured from the gash on his chin.
The soldier stepped back into line without a sound or a glance at the fallen youth.
A young Army captain approached the plane between the lines of soldiers. "I am the cultural liaison officer," he declaimed. "You will all follow me. Anyone who does not will be shot."
"Hey, did you see that?" asked a black youth of a pimply-faced girl with straight black hair, standing next to him on the top of the plane steps.
"Yes. Serves him right. He got what he deserved. I'm sure the great nation of Lobynia has reasons for what it does. We should just do what we're told, because we're totally unqualified to understand or question their society."
The young black nodded in agreement. After all, how could one argue with the girl who was, back at their New York City college, the chairman of the Free Speech Committee, the president of the antibrutality association, the vice chairman of the crusade to end fascism, and chairperson of the Stop Secrecy in Government Committee, ad hoc Presidential War Crimes division. That she had picketed the White House and the Capitol on fourteen different occasions, often sticking flowers into soldiers' guns, winning nothing more for that than surly glances, did not strike her as ironical. She had no time for irony. She was in Lobynia to help all Americans to see it as an example of what they too could become, if they really tried.
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.
"Sometimes I think there's no hope for our country," said Remo.
"There has never been any hope for your country," Chiun answered. "Not since you abandoned the good King George and decided to try to rule yourselves. The common man. Ptaah."
"But we've got freedom, Chiun. Freedom," said Remo.
"Freedom to be stupid is the worst slavery of all. Fools should be provided protection from themselves. I like Lobynia," said Chiun and pressed his lips firmly together, opening them again only to shout behind him to the laboring soldiers that their lives were forfeit if they so much as got a sweaty handprint on any of his trunks.
So much for freedom, thought Remo.
The capital city of Dapoli did not loom suddenly in front of them. Rather it grew slowly out of the narrow paved road. First a shack, then what looked like an outhouse, then two shacks, then three. A small store. An occasional bicycle sprawled in sand at the side of the road. Then the appearance of cracked sidewalks. More shacks. And finally when they were surrounded by shacks, they were near the heart of the city. Shacks and gas stations, Remo observed.
The cultural liaison officer raised a hand to halt the group. He waved them to the side of the road because traffic now had grown dangerously heavy, sometimes as much as one car a minute passed their group. He mounted the chipped and broken sidewalk to address them.
"We are now going to a funeral of state for brave Lobynian commandoes killed carrying the message of freedom and glory into the heartland of the Zionist pigs. After that, you will be taken to the barracks which will be your home until the conference is over. The barracks has been created especially for you for this visit and in it, you will find everything you need to be comfortable. There is soap and toilet paper. For privacy, walls have been erected around the slit latrines. Sleeping mats will be provided all. Our glorious leader, Colonel Baraka, has ordered us to spare no expense to bring you all the fine touches that you are used to. No one will be permitted to leave the barracks compound, except to travel in a group to the Revolutionary Triumph building where the conferences will be held. This rule must be observed and security must be maintained because of the presence of so many Zionist spies in our midst. Any questions?"
"Yes," piped up Jessie Jenkins. "When do we get a chance to see Dapoli?"
"Well, little black girl, we are walking through it now, are we not? Keep your eyes open and you will see it." He smiled as he answered, then stopped, looking around for approval.
Father Harrigan led the remainder of the group in good humored laughter.
"Now that the questions are finished, we will continue," said the cultural officer. He led the way through the gutter alongside the sidewalk, deep into the city toward two bigger buildings.
Chiun asked Remo, "Where are we staying?"
"I don't know. I didn't make any reservations, we decided to leave so fast."
Chiun asked the noncommissioned officer leading his trunk-bearers, "Is there a hotel in this desert?"
"Yes, sir," the man said quickly. "The Lobynian Arms."
"Go there and secure us two rooms. Carefully place my belongings in the better of the rooms. Tell them we are coming. What is your name?"
"Abu Telib, master," the frightened soldier said.
"If you fail, Abu Telib, I will find you," Chiun said. "I will seek you out."
"I will not fail, master. I will not fail."
"Be gone."
"How come you get the best room?" asked Remo.
"Rank has its privileges."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The city square of Dapoli was a trapezoid. Along the narrow back edge ran the long low palace building constructed under King Adras. To the right was the Revolutionary Triumph Building constructed under Colonel Baraka
. The buildings were identical, except that having been constructed by foreign workmen, King Adras's building was in much better shape, despite being fifty years older.
The other two sides of the square were bordered by streets, on the far sides of which there were shacks, apparently designed by someone who regarded beads and colored glass as a substitute for both form and function.
The square was alive with people, sounds, and odors. The vile barnyard smell of camels mingled with the smells of burning lamb and the sounds of people talking, shouting, bargaining, singing. Over it hung the piping sounds of wooden flutes common to the area.
"All right, move aside. Everybody out of the way." The cultural attache spoke harshly. He shouldered people aside as he led his brigade of Americans through the square toward the balcony of the palace on which the ceremonies were to be held.
When the group reached the foot of the balcony, the officer turned to the Americans.
"Here you will stay. You will not move from this group. You will not talk to Lobynians. You will show proper obeisance to the great leader, Colonel Baraka, and to the customs and sensibilities of our people. There will be penalties for violators."
Chiun and Remo stood in the rear of the group.
"What are we doing here, Chiun?" asked Remo.
"Shhh. We have come to see Colonel Baraka."
"It's very important to you, Chiun, isn't it?"
"Important, yes. 'Very important?' Maybe."
"It is not at all important to me," said Remo. "What is important is Nuihc."
Chiun turned to Remo, anger narrowing his eyes to two almond shaped slits. "I have told you not to mention in my presence the name of the son of my brother. He has disgraced the House of Sinanju with his evils."
"Yes, Chiun, I know. But he is behind all this. The killings of the oil scientists. Probably the oil boycott too, somehow. And that's what my job is, to end the killings and get the oil turned back on."
"Fool. Think you that he cares about oil? He cares about us. This is all to entrap us. You remember the false agents of your bureau of investigation? A fat one and a thin one. That was his greeting. First fat, then thin. Extremes of weight mean nothing to one who knows the secrets of Sinanju. You remember, you dealt with that once before."
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