"Okay, we're going up," Amanda Bull shouted as the UFO slowly lifted like a soap bubble from a child's plastic loop. It did not hum, so Remo didn't run. He didn't come any closer, either.
"I am coming, too," Chiun said, but even as he did, the opening in the UFO hull shut on him.
"Wait," Chiun cried out forlornly. "Take me with you. I am the Master of Sinanju, and you must not forget me."
But the ship, a brilliant ball of light, sailed off into the darkness, leaving Chiun with a stricken expression on his face and a bewildered Remo beside him in the empty clearing.
"Chiun, what the hell is going on?" Remo asked. "I got your note."
Slowly, the Master of Sinanju turned to face his pupil, his clear eyes ablaze with a light that sent a sick feeling into the pit of Remo's stomach. For a full minute, Chiun said nothing, but finally he puffed out his cheeks in rage and said in a quavering voice, "You are no longer my son, Remo Williams. Do not ever address me again."
?Chapter Ten
The first thing Pavel Zarnitsa did upon arriving in Oklahoma City was check the Yellow Pages for Mexican restaurants, and he found, to his horror, that there were none.
"Sukin Syn," he said in anguish, loud enough for a passing TWA pilot to overhear. The pilot, carrying his flight instructions under his arm, stopped at the open phone booth and asked engagingly if Pavel was by chance from the Soviet Union.
"No," Pavel told him curtly, not turning around. "I am not."
"No?" the pilot asked, puzzled. "I picked up some Russian on overseas runs. I could have sworn I heard you say 'son of a bitch' in Russian."
"I did not. Go away please."
"No need to be rude, sir," said the pilot, who liked to make a good impression on foreign visitors. "You're obviously not from this country, and I was just being friendly. Just what kind of accent is that, by the way?"
"I haff not the accent," Pavel told him in thick English. Not being in America to spy on Americans, he had never gone through speech modification sessions. He was supposed to sound Russian.
"Sure you do," said the other, who was now becoming suspicious. "Where are you from, if you don't mind my asking?"
"I do mind," said the KGB man, pretending to riffle through the Yellow Pages.
"Need help looking up something? I see you're having trouble there."
"Why, yes... I am looking for a place which sells tacos. "
"Tacos? Hmmm. About the only place hereabouts carrying those things is that Irish bar on West Street. Name escapes me, but it's easy to find."
Pavel Zarnitsa abruptly turned around with a false grin on his face. "To you, I am grateful. Good-bye," he said as he brushed by.
The cab driver also asked about his accent, and Pavel briefly considered taking the pieces of the plastic pistol from his suitcase and assembling them. The pistol was spring-driven, like a zip gun, and it would easily go through the car seat and into the driver's back. It would not do to call attention to himself in any way, but Pavel decided a dead body was worse than a puzzled driver, so he changed his mind.
"I know," the driver bellowed as they pulled up before the Will Rogers Lucky Shamrock Bar and Grill. "You're a Polack!"
"A what?"
"You know— one of those guys from Poland. We get a lot of you people since the Russkies busted up the union."
"Yes, that is right," Pavel told him as he paid the fare. "I am Polack. Good-bye to you."
Pavel Zarnitsa walked up to the bar, happy he had not killed the cab driver. Now he had a reasonable explanation for his awkward accent.
"A Scootch and three tacos, please," he told the bartender.
"A what and three tacos?"
"Scootch. On the rocks."
"I getcha. Scotch on the rocks," he said, setting the drink before the black-haired customer.
"Please do not mind my accent," Pavel told him. "I am a Polack, new to your country."
"That so?" the bartender said as he took three frozen packets from an under-counter freezer, stripped them, and put them in a sizzling Fry-o-lator, where they immediately turned the color of dry soil. "Most Polish people don't like being called Polacks. Nice to meet someone different."
"I am a very reasonable Polack," Pavel said, sipping his Scotch. "I even like Russians. Are you not going to make my tacos?"
"That's them in the Fry-o-lator."
"Really? I have never seen them prepared before. I did not know they were fried in oil. Amazing. How long do they take?"
"Done now," the bartender said, dumping the tacos onto a plate next to Pavel's Scotch.
Pavel took an eager bite and didn't know whether to chew or spit. He chewed slowly and swallowed with difficulty. A ghastly expression settled on his strongly molded features. Doubtfully, he forced himself to eat the whole thing.
"I do not understand," he said finally. "This taco is hard. The shell is hard, not soft as in New York. And I tasted no meat."
"This ain't New York buddy. I don't make 'em on the premises. They come in frozen and I unfreeze 'em. No meat, either. Just refried bean filling."
"Pah! These are not tacos. These are fakes!"
"I can get you something else..."
"You can get me another Scootch," Pavel said miserably. "I am no longer hungry."
"Suit yourself."
After fortifying himself with another drink, Pavel gave thought to his investigation into the strange newspaper reports suggesting something was wrong with America's missile bases. It would not do to personally approach any United States installation, even without the problem of his accent. How then?... Of course, he thought. The bartender. All bartenders the world over are repositories of information picked up from their customers.
"I have been reading in the papers about the strange things that have been happening in this area," Pavel said casually.
"Strange? Oh, you mean the flying saucers some folks have been seeing. Yeah, I had a guy in here two nights ago who claimed he saw one down near Chickasha. Said it was big and bright and sailed right over his car without making a sound. Can you beat that? Myself, I don't believe anything I don't see with my own eyes, but I gotta admit this guy sure thought he saw something."
"Really?" Pavel searched his memory. He had heard of the term flying saucers, better known as Unidentified Flying Objects. They had them in Russia, too. In fact, he had once come across a reference to a KGB file on UFOs, but it was classified. He had wondered why the Committee would have such a file.
"Where would I find more information on these flying saucers?" Pavel demanded.
"There's a bunch that's got an office a couple of blocks up. In the Stigman Building. Call themselves FOES, and are supposed to know everything there is to know about them things. Had one as a customer once, but all he did was babble about some kind of government conspiracy."
No one answered when Pavel Zarnitsa knocked on the door of the FOES office, and even though he knew there might not be a direct connection between the sighting of flying saucers in Oklahoma and the strangeness within the Strategic Air Command, the two occurrences could be linked, so he forced the door.
Both the reception area and office were empty. In a drawer of the office desk, he found a map of Oklahoma on which every SAC missile installation was clearly marked, along with notes on approach routes. There were other materials— newspaper clippings on nuclear missiles, a list of FOES chapters across the country and their members. There was also a list of names headed "Preparation Group Two," which began with someone known as Preparation Group Leader Amanda Bull.
Checking the office Rolodex, Pavel found addresses and telephone numbers for everyone on that list.
"Incredible," he said to himself, sinking into a chair. "These lunatic Americans are trying to destroy their own country's missiles."
Pavel began calling each of the numbers. There was no answer on the first two, and when he called the third, he got a frantic woman who at first thought it was her husband calling. She hadn't seen him in two days, when he abruptly
left for "one of his ridiculous flying saucer outings," as she put it. It turned out several others had done the same thing. Still others didn't answer their phones.
He dialed another number.
"Ethel Sump speaking."
"You fool!" a woman's sharp voice called from the background somewhere. "We're not supposed to be here. Hang up!"
"Oh, I forgot," Ethel said, and hung up.
That was enough for Pavel Zarnitsa. For some reason, these people were involved in the missile incident, and they were hiding out at the home of a woman named Ethel Sump, whose address card went into his wallet, as Pavel went out the door.
* * *
Amanda Bull was livid.
"These people are idiots," she fumed, as she paced back and forth while waiting for the shadowy image of the World Master to show itself against the pebbled glass. She couldn't understand how Ethel Sump could be so stupid as to pick up the phone. Who knew who could have been on the other line. Since their triumph the other night, secrecy had become crucial. The military was certainly out there investigating the destruction of their missile. And that Remo whatshisface already knew too much. But there was no time to find and liquidate him. There hadn't been enough time to sneak back to the office and remove any of the Preparation Group plans, either. Anyone could find those. That was why, after the incident with Remo, it had become necessary to hide out with Ethel Sump, who had inherited a decrepit farmhouse. It was the only place big enough and remote enough for them all.
But two days of inactivity had begun to wear on everyone's nerves. Something had to be done.
The shadow showed eerily against the glass in response to Amanda's knock. Amanda stopped pacing.
"Yes, Preparation Group Leader. You have something to report?"
"That stupid Ethel answered the phone when it rang— against my explicit instructions. Discipline is becoming a big problem."
"Who was calling?" the World Master inquired reedily.
"I don't know. She hung up before they said anything."
"That was unwise. It may have aroused suspicion where none existed."
"Should I punish her?" Amanda asked. "I feel like punishing someone. I haven't felt this much like punishing anyone since my husband left me."
"No. There are more important matters before us. I have not yet finished repairing the damage to my craft. It must remain concealed in this barn for at least another day."
"Damn!" Amanda said. "We're all sitting ducks if we're discovered here." She began to pace again, her boots clicking on metal flooring. She pulled at her hair. "Is there anything I can do to help? There must be! Two hands are better than one. If we can get this ship going again, we can all escape to—"
"No, Amanda Bull. I overestimated the ability of my craft to carry human beings through your atmosphere. The strain of bearing Preparation Group Two to this place taxed my propulsion unit. It can be repaired in time. But I must never again attempt such a thing."
A dark notch of perplexity showed between Amanda's eyes.
"I don't get it," she said. "How could the weight of twelve people damage a spaceship that carried you all the way across the universe?"
"Because, Preparation Group Leader Bull, my ship is designed to travel in space, where the forces of gravity are not in operation. In your atmosphere, under Earth's gravity, my ship moves less efficiently. Further, you humans weigh more than my people. I miscalculated that factor, resulting in the temporary crippling of the gravitation spheres I have told you about. Do you understand this explanation?"
Amanda nodded her head thoughtfully. "I think so. Yes... it makes sense now. Sure."
"Good. You will repeat my explanation to the others so that their minds are eased. In the meantime, there is work to be done."
"What kind? I'm ready."
"Our second attempt to destroy an American missile was a success. But it has also alerted those who guard those missiles. Our task is now more difficult, and we must compensate for our success."
"Compensate for our success?..."
"Yes," the World Master said slowly, bringing both sets of pipestem arms to the level of his big head. Amanda felt a chill ripple along her back. "It will be difficult to destroy so many dangerous missiles ourselves. Preparation Group One is no more. We are unable to recruit a third preparation group at this time. But our numbers are sufficient to influence the many nuclear disarmament groups. Influence them, and they will influence the United States government to dismantle all nuclear weapons."
"Do you think we can do that?"
"Yes. We need only demonstrate the danger of such weapons. "
"Ho-ow do we do that?" Amanda asked as a sickness settled deep in her stomach.
"The warhead of the missile you so courageously destroyed is still intact. They will attempt to move it from its silo and dispose of it secretly. Station someone in the area. When the warhead is moved, you will capture it and bring it here. I will decide what will be done with it at that time."
"You— you're not going to explode the warhead, are you?"
"I will decide that when you have successfully completed your task."
"But..."
"Do not question my instructions, nor the glorious destiny in which you share. I am your brain, Amanda Bull. Remember that. I am your brain. You are dismissed."
The figure of the World Master receded behind the concealing glass and grew indistinct.
Amanda swallowed hard. The sick feeling in her stomach felt more like a hot catching of her breath. It was that feeling again. Only this time there was no sense of exhilaration. There was just the fear.
She left the ship, which stood in the cool confines of a barn. None of the craft's lights were on, but it floated three feet above the ground. When they had first pushed the weakened object into the barn, it had floated all the way to the top. The antigravity generators— or whatever they were— had been sluggish all during the flight to the Sump farm. Once Amanda ordered everyone off, the ship began to rise uncontrollably. It had been all they could do to get it into the barn and shut the doors. It had been Martin Cannell who suggested they throw a big net over the ship and stake it down. That had worked.
Checking the stakes again, Amanda saw that they were unaffected by the pull of the levitating spacecraft. Probably they would hold until the World Master had everything going again. That was good, Amanda thought. She didn't need more problems at a time like this.
"Oooh, here she comes!" Ethel Sump breathed, watching Amanda Bull approach the farmhouse, where nothing had grown since her parents had left it to her.
"I hope she has good news," Martin Cannell said. "I'm getting tired of waiting around."
"Shut up, all of you!" Amanda barked when the others crowded around her like eager children. "We've got new orders."
"What are they?" one woman named Marsha asked warily.
"We're going to steal what's left of the nuclear warhead we wrecked," Amanda said sternly.
There was a long moment of breathless silence in the farmhouse.
"Isn't that kinda... risky, Amanda?" Ethel asked.
"It's got to be done. And we've got to move fast. The Air Force could move the warhead to another location at any time. I want half of you to come with me, and the other half will stay here until I call. Volunteers step forward!"
There was another uncomfortable silence.
"I said, volunteers step forward, damn it!"
But no one stepped forward.
"All right, what's wrong?" Amanda demanded of the fidgeting group.
"Ummm. Some of us feel bad about the people who got killed last time," Ethel Sump said slowly.
Amanda frowned. "I feel bad, too."
"Yeah, but you did some of the killing yourself," someone muttered. "And you got one of us by accident."
"That's right," Ethel said. "And you shot that nice officer. He didn't do anything. And he was handsome, too."
"I had no choice, you know. Our glorious work must go on. Or have you all forgot
ten what this is all about? We're trying to save the world from itself. If a few people have to die, that's a small price to pay to keep all the military idiots from blowing the whole freaking world up."
The others looked at one another sheepishly. No one looked directly at their blonde leader.
"Now I need six people," Amanda said, placing a hand on the automatic clipped to her Sam Browne belt.
"Okay, I'll go," Ethel said. "But no more killing."
"Me, too."
"Count me in."
"Good," Amanda said, relieved that a full-scale mutiny had been avoided and she wouldn't have to shoot anyone as an example. Shooting people didn't seem to solve problems as much as she expected it would. Sometimes it even made things worse.
Giving that realization more thought, she ordered the group to load weapons and equipment into the FOES van.
* * *
Thad Screiber had chased Unidentified Flying Objects across 47 of the 50 states in his time and had never experienced a close encounter of any kind. Yet he had grossed $25,000 last year alone.
Thad was a writer, and a specialist in UFOs. He had never seen one, didn't care to ever see one, and if the truth were ever to be known, he did not even believe in them. But he made his living interviewing people who said they saw flying saucers, so he took the subject seriously when he was in the field.
The field this time was Oklahoma, where a flurry of wire service copy about motorists sighting strange objects in the sky brought him running. But in two days he had not been able to locate any one of these people. That was bad. Without interviews, he couldn't write articles for any of the various magazines that published his work under his various pen names. It didn't matter who he interviewed, so long as that person could be quoted as having seen something. Thad Screiber was not paid to judge the reliability of those he interviewed.
Instead, frustrated, he drove his Firebird along the highways south of Oklahoma City. He had just decided to return home when he pulled into a roadside gas station.
"Ten bucks, regular," Thad instructed the attendant, and turned on his pocket tape recorder just in case. "Lot of people claiming to see some strange sights around this area, I hear," Thad remarked casually.
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