"What you call science knows none of them," corrected Chiun.
"Get off there," said Remo. "We're going to have to put these bodies back."
He stepped toward the monument, and Van Riker quickly picked up the piece he'd removed from the Cassandra. "Careful not to touch this," he said. "It's highly radioactive. It could kill you in minutes."
He tossed it under a bush beside the monument, then climbed down from the marble.
He looked at the two bodies lying on the ground. "I though I would never see them again," he said.
"Your work?" asked Remo.
Van Riker nodded. "Not pleasant. But necessary."
Chiun nodded in agreement. Then he and Remo flipped the two dead men back into the cylinders and slid the barbell-shaped dual bronze cap over the holes.
"Now, listen, Van Riker. You're not going to have to open this again?"
"Right. Not again."
"Okay, Chiun," said Remo. "You can seal it tight."
He moved back to stand beside Van Riker, and both watched as Chiun scurried around the bronze cover.
He moved like an ant around the edges, his hands like flurries of yellow sparkle in a swirling wind. First one end, then the other. Total elapsed time: thirty seconds.
He stood up. "They are sealed. They will remain sealed."
"After things around here return to normal," Van Riker said mildly, "we'll have to open it up to make it operational again. But then we'll be sure to bring the special instruments from Washington."
"If you ever wish to open it again," corrected Chiun, "you would do well to bring high explosives. I said it is sealed."
They were interrupted by a moan. Jerry Candler rolled over on the ground, opened his eyes, and looked up. He shook his head, as if in disbelief, then saw Remo, Chiun, and Van Riker around the monument.
"Terrorists!" he shrieked. "Fascist executioners! Right-wing oppressors! Genocidal…"
"Who is this person?" asked Chiun aloud. "Why is he yelling at me?"
"I am part of the growing consciousness of America," screamed Candler hysterically.
"Make him part of the growing unconsciousness of America," Chiun suggested to Remo.
"I already did that," Remo said.
"You should have done it harder." To Candler, who was now lifting himself up off the ground, Chiun said, "Be gone, you. Before I seal your mouth with a stone."
Candler backed away slowly. "What'd you do with the bodies?"
"What bodies?" asked Remo.
Candler kept backing away, his voice growing louder as the distance between him and the monument increased.
"You haven't heard the last of this," he said. "I saw them. I saw the bodies. I know you killed two poor Indians. The world will know soon."
"Good," said Remo. "Everybody likes a little recognition for his work."
Candler slunk away.
CHAPTER NINE
Jonathan Bouchek was annoyed. He was starting to get pimples. Under his pancake makeup he could almost sense the little bastards first making tinies, and then getting bigger, creating little pools of pus under volcano-shaped lumps.
And all because of this frigging government!
Bouchek had been at the Wounded Elk siege for four days, and he had worn makeup twenty-four hours a day. It was especially important at night, since every night the concensus in the press tent was that tonight would be the night, that as soon as the government felt the press was asleep, it would unleash its massive manpower and armaments and massacre the small RIP encampment.
Night after night Bouchek stayed up and waited for the government to begin its brutal assault.
He had the scenario all mapped out in his mind. The government would send in tanks and armored personnel carriers. They were not fooling anyone by having just a second lieutenant, a corporal, and one jeep on the scene. All the reporters knew that the government had amassed thousands of men and tons of heavy equipment only a few miles away. They knew this for a fact because, they told each other, the government had to take that course. If the government allowed this Indian uprising to continue—why, all of middle America would soon be in the streets, marching along their neat lawns, driving one of their family's three cars, expressing their hatred of a government which had oppressed them so.
So the government would send in its armies. And Bouchek would be just one step ahead of everybody else. He had already found out that the National Guard second lieutenant on the scene wanted to be an anchorman. Bouchek had promised to make him one, and the second lieutenant had promised Bouchek the use of his jeep when the battle started.
Bouchek would ride into the war zone on the hood of the jeep. The cameras were already set up in the vehicle's back seat. In his mind's eye he could see it now.
Jonathan Bouchek, in profile, in three-quarter silhouette, his outline dark against the flashing light of government explosives and bombs, moving forward into battle to bring America the news as it happened. Edward R. Murrow, Elmer Davis, Fulton Lewis, Jr.—move aside. Here comes Jonathan Bouchek.
But the hated government had not yet charged, and now his pancake makeup was starting to crack at the folds in his face, as it did every morning after being on all night. And when it cracked, it itched. And he was afraid to scratch it because he knew that the moment he scratched it, the attack would start and he would not even be presentable on camera.
That would be just his luck. When the government went berserk against those sweet young men at Attica, Bouchek had been in the cafeteria having coffee. When the first ransom demand had been received in that San Francisco kidnapping, Bouchek had been three blocks away in a telephone booth, arguing with his office about his expense account.
This time he would not fail. He would not scratch his face, no matter how much it itched. If he got pimples—well, then he would get pimples and a dermatologist would solve that problem later. But for the time being, he would go ahead and suffer. It was all for America's benefit.
He looked around him at the sleepy press encampment in the early morning light. From his pocket he fished a small can of throat spray and worked over his tonsils for a few moments.
Another deadly dull night of no news. Back in New York, where they worried about things like that, they were soon going to start wondering if it was worthwhile having Bouchek on the scene if he was sending back so little news worthy of air time.
And then Bouchek heard some squealing and squeaking. It was Jerry Candler, running around, announcing that he was going to hold his own press conference in exactly thirty minutes and demanding that everyone attend.
Bouchek filed the ploy away for future use. Hold your own press conference. If there's no news, make some. That would get tube time. On the other hand, his network might not be happy with his becoming a newsmaker. He would have to sniff around to try to find out what their policy was about it.
Bouchek got a crewman with a hand camera and a sound technician, and after a wake-up cup of coffee, he followed the crowd of reporters to a point halfway between the line of marshals and the occupied church of Wounded Elk.
Candler had gotten himself a crowd. All the reporters were there. And there were a dozen or so of the RIP people, including Lynn Cosgrove, who was loudly insisting that she be called Burning Star. She nodded a lot while the talking was going on, and occasionally she moaned. Next to her was Dennis Petty, and next to him a minority-party United States senator.
Candler waved his hand for silence. "The pig government during the night brutally murdered two innocent Indians. I know because I was there. I saw their bodies. And I know they did nothing to warrant their deaths. They were unarmed. They were peacefully standing by the monument when they were killed brutally by five men wearing the uniforms of the United States Pig Army.
"The army will of course deny this. It may be denied all the way to the highest circles of Washington. But it happened. I saw it with my own eyes. And I write a column for the New York Globe."
There was hardly a dry eye in the c
rowd when he had finished. But the onlookers didn't have a chance to subdue their emotions before that pushy reporter with the plaster head from one of the local New York stations started asking questions. The nerve of him, though Jonathan Bouchek.
"Who were the two dead men?" the pushy reporter asked.
Candler looked surprised that anyone would care. He turned to Dennis Petty. "Who were the two martyrs?" he asked Petty.
Petty turned to Lynn Cosgrove and whispered, "You're good at this. Give me two Indian names."
"Uhhh, how about Bright Water and Treetop Tall," she whispered back.
Petty looked disgusted. "Bright Water's all right, but Treetop Tall sounds like something from the top forty." Stalling for time, he covered his eyes with his hand as if overcome by emotion. "Hurry up, bitch," he hissed.
"Sun That Never Sets," she said.
"Ohhhh," he groaned loudly. "My two companions who rode with me on the trail of elk and buffalo, Bright Water and Sun That Never Sets. Brutally massacred by the white-eyed devils, never to be seen again."
Reporters scribbled furiously. The minority-party senator was choked with grief. Tears ran down his face.
"That's terrible," he blubbered. "Awful. I think we should give everyone a thousand dollars."
"Tokenism," said Petty angrily. "We will not be satisfied with your government's filthy money. If it were an adequate amount, not just tokenism, we might talk."
"I think we should give everybody five thousand dollars," said the Senator. "Reparations. To try to rebuild the wounded soul of the brave red man."
"Oh, my soul bleeds at Wounded Elk," moaned Lynn Cosgrove.
"Knock off the commercials," hissed Petty. "I'm doing my own book, you know."
The press conference went on and on. Somebody handed Petty a rifle, and he danced around, waving it over his head.
Jonathan Bouchek was cheered up some. That footage was good, and it would enable him to drop the film of Jerry Candler making the initial charges. Why publicize a competing newsman?
Bouchek grabbed his small camera crew and moved away from the ring of reporters and the swelling number of Indians, who, now that they had awakened, were showing up to be on television.
Bouchek wet his right index finger on his tongue and smoothed the makeup in the creases of his face.
Then, as his camera rolled, he improvised: "Wounded Elk today was the scene of yet another massacre in its long, bloody history. Two Indian men—Bright Ocean… er, Water… and Sun That Never Rises—were shot down and killed by a company of soldiers here in the town that is being occupied by Indians protesting American oppression.
"The brutal slayings were witnessed by a number of people, among them a reporter for a major New York newspaper. Dennis Petty, chief of the Revolutionary Indian Party, said that the dead men were peaceably demonstrating when they were killed. He described them as decent, honest family men, both deeply involved in the Indian movement. He vowed never to rest until their deaths are avenged.
"And so the stage may once again be set for bloodshed at Wounded Elk."
Jonathan Bouchek would not know it until his office queried him on it, but his luck had again run true. While he was on camera, he missed a few other items from the press conference.
First, the minority-party senator promised a Senate investigation of the atrocity, which he called the worst genocidal act by America since its slaughter of Mexican patriots at the Alamo.
Second, Dennis Petty vowed that his RIP members would go on the warpath just as soon as Perkin Marlowe, the great actor and Indian and revolutionary leader, arrived upon the scene, which might be any minute.
"When he comes," Petty said, "we will seize our guns and march against the oppressors. Like a red wave, we will sweep this nation. We will win, or we will die," he said, adding, "which is going to be the title of my book about these atrocities."
Chiun and Van Riker had returned directly to the motel room.
Remo had drifted through the growing morning light into the press encampment and had wound up on the fringes of the news conference, trying not to be recognized, watching the lunatics harangue each other.
The press conference soon broke up, however. While publicity was nice, breakfast was better, Petty had decided, remembering the cartons of Twinkies back at the church.
Lynn Cosgrove bumped against Remo as the crowd was breaking up.
"Hail, oh Burning Star, freer of the oppressed, guardian of the heritage and culture of the red people," Remo said.
"Fuck you, mother," spake Burning Star.
Remo shrugged.
"Fuck you and fuck your government and fuck your promises," she continued.
"You speak with fucked tongue," said Remo.
"Why didn't you get liquor?" she demanded.
"You were there. Why didn't you remember it?"
"I trusted you to lead the hunting party, and you failed me. Never again will I trust like that."
She jumped up and down. Her breasts moved solidly under the deerskin, and her red hair flashed around her face.
"Let's talk about it," Remo said. He took her arm and led her away to a TV van. Its doors were open, and there was no one inside. Remo lifted her in easily, followed her, and then locked the door from the inside.
"Your heart is not with the red man," said Burning Star.
"My heart is with you," said Remo, putting his right hand inside the neck of her dress and touching her left shoulder.
"You do not care that we are making history," said Burning Star.
"I'm more interesting in making you," said Remo. He slid his hand behind her shoulder and found one of the three erogenously effective nerve clusters in her back.
Burning Star shuddered. "You are a fascist pig," she said.
"Never," said Remo. "I'm no fascist."
He squeezed her nerves again, and she fell forward into his arms. "Oh, great hunter," she said. "I am yours."
Remo gently settled her on the carpeted floor of the van, moving aside cartons of equipment, then put his lips near her earlobe.
"You sure?" he asked.
"Stop talking so much," she said.
And Remo made love to her as a giant aircraft whose side bore the red hammer and sickle swooped overhead, through the bright morning sky, like a silver bird.
CHAPTER TEN
When Remo returned to the room, he found Chiun sitting on the floor between the beds, staring at a small table lamp without a shade.
"Where's Van Riker?" Remo asked.
"I obtained for him a room next door," said Chiun. "Through there." He pointed to a connecting door.
"How'd you do that? This place is crammed full."
"It was nothing," said Chiun.
"Exactly how nothing?" Remo persisted.
Chiun sighed. "If you must insist upon checking me like a child, there was a reporter there… Walter something-or-other. I told him to go home if he wanted to live."
Remo started to speak, but Chiun said, "I did not touch him. I know your lust for secrecy." He turned again to look at the light bulb that glared brightly in the room.
"That was good work back there," Remo said.
Chiun was silent.
"I said, that was good work."
"Do you praise the light bulb for lighting?"
"What kind of a question is that?" asked Remo.
"A simple question. The kind you answer best."
"A lightbulb's supposed to light," said Remo.
"Aha," said Chiun, as if that solved everything.
"Right," said Remo. "And the rock melts before the water—but slowly."
"That is stupid," said Chiun,
"It is stupid whether you attack it or not," insisted Remo.
"Everything you do is stupid, no matter what anyone does."
"That is the secret of the wonder of it all," said Remo. "It's a negative positive."
"Oh, shut up," said Chiun.
As Remo went to the phone, he said, "We're done here, anyway. Just one
more thing to do and then we're finished."
Chiun grunted, and Remo, regarding that as encouragement, continued while he dialed: "Yup, Cassandra's safe. It won't blow. There'll be an attack on those RIP people tomorrow by the Apowa, but that's no concern of ours. Hello, Smitty?"
"Well?" responded the lemon-wedge voice.
"Everything's okay," said Remo.
"Please explain okay."
"Van Riker defused the gadget. It's safe now."
"Good," said Smith. "Then you know what you have to do."
"Yeah, I know. He's kind of a nice old duck, though. Nothing like you."
"Sentimentality," said Smith, as if it were a grand jury indictment.
"Not really," said Remo. "When I do it, I'll just think of you. That'll make everything easy."
"Fine. Just do it."
Remo hung up, not quite as cheerful as he had been when he'd dialed. It seemed like a lousy way to start the day. But anything worth doing was worth doing quickly, he decided, as he strode to the connecting door to Van Riker's room. He opened it softly and heard a huffing sound. Then he stepped inside.
The bed was empty. In front of the window stood Van Riker, his back to Remo, doing deep knee bends.
He heard Remo and turned. "Morning," he said. "Exercises. Do them every morning. You exercise?"
"No," said Remo. "I'm beyond exercise."
Van Riker shook his head. "No way, fella. Nobody's beyond exercise. No matter what shape you're in, exercise can help. It can correct the trend toward dissolution."
"Dissolution," repeated Remo. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about."
"Well, listen," said Van Riker. "If you want, I could draft an exercise program that might help. Some calisthenics, a lot of slow-speed running… It'd start to straighten you out. How fast can you run?"
"What distance?" asked Remo.
"Say a mile."
"Three minutes," said Remo.
Van Riker looked pitying. "No. Really."
"Three minutes," Remo said.
"The world's record is just under four minutes," said Van Riker.
"That's not my world's record," said Remo.
"Have it your own way," said Van Riker, realizing that Remo did not share his passion for unnecessary movement. "Still, regular exercise would do wonders for you. Would you believe I'm fifty-six year old?"
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