That night the world's foremost authority on atomic waste was booked at the Greenville Precinct, for incorrect registration of an auto. The motor mount number and the registration did not match. Dr. Garrand, if that was his name, was allowed one phone call. Since he did not know a politician, other than a President and some senators, he called the head of the Atomic Energy Commission.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Larry, he isn't home. They're booking you for what?"
"Incorrect registration or something."
"That's incredible, Larry. Tell them to send you a letter. I'll tell him as soon as he gets home."
And that was Dr. Lawrence Garrand's phone call before he was placed in a cell block with a pimp who hadn't paid off, a drunk and disorderly, and a breaking and entry. All black.
He spent the night with the niggers and just as red was coming into the gloomy cold gray which he could see through the small mesh-covered window, he realized something that made his headache go away.
There weren't three niggers and Dr. Lawrence Garrand in the cell. There were four niggers, one of whom claimed to be the world's foremost authority on atomic waste disposal.
And for some crazy reason, all he could think about was all the white pussy he had passed up.
The Atomic Energy Commission, of course, complained to the Jersey City cops. But Larry Garrand didn't care anymore. He was still called sir, still sought by senators, but Larry Garrand didn't care anymore. Because Dr. Lawrence Garrand, world's foremost authority on atomic waste, knew that when push came to shove, when you're driving alone at night in Jersey City, you, Larry Garrand, are a nigger.
And that was the story. The room was silent.
Florissa pointed out that Dr. Garrand was allowing whites to define his terms of reference. The CIA man suggested emigration to Africa. Someone else suggested that overeating was no compensation, to which Dr. Lawrence Garrand answered that he had his own compensation which was none of anyone's business. And Dr. Forrester did not push him to explain.
Then Chiun spoke.
"In the world there are hundreds of flowers that bloom, each with its own beauty. Yet not one depends on the other's admission of it. Beauty is beauty and one should accept the beauty that is his. For it is only his and no one else's."
Everyone thought that was a beautiful sentiment.
Remo whispered to Chiun: "Why don't you tell him about the clay that God burned too long? He'd love that one."
The group wanted to know what Remo was whispering and he advised one and all to blow it out their ears. This was considered hostile.
Florissa thought it was the most hostile, particularly now when she had almost forgiven Remo for not wanting to make love to her.
The class retired to womb-touching, a floating-around in a pool nude and leaning on people. Dr. Forrester was not present. Chiun sat fully robed on the pool's edge. He explained that to enter the pool nude was a violation of his cultural habits.
Remo tried the same thing. He was accused of having hangups. He explained that getting undressed in front of strangers was an American cultural thing too. It was decided loudly that American cultural things didn't count.
Remo stripped and climbed into the pool and everyone agreed that he managed to save the man who had gotten everyone to agree that American cultural things didn't count. It seemed Remo's hand accidentally slapped the man's face into the water and the man had trouble resurfacing. Then Remo helped him recover by special artificial respiration. "It only looks like I'm punching him in the stomach," Remo said.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The first sign that France would bid—yes, definitely bid—came when France began converting paper into gold in countries around the world.
First, it was South Africa from which France demanded, and got, $73 million in gold. And then France's top fiscal officer called the Secretary of the Treasury and told him that because of certain internal problems, France found it necessary to shore up the value of the franc with more gold. Well, the internal problems were of a secret nature and no, unfortunately, he could not speak about them but the Secretary of the Treasury would understand. Yes, it was just a temporary thing. The secretary need not worry that France was making any effort to undermine the American dollar. The integrity of the franc was all that was being considered at this moment. He could not say any more, which was true for a very good reason: he did not know any more. All he knew were his instructions to begin accumulating more gold.
And soon, two hundred million more in gold was on its way to France's national bank.
The Secretary of the Treasury was perplexed. Ordinarily, governments conduct business much as bookies do with habitual gamblers—by telephone. and pieces of paper and record-keeping—but only rarely by actual exchanges of money. Yet, in the emerging world, France was an ally and allies must be kept happy.
The signs of what France was doing were immediately evident to Mr. Amadeus Rentzel of the House of Rapfenberg, but he was still not happy. On the international scene, France was a putz, epitomized by de Gaulle's anguished question: "How can one govern a country that produces 117 different kinds of cheese?" On the mind of Mr. Amadeus Rentzel were Great Britain and Russia, which had not yet indicated any real interest in bidding.
It simply would not do to have even one country fail to bid after having been invited, because that country might just alert the United States to what was happening—and that could be disastrous to their plan.
That day, Rentzel began to make discreet inquiries. The answers were quick in coming. England and Russia might indeed be interested in bidding. Yes, the nuclear bomber thing was interesting. So were the revelations by the CIA man. But, after all, they were really in the nature of parlour hicks. What about sea power? What kind of guarantee was there that the package would include control of the U.S. Navy operations? True to its history and its habits, Great Britain looked for control of U.S. Navy strength. And true to its history of seeking sea power and sea ports, Russia wanted to know the same things.
That night, Mr. Amadeus Rentzel, Swiss banker, spoke long distance to a private telephone in the United States.
"John Bull and Ivan are the only holdouts. They won't bid until we show them something involving the Navy."
The bored, languid voice answered: "How much do they expect us to show. We've gone through the Air Force and the CIA already."
"I know," Rentzel said. "I've explained that. But they won't budge."
There was a pause, then the long sigh of a person much used to being put upon by the world. "All right. We'll try to do something quickly. The other countries are in line?"
"Yessir. Literally itching to go ahead. I'm sure you've noticed the money movements in the financial pages?"
"Yes, yes, of course. All right. We'll give them something with the Navy."
Dr. Lithia Forrester sat in her domed tenth floor office at the Human Awareness Laboratories pondering a difficult question. Remo Donaldson must go. But how?
The end button on her telephone began to blink on and off, splashing a spray of light onto the darkened desk. She picked up the telephone rapidly.
"Yes?"
"Do something with the Navy."
"Such as?"
"Such as anything you want, bitch. Just do it big and do it fast. It's important."
"Yes, dear, of course." She paused. "Will I see you tonight?"
"I think we might be doing better on our plans if you thought less about sex and more about our project."
"That's not fair," she said. "I've done everything I could do. Everything you wanted me to."
"Then let your sense of accomplishment serve as your sexual gratification. Just get started. Do something with the Navy."
The phone clicked off in Lithia Forrester's ear. She slowly replaced the receiver on the stand. Then she leaned back in her glove-leather chair and looked up at the dome, out at the night sky, the free nights ky of America… the sky which, if they had their way, would not be free much longer.