She didn't know what had produced the turnabout in the IHAEO position. All she had done was mention to that nice old Oriental gentleman in the kimono the troubles she had, and a few hours later, Ndo made his announcement.
Well, she wasn't one to look gift horses in the mouth. She would take her good luck where she found it. Maybe now, she thought, IHAEO would see what could be done and they might devote more funds to fighting disease and pestilence. There was hope now. And she wasn't going to let this afternoon's crude attempt at mass murder discourage her.
With the TNT out of the way, she made one last inspection of the laboratory. Oddly enough, Dr. Ravits' cat had gone crazy. It had thrown itself against the reinforced steel plate walls of the laboratory and somehow smashed itself to death. There were three small lines cut sharp into the steel just above the small cat's body.
If Dara didn't know better, she would have sworn that the three lines were claw marks.
But she did know better. No cat's claws were ever able to score steel.
Chapter 8
Harold W. Smith finally made contact with Remo. He was taking Barry Schweid out for some sun when one latch clip on the case popped open. That was the sign. There was no beep, no buzzer, nothing to attract attention. Smith had designed it that way because he did not want people alerted to the fact that he was being contacted.
Smith opened the case on the small keyboard that looked like an ultraportable computer, he punched in the proper code for receiving a call. Then he put the microthin line to his ear.
Schweid saw all this but only cared about how the storage access related to the communications modem. He had to be reminded by Smith not to disconnect him. So while Barry played with the workings inside the case, Smith talked. They continued to walk down the rutted dirt road to a boat which would take Barry snorkeling at one of the safest beaches on the island.
"Smitty, we had a bit of a problem at the lab," came Remo's voice.
"I know. They buried the sponge with Dr. Ravits' remains today. I made a promise to someone else because you made a promise to me."
"I don't know how it happened," Remo said. "We blew it. But we think we're going to nail these guys now."
"I hope so. This is a greater danger than people realize," Smith said, thinking of the Ung beetle's ability to counteract all known poisons and how dangerous it would be if that ability spread to other creatures. It was as if there was a giant chess game going on over what species would survive. Why anyone would champion the cause of insects over people, Smith did not know, but he did know that this new world somehow seemed to tolerate the most outrageous of acts. It seemed that the more mindless and more virulent the group, the greater support it got from the placard wavers and the marchers.
It sometimes seemed to him that the fabric of civilization itself had been torn and the last threads were being shredded. But because of the way he had been raised, he would defend those last threads because that was all there was.
"Remo," he said, "that experiment against the beetle in central Africa has got to work."
"I'll be there," Remo said.
"You were at the lab," Smith said.
"But this time I think they've got to be coming at me and Chiun," Remo said.
"Good luck then."
"Smitty, you worry too much."
"Don't you worry?"
"Sure, sometimes. But then I forget what I was worrying about," Ramo said.
"Good luck anyway," Smith said.
Barry Schweid was working the keys as Smith spoke. Smith had gotten the young computer genius into light summer pants and a short-sleeved shirt, gotten a waterproof container for his piece of blue blanket. Barry was even getting a tan and eating vegetables.
Smith could never quite tan. He would redden in degrees and if he got enough sun he would burn. St. Martin seemed to have the hottest sun in the Caribbean and he was using a total sunblock to protect his skin. He wore checkered shorts and a plaid sports shirt, but even strolling along the dusty roads toward the eastern side of the island among passing herds of cows and wandering goats, he looked as if he were attending a conference down some hall. He just couldn't get away from it.
"They'd better do well," Barry said.
"Who?" said Smith.
"I don't know who," said Barry. "But if they don't do well, I wouldn't give you much chance to save mankind."
Smith checked his earpiece to see if Barry could tap in. He couldn't. He knew also that he had been talking softly and Barry's hearing was almost nonexistent. This was not because of any natural defect; it was simply that Barry ignored all surroundings but his computer.
And he was now looking at the organization's access mode, inside Smith's briefcase, and shaking his head. "What are you talking about, Barry?"
Barry explained in terms of numbers and masses of numbers. He talked calculus and theoretical math and Smith, despite a handful of technical college degrees, could not follow him.
But by the time they reached the small enclosed bay and the boat that would take them to a small flat island a quarter-mile away, called Pinel, Smith had gotten the gist of what Barry was saying.
While Smith had been talking to Remo, Barry had been pulling from the computer's memories background data to test voice activation. The computer had told him of two groups of competing organisms, one large, the other small. So far, the large were in charge, but the access board warned Barry that this might soon change. Smith thought of men and insects.
Barry said, "The computer said that if the larger units don't stop the smaller units in this try, zowee. You see, this was all activated by whatever it was you were talking about on the phone. Anyway, it's going to be like Zorkmonster. Because the smaller units are headed toward a big final victory. This is a crucial one. Just like Zorkmonster."
"What's Zorkmonster?" Smith asked.
"It's a game. You play it with a joystick. It's called humans against the Zorkmonster, only when the Zorkmonster becomes invincible, he sets up a final battle at one point to try to trap you and wipe you out. You, of course, represent the humans."
"Of course," Smith said.
"At that time, there's only one way to beat Zorkmonster," Barry said.
"What is it?" Smith said quickly. He might try to reach Remo with this information.
"All you can do is unplug the machine. Zorkmonster never loses," Barry said.
The news media were generally ecstatic. Despite financial cutbacks from America, despite criticism from reactionary groups, the IHAEO now was making headway against the dreaded curse of central Africa, the Ung beetle.
Twenty-four jetloads of delegates arrived at the main airport of Uwenda, the country that now comprised five tribes including the Inuti.
Amabasa Francois Ndo was returning home in triumph.
A television announcer said: "We are witnessing here Africans helping Africans, despite Western white obstruction. We see here a triumph of indigenous peoples over their oppressors." The television announcer was from an American network.
The delegates' jets were met by air-conditioned limousines that stretched out along the roads, a caravan of wealth. Ndo, normally the darling of the press, refused all interviews. He had not slept well since Chiun had taken the god Ga from him. He recognized the hills outside the car and realized he was returning to his own home village. The horror hit him then that the village elders would demand he show them that he had safely kept Ga with him. But he did not have it for them.
Fortunately, he was on good terms with the president, vice-president, chief magistrate, chief of police, and head of the Agricultural Department of Liwenda. They were all his cousins. The commander in chief of the Army was his brother. Together, they might all keep the rest of the village at bay. Certainly he had shipped home enough money for them and they might just realize that if he stopped, the money stopped. Still, Ga was a powerful god. He was thinking these things as someone up front was talking white nonsense about the damned beetle they were all going to see get killed. They should have sent a fly swatter.