"Step Two of Program One."
"What drug is that?" asked Remo.
"I think it's poison."
"What makes you think so?"
" 'Cause I'm dying."
The eyes closed and Remo sensed a stillness in the body, the last complete stillness. The man was dead.
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Remo had found a place, possibly the place where the fast-breeder bacteria had been manufactured, and now there was no one left to tell how it was made.
But how could anyone get them all to commit suicide? And why?
Outside, a soft purring of an engine made its way up the road toward the factory. It was a car engine on an island where cars did not run.
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Chapter Seven
"Bleem," said the woman stepping out of the back seat of a yellow and gray car that looked like a cross between a 1938 Ford and a Mercedes Benz. Sitting sullenly behind the wheel was a burly driver in a business suit, his bald head shining like a wrinkled pink artillery shell.
The woman wore a white suit with international-class styling and carried herself with the firm pace of someone with much money and about to make much more.
Her hair was like an ebony crown to a smooth, pale face. The eyes were so blue, they could cut. And her smile had a little-girl tinkle to it.
She was so beautiful, Remo half expected the dead inside the plant to rise up to offer her their seats.
"Bleem," she said again.
"God bless you," said Remo.
"Reva Bleem," she said. Her hand went out firmly to Remo's. Remo shook it. She offered her hand to Chiun. Chiun folded his hands under his morning robe.
"That's rude, Little Father," said Remo.
Chiun stepped back one pace and gave Reva Bleem an assassin's nod.
"I'm Reva Bleem, president of Bleem International, American Bleem, Hoyt Bilco Bleem, Standard Bleem, and Bleem Limited. What happened here?"
"How come your car runs?" asked Remo. "Is it some special car?"
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"Yes, it's a special car. It's a Gaylord. Special Interest Autos magazine featured it. Special Interest Autos is the best car magazine in the world."
"How does it run? Gasoline doesn't survive on this island."
"Shit," said Reva Bleem. "What's going on here."
"First of all, why does that car run?"
"It doesn't use gas.There are other fuels besides petroleum-based fuels. There's Bleem International's new synthetic. We call it Polypussides. It's got a few kinks, but it'll run a car."
"What are the kinks?"
"It costs fifteen dollars a gallon, and the exhaust stunts human growth when it gets into the atmosphere. Right now, if everybody used it, our scientists estimate that probably mankind would be reduced to an average height of four feet, one and a half inches."
"That'll be good for dwarfs," Remo said.
"No, it won't. Dwarfs will be even smaller. You'd be able to fit one in your glove compartment. But we'll work these problems out. Frankly, I don't see four-one-and-a-half as a problem anyhow. Less food consumption, smaller houses, less drain on the world's resources. What do you think of that?"
"I don't think four feet is a height people will want," Remo said.
"Then advertising will have to come up with something else besides world good," she said. "What about 'Sex is better at four feet?' Maybe with a jingle? Would you like that?"
"I don't think so," said Remo. And he turned to ask Chiun what he would think of that, but already Chiun was walking back into the factory.
"If I can't do it with advertising, we're going to have to make difficult decisions," she said. "We just might have to change the Polypussides basic molecules to something that won't stunt growth. But dammit, that could cost millions. Tens of millions."
Reva Bleem's voice quavered. Tears rimmed the beautiful blue eyes.
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"You've never lost a million dollars, have you?" she asked Remo.
"No."
"You have to take these things as they come. But you never get used to it"
"Money only means something if you don't have it," Remo said.
"What do you have?"
"You wouldn't understand," Remo said.
"Maybe I would."
"I have what I am supposed to be. I am more complete than you."
"That's another word for nothing," she said.
"I told you you wouldn't understand," Remo said.
"Have you tried money?"
"You should talk to my partner," Remo said. "He's into money." And then they both entered the factory. The driver remained behind in the car.
With disgust in her eyes, Reva looked around at the bodies. "Sure. Sure. Exactly," she said. "There. That's Wardley. Wardley has been turning all these people on. Wardley got them hooked. Then Wardley went through defensive drills. Then Wardley probably forgot he put bullets in their guns. Then Wardley forgot he poisoned himself."
"What are you, crazy?" said Remo. "Someone forgets he poisoned himself? Someone convinces top scientists to kill themselves?"
"How did you figure out they were scientists?" she asked.
"This place. First, all those scientists vanished from the U.S. Then you hear something about rapid-breeder bacteria. Then all the gas on this island turns to wax. I figured that this had to be the place where they're making the rapid breeder."
"Rieht," she said. "It's a tax loss that went crazy. We needed a tax loss. That, lying there with the silly grin on his face, is my brother Wardley. Wardley could turn anything into a tax loss. Wardley could lose money finding gold; he's an absolute genius at losing money. I
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guess whatever I got, he was deficient in. Wardley took over this company to give Bleem International the tax loss we needed in America." "I follow that," said Remo.
"So Wardley decided to hire all the scientists in this field and create a monopoly. Somehow he got it in his acid-soaked head to prove me wrong about this being a loss operation. And he did."
"What about the scientists he killed?" asked Remo. She looked shocked. "Was he killing people?" "Someone was."
"The idiot. I guess he figured he needed all of them if he was going to form a monopoly. Anyway, he got all these down here at fantastic salaries, creating our tax loss, which was all right with me. Then he got them hooked on this drug he invented, and he got them involved in playing his games of never letting anyone get at you. Wardley played that when he was a kid. If everyone takes drugs, Wardley makes sense. But I thought he was harmless, and he was giving me my tax loss. Now look at this. This is awful. And those goddamned bacteria must be all over the place." "One problem with your story," Remo said. "What's that?" asked Reva.
"I know now why someone wants to remove all the oil from the world. It's you, Reva. Then you can sell
your Pussyjuice___"
"Polypussides," she corrected. "Polypussides at fifteen dollars a gallon." "Except for one thing, whoever-you-are," she said. "The Polypussides won't be ready for mass distribution for another ten years. Working full speed right now, I can make a thousand gallons a day. What the hell does that mean? I spend that much money on hotel rooms. And in ten years, when I'm ready, they're going to have other synthetic fuels. So where does that leave me? With a lot of four-foot people. The idiot. The idiot."
Reva Bleem was screaming. She ran over to Wardley's dead body and began kicking the face.
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r
"I can't kick that grin off. I can't get it to stop grinning at me," screamed Reva.
"Hold on," Remo said. "Hold on." He grasped her shoulders and massaged up to her neck until she was calm. The blue eyes still burned with fire, though. There was a beauty to her anger, Remo thought. And that beauty was strength.
And, yes, Remo admitted, it was unsettling to see a grin on a corpse. He wanted to remove the grin also.
"Wardley has ruined everything I've ever had. Everything. And now he's killed these men. He's killed others, you tell me. And all I wanted was a tax loss."