"Why's she against the Israelis?"
"I keep asking that. What I think is that out here the people most like the Americans are the Israelis. And she hates the Americans, so she takes it out on the Israelis by hating them too."
"Bull, that's the first smart thing I ever heard you say," Remo said.
He watched the young woman drop the pencil from
her lips, lean forward and, with her teeth, pull the piece of paper from the typewriter. She placed the paper atop others in a pile and then with her nose pushed a small stone on top of the pile to prevent its blowing away. She stuck out her tongue and pressed it to another stack of paper. One clean sheet adhered to her wet tongue, and she lifted it to the typewriter. After three tries, she got the end of the paper to slip into the paper feed. With her teeth, she bit onto the carriage roller and turned the paper into the machine. Then she picked up the pencil again with her teeth and began typing, slowly, laboriously.
Remo walked around behind the woman, who was concentrating deeply on her work. Her hands were stuck into the pockets of her thin khaki army-style bush jacket. Remo looked over her shoulder.
On the last page, she had written: "The American media has invented an insensitive, cruel Islam to hate, just as it invented the dangers of communism in Vietnam and Cambodia."
She felt Remo standing there and turned toward him.
He nodded toward the page. "Good stuff," he said.
She dropped her pencil. "This book is going to do for the Middle East what my last book did for Vietnam and Cambodia. It'll rip the mask of hypocrisy off the American imperialists and their Israeli lackeys and show all those with an eye for truth that the wave of the future is Islam, benevolent, just, kind Islam."
"Sounds good to me," Remo said. The broad was a daffodil. He remembered that he had seen her byline and that her grandfather had run The Blade until he had died. Maybe there was genetic brain-softening in the whole family.
"I just don't understand why you don't type with your fingers instead of with your mouth," Remo said.
Melody Wakefield pulled her arms from the lower pockets of her jacket. She had no hands. Her arms ended at the wrists, in bandaged stumps.
"Oh," Remo said. "I'm sorry. What happened?" 166
"A merchant in the bazaar. He saw me take atv apple from his stand. I don't know what the big deal was. I always do that in Boston and nobody complains. Anyway, he called the police. They arrested me, and an Islamic court ordered the traditional sentence carried out."
"They cut off your hands? For stealing an apple?"
"It is written in their holy book. I shouldn't have taken the apple. But if I had sought special treatment, I would have been guilty of trying to undermine, by American power, all the truth and justice of the Islamic movement."
"Don't forget benevolence and kindness," Remo said.
"Right. Islam. True, just, benevolent, and kind."
"Spoken like a dipshit without hands," Remo said. He looked at her shirt front. Maybe they had cut off her breasts too. She certainly didn't have any. Would they do that? Yes, they would, but they probably hadn't had to. She looked as if she had never had any.
"What are you doing here today?" Remo asked.
Tm here to interview soldiers. I want the world to know how progressive Islam really is. You know in America, they think jihad, a holy war, is a bad thing. But it's not like they want to kill everybody who's not a Moslem. Jihad really only means social reform. Far superior to any American reform. I'm going to prove that in my book by interviewing soldiers. Did I tell you my book on Vietnam and Cambodia won an award?"
"I would have been astonished if it hadn't," Remo said. "Let's see. The American militarists, needing a war to keep their economy alive, tried to impose their decadent and corrupt will on the sweet, peace-loving people of Vietnam and Cambodia. But freedom-loving people all over the world banded together in the cause of liberty to drive out the ugly American invaders and turn their countries over to sweet agrarian reformers who promised land to all the peasants and free elections as soon as possible."
'167
Melody Wakefield squealed with delight. "You read my book," she said.
"I didn't have to," Remo said. "I spent a year one day reading your grandfather's newspaper." He noticed that Bull was still standing by the side of the building, looking at them.
"General?" Remo called. "Any objection if she interviews your soldiers?"
"No, none at all. I told you, she's a press agent. She won't write anything to hurt an Arab. If she does, she'll get her tits cut off."
"Too late for that," Remo said, looking again at Melody's flat shirt. "If you want to interview the Army, you'll find them over there in the parade grounds. Asleep. Some of them anyway. The rest ran away."
"Thank you," she said.
"When we go into war tomorrow, you want to go with us?"
"Who are we fighting?" she asked.
"Other Arabs," Remo said.
"Not Israelis?" she said, disappointed.
"No. Arabs."
Melody's face brightened. "But they're Arab renegades whose minds have been poisoned by the corrupt Western beliefs and who are lackeys of the United States and therefore deserve death, right?"
"Right," said Remo wearily.
"It is my duty to go with you to let the world know of our army's glories," Melody Wakefield said.
"Good. You can ride in the front car," Remo said. "Strapped over the hood."
"All right," Chiun said. "Now jump up onto that stallion."
"I don't jump so well," said Abdul, the son of Sheik Fareem. He was wearing a silk shirt and silk pantaloons.
"It is time to learn," Chiun said. "You will lead your father's army into battle tomorrow."
"I don't want to learn jumping," Abdul said.
"Whenever I want somebody to jump, I hire a jumper. Why should I learn to jump? Give me a week or two. I'll advertise in the London Times. I'll get you jumpers. Probably in London right now, there are a couple of hundred people who can jump onto a horse. I'll hire one. Two if you want. I'll hire them all for you." \
"You must do it," Chiun said severely.
"It'll make me sweat."
"And I will make you cry," Chiun said.
"Is that a threat?" Abdul asked.
They were standing in a clearing in the rear of the oasis, far from the tents of the village.
"Yes," Chiun said mildly.
"Please explain to me why," Abdul said.
"You are going to lead your father's army into battle tomorrow. You have to be able to lead them by your example. They are not likely to follow anybody who falls off his horse. You think I am being unkind to you, but I, the Master of Sinanju, tell you that the only way to train is to work one's body unto pain."
"Where can I buy pain?" Abdul said.
"Get on that horse."
"No."
"You will not have to buy pain," Chiun said. "I will give you some for free." He reached forward and with one long-nailed finger touched Abdul's side through his shirt. It felt like sticking his finger into tapioca.
Abdul turned, Chiun's finger still in his side, and tried to scurry up onto the back of the patiently waiting stallion. His left foot kept missing the stirrup.
"Get up there," Chiun growled.
"I'm trying. I'm trying. Stop hurting my side."
Finally, Chiun released the fat man's side, grabbed the back of his right calf with his hand, and lofted Abdul up into the saddle. It took twenty seconds for Abdul to get himself back in balance. Finally, he was seated upright. He looked down at Chiun, then kicked his feet into the horse and galloped it away.
He stopped twenty yards from Chiun. He did not
know how to turn the horse around, so he looked back over his shoulder at the old man.
"I don't think you understand. I am the next sheik."