"Who is responsible?"
"That's just it. We don't know. The Soviets, the Chinese, hell, it might even be the French. They've got a pretty fair space program going now. Who is behind this doesn't matter so much. We've just got to protect D'Orr."
"I'll put our special person right on it."
"Good man, Smith. D'Orr is being transported to a safe house in Baltimore. It's the penthouse of the Lafayette Building. Keep me informed."
"Yes, Mr. President," said Dr. Harold W. Smith, hanging up the phone. To Chiun, Smith said, "That was the President."
"So I gathered," said the Master of Sinanju, who, now that he was under contract, felt no pressing need to gush over Smith. "Something was said about work."
"What I began to tell you can wait," said Smith, knowing that the threat to his own life was a personal matter, but that national security was CURE's prime directive. "I'm sending you to Maryland."
"A lovely province," said Chiun.
"Yes. Someone has attempted to kidnap Ferris D'Orr, a metallurgist."
"The fiends," cried Chiuua, "kidnapping a sick man like that."
"Sick?"
"He is a metallurgist, correct? He is allergic to metals. The poor wretch. Imagine never being able to touch gold, or hold coins in his hand. He must be beside himself."
"A metallurgist is someone who works with metals," said Smith, getting to his feet.
"Ah, an artisan."
"Not quite. He's invented a process for melting titanium, an important metal."
Chiun shook his head slowly. "There is only one important metal, and that is yellow."
"Titanium is important to America.'
"Is it yellow?"
"No. I believe it is bluish, like lead."
Chiun made a face. "Lead is not a good metal. Lead killed the Roman Empire. They used it for their plumbing. Romans drank water from their lead pipes and lost first their wits, and later their empire. No doubt they had lead toilets too. Toilets will bring down a civilization faster than pestilence. Even the mighty Greeks would not have been able to survive the onslaught of toilets."
"Titanium is important to America," Smith repeated, ignoring Chiun's outburst.
"Oh? It is valuable?"
"Very," said Smith. "It is used for jet-engine parts and in space-age technologies."
"If it is valuable, why waste it on machines?" Chiun asked. "Why not make beautiful urns of titanium instead? Or statues of worthy persons? I am certain I would look wonderful in titanium."
"Protect D'Orr, and if anyone comes after him," Smith said wearily. "eliminate them."
"Of course." said the Master of Sinanju. "I understand perfectly."
Chapter 13
Remo Williams had walked most of the way to Pyongyang, capital of the People's Republic of Korea, before he saw his first automobile.
It was an imported Volvo. Remo stepped out into the middle of the highway and waved his arms for the car to stop.
The car slowed. The driver took a long look at Remo and drove around him.
Remo ran after the Volvo. The Volvo picked up speed. The driver of the Volvo looked at his speedometer. It read seventy. But the white man in the black T-shirt was still in his rearview mirror.
When the running white man drew up alongside the Volvo, there were tears in the driver's eyes. There was no way this could be happening. The white man must not be a western spy, as he had first thought. He had to be an evil spirit.
"I need a ride into Pyongyang," Remo yelled at the driver.
It was then that the driver knew of a certainty that the white being must be an evil apparition. Not only was he keeping pace with a seventy-mile-an-hour automobile, but he spoke Korean. Western spies did not speak Korean. Korean ghosts spoke Korean, however. Among other things they did, like pass their intangible hands through solid objects and pluck out the hearts from the chest cavities of the living.
"I said I need a ride into Pyongyang," Remo repeated. When the Korean did not reply, Remo tapped the window on the driver's side until the glass spiderwebbed and fell out.
The Korean had the gas pedal to the floorboards by that time. The white ghost was still running even with the car. There was no escape.
The white ghost had said something about needing a ride. Why a ghost who could run in excess of seventy miles an hour would need an earthly vehicle did not matter. Nor did the fact that the Volvo had cost eight years' salary. The ghost was demanding the car, and there was no escaping him. Therefore there was only one thing to do.
The driver braked the Volvo, plunged out through the passenger's side, and stumbled into the tall grass. The white ghost did not pursue him.
"I only wanted a ride," Remo Williams said to himself. He shrugged as he got behind the wheel of the Volvo. The keys were still in the ignition. He got the car going.
Remo drove slowly, his eyes on the road. The faint images of sandaled feet showed from time to time. A mile down the highway, the trail of footprints abruptly stopped. It was replaced by a string of barley beans that seemed to stretch, single file, all the way to the capital city.
"Chiun," Remo said under his breath.
An hour later, Pyongyang was framed in the bugsplattered windshield. It was a city of imposing white buildings with a stone torch-the North Korean version of the Statue of Liberty-dominating the skyline.
Remo drove through the checkpoint because he was in a hurry. Red tape always annoyed him anyway. He was not stopped, because he was driving a foreign car. Only high-ranking members of the North Korean government drove foreign cars. Or any cars, for that matter.
Pyongyang was not like Moscow. It was not like Peking. It was not one of the drab Communist capitals that give the Eastern bloc a bad name. The buildings were immaculate. Gorgeous trees lined the banks of the Taedong River. Happy children marched, singing, to school. Workers marched, singing, to work. Nobody walked anywhere in Pyongyang. Everyone marched and sang. The difference was, the children sang because they enjoyed it. The adults sang because not to sing carried criminal penalties. Many marble statues of the Great Leader, Kim Il Sung, dotted the spacious parks, and dozens of posters of him smiled benignly from the sides of buildings.
Remo, who had met Kim Il Sung, knew the statues and posters were a lie. They showed a black-haired and rosy-cheeked politician, when in fact Kim Il Sung's cheeks had fallen in, he wore spectacles, and his hair was the color of soiled cotton.
As Remo drove around the city looking for the airport, he was amazed at the wide and very modern street system. "There were five lanes, but very few cars. The only cars were occasional Volvos or Toyotas. For some reason, none of the autos used the center lane. To save time, not that there was much traffic in the first place, Remo drove down the center lane.
He had not gone very far when one of the little white military police cars began to chase him. The officer waved him over to the side of the road.
"Where's the airport?" asked Remo in Korean.
"Over! Over!" the officer yelled hack.
Remo, figuring he could get directions to the airport faster by obeying, obliged.
The officer came up on him with a drawn pistol. "I wasn't speeding, was I?" asked Remo politely.
"Out of the car," the officer said. "Out!"
Remo got out. The officer got a clear look at him for the first time. He yanked his whistle free of his tunic and blew on it furiously.
"What's the problem?" Remo wanted to know.
"You are under arrest. Driving down the lane reserved for the official use of the Leader for Life, Himself, Kim Il Sung."
"You gotta be kidding," said Remo. "He's got his own freaking lane?"
"And for being an unregistered foreigner," the officer added, blowing on the whistle again.
The officer nudged Remo with the muzzle of his pistol. That was a mistake.