They were standing near an artificial pool. It appeared to be empty. At the far end of a long whitecobbled walk, past colorful children's rides, loomed Sorcerer's Castle, emblem of "the Enchanted Village," as Beasley World-the greatest theme park in the universe-was sometimes called.
"This is a dream," Remo muttered.
"A wonderful dream," Chiun said.
"A bad dream," Remo said. "A nightmare."
Chiun frowned. "What is wrong?"
"We can't live here. It's wide open!"
"The sun will be good for you, Remo. You look pale." The Master of Sinanju began to walk, his merry hazel eyes darting this way and that, his perfect white teeth dazzling in his tiny mouth.
Remo followed. "No, I mean this is a public place. Millions of people come through the gate every year."
Chiun shrugged unconcernedly. "I have left them Beasleyland. They may go there instead."
Remo's incredulous eyes took in an Alice-in-Wonderland panorama that was familiar to children throughout the entire world.
"I can't believe Smith gave this place to you."
"Why not? I deserve it-even if you do not."
"That's not what I mean, and you know it. It isn't Smith's to give. One of the biggest corporations in the world owns all this. And from what I hear their lawyers are real piranha."
"Let them plotz," Chiun said disdainfully.
Remo looked back. The building they had just left was some kind of disguised waste-disposal collection center. The walls were covered with open-mouthed cartoon faces. The mouths were round holes, and beside one of them was a pair of covered plastic barrels. The covers were adorned with puppet heads.
"That pipe we came through was part of the trash-disposal system for this place," Remo decided aloud.
"It is very efficient," Chiun agreed. "I hereby make you Lord High Sanitation Engineer of Assassin's World."
"Assassin's World?"
"The old name needs updating."
"You weren't listening to what I said," Remo said tightly.
"What else is new?" Chiun returned carelessly.
"That means the military guys are in cahoots with the Beasley Company."
Chiun turned, his mouth going prim. "Remo! Such blasphemy! Was this man Beasley not one of your childhood heroes?"
"Sure. What does that have to do with anything?"
"Uncle Sam Beasley would never go against the wishes of Emperor Smith."
"He never heard of Smith. Besides, he's dead."
"Nonsense."
"He died back in the sixties. Everybody knows that."
"Humph," sniffed Chiun, resuming his promenade. "If this is so, then who draws the wonderful cartoons bearing his illustrious name?"
"A bunch of artists, that's who. Uncle Sam never drew the cartoons himself."
"Slanderer! Defamer of greatness!"
Remo stopped, blinked, and said in a very small voice, "Uncle Sam . . ."
"Come, Remo. We must find Monongahela Mouse. I will accept the keys to the Enchanted Village from him personally. No lesser functionary will do."
"Chiun!" Remo croaked.
The Master of Sinanju stopped, turned, his eyes narrowing.
"What is wrong with you, Remo? This is the culmination of my years of hardship in your ugly country. This is a moment about which the future children of Sinanju yet unborn will sing. For no Master of Sinanju was ever bequeathed a kingdom as wondrous as this one."
"Chiun, listen! I just said the name 'Uncle Sam.' Uncle Sam Beasley-the founder of Beasleyland and Beasley World."
"You did," Chiun allowed.
"The creator of Monongahela Mouse, Screwball Squirrel, and Dingbat Duck."
"His reknown has reached even Sinanju," Chiun said. "Although he is a mere white artist, his greatness is unsurpassed."
Remo said, "Everybody from the captured Cubans to Zorilla swore Uncle Sam was behind the operation. Remember?"
Chiun's eyes squeezed to walnut slits.
"Not the Washington Uncle Sam, but Uncle Sam Beasley! This is a Beasley Corporation operation!"
"I will believe this only from the lips of Uncle Sam himself," Chiun said firmly. "Come, the famous rodent can wait. We must speak with Uncle Sam himself."
In a swirl of black silken skirts, the Master of Sinanju flounced off toward the towers that Remo had first seen what seemed like another lifetime ago, as a wide-eyed child watching a cheap black-and-white picture tube back at Saint Theresa's Orphanage.
There was a lump rising in his throat.
Ronald Phipps had grown up on Sam Beasley.
Every Sunday night, he had watched The Marvelous Realm of Sam Beasley in his fire-engine-red Dr. Denton's. He had collected Sam Beasley Comics and Cartoons. Colored in Mongo Mouse and Screwball Squirrel coloring books, with Sam Beasley-brand crayons. If it bore the flourishing signature of Uncle Sam Beasley, Ronald Phipps had collected it.
The first time he had visited Beasley World was akin to a religious experience. He was nine. By the age of eleven he had been to Beasleyland and Beasley World what seemed a million times. He liked Beasley World better. It was bigger and-more to the point-he could go more often. Ron Phipps lived just outside of Furioso, Florida, Vacation Center of the Galaxy, site of Sam Beasley World.