Remo looked down the weapon's barrel and suppressed a smile. He was making progress. Already.
"Okay," he said nonchalantly, throwing up his hands. "I'm a prisoner."
"How can you just surrender like that?" Cheeta Ching said hotly.
"Because he doesn't want to be shot," Blaise explained.
"Because I don't want to be shot," Remo echoed, knowing it would put Blaise Perrin at ease and annoy Cheeta Ching.
"I hate you," Cheeta hissed. "What did I ever see in you?"
"A cute guy with an unforgettable name," Remo said.
Blaise snapped, "Let's go. Inside. All of you."
Remo allowed himself to be marched into the main building, a long, low, barracks-like structure in the center of the quonset huts.
The sign on the entrance door said POSITIVELY NO SMOKING.
So did the sign on the first inside wall they came to.
They were marched down a rough, unpainted corridor. On either side there were other signs:
SMOKING IS PUNISHABLE BY FLOGGING NO IFS, ANDS, OR BUTTS SAY NO TO NICOTINE REMEMBER YOUR PATCHES.
"Patches?" Remo asked. He was ignored.
A man with a blondish mustache, and a powder-blue paramilitary uniform that looked like it had been pilfered from the Universal Studios prop department, greeted them with a salute.
"I remand these antisocials into your custody, commandant," said Blaise, returning the salute.
"Commandant?" asked Remo.
"Antisocials?" said Cheeta.
"Shut up," said Blaise.
They were escorted past rows of cells. The cells were heavily barred, and all were empty except for piles of straw on the floor. Remo noticed white electronic devices attached to the ceiling of each cell. So did Cheeta Ching.
She demanded, "What are those? Burglar alarms?"
Blaise Perrin laughed.
At the end of the narrow corridor was a blank wall. On either side were facing cells. The commandant opened one cell, and Cheeta Ching and her driver were frisked at rifle-point.
"Are you crazy?" he snapped. "We aren't carrying weapons."
"We know," Blaise said smugly.
"Ah-hah!" said the commandant. "Contraband!"
A pack of menthol cigarettes was brought to light.
"Take a good look," Blaise told the unhappy driver. "Those are the last coffin nails you're going to see."
"You're going to kill us?" Cheeta blurted.
Blaise Perrin laughed without answering. Remo thought it was a crazy laugh.
Cheeta and her driver were pushed into a single cell, and the bars clapped shut.
The second door was opened and Blaise said to Remo, "In you go, sport."
"How am I supposed to get out the vote from behind bars?" Remo wanted to know.
"You don't," said Blaise Perrin.
Shrugging, Remo entered the cell. The door banged shut.
"Welcome to the wave of the future," said the powder-blue commandant in a hearty voice.
"A prison?" Remo asked.
"A reeducation camp."
Cheeta Ching exploded, "But I'm a summa cum laude journalism major!"
"It's not that kind of reeducation," said Blaise, smiling.
"What kind is it?" Remo asked in a cool, unconcerned voice.
"You'll find out in the morning."
"What if I don't want to wait?"
"In Rona Ripper's California, you wait if the Ripper organization tells you to wait."
"So I wait," Remo said.
Blaise Perrin stepped up to the bars and looked at Remo's high-cheekboned face.
"You're an awfully cool customer. Mind telling me why Rona wants you kept under wraps?"
"She thinks I'm a pain in the ass," Remo said.
Blaise frowned. "Is that a joke?"