"Remo. Stop this instant."
"Preparation Group Leader," the amplified voice of the World Master announced, "we must evacuate. Bring your people."
Amanda Bull instantly dropped back, shouting, "Everybody into the ship!" She evaded Remo only because Remo had been brought up short by Chiun's yelling, and he wasn't sure what was going on.
He was even more confused when the group piled into the UFO, including the wounded, who had to be helped. Chiun was one of the helpers.
"Chiun, what the ding-dong hell are you up to?" Remo called out to him, not wanting to venture too close to the UFO.
"Okay, we're going up," Amanda Bull shouted as the UFO slowly lifted like a soap bubble from a child's plastic loop. It did not hum, so Remo didn't run. He didn't come any closer, either.
"I am coming, too," Chiun said, but even as he did, the opening in the UFO hull shut on him.
"Wait," Chiun cried out forlornly. "Take me with you. I am the Master of Sinanju, and you must not forget me."
But the ship, a brilliant ball of light, sailed off into the darkness, leaving Chiun with a stricken expression on his face and a bewildered Remo beside him in the empty clearing.
"Chiun, what the hell is going on?" Remo asked. "I got your note."
Slowly, the Master of Sinanju turned to face his pupil, his clear eyes ablaze with a light that sent a sick feeling into the pit of Remo's stomach. For a full minute, Chiun said nothing, but finally he puffed out his cheeks in rage and said in a quavering voice, "You are no longer my son, Remo Williams. Do not ever address me again."
?Chapter Ten
The first thing Pavel Zarnitsa did upon arriving in Oklahoma City was check the Yellow Pages for Mexican restaurants, and he found, to his horror, that there were none.
"Sukin Syn," he said in anguish, loud enough for a passing TWA pilot to overhear. The pilot, carrying his flight instructions under his arm, stopped at the open phone booth and asked engagingly if Pavel was by chance from the Soviet Union.
"No," Pavel told him curtly, not turning around. "I am not."
"No?" the pilot asked, puzzled. "I picked up some Russian on overseas runs. I could have sworn I heard you say 'son of a bitch' in Russian."
"I did not. Go away please."
"No need to be rude, sir," said the pilot, who liked to make a good impression on foreign visitors. "You're obviously not from this country, and I was just being friendly. Just what kind of accent is that, by the way?"
"I haff not the accent," Pavel told him in thick English. Not being in America to spy on Americans, he had never gone through speech modification sessions. He was supposed to sound Russian.
"Sure you do," said the other, who was now becoming suspicious. "Where are you from, if you don't mind my asking?"
"I do mind," said the KGB man, pretending to riffle through the Yellow Pages.
"Need help looking up something? I see you're having trouble there."
"Why, yes... I am looking for a place which sells tacos. "
"Tacos? Hmmm. About the only place hereabouts carrying those things is that Irish bar on West Street. Name escapes me, but it's easy to find."
Pavel Zarnitsa abruptly turned around with a false grin on his face. "To you, I am grateful. Good-bye," he said as he brushed by.
The cab driver also asked about his accent, and Pavel briefly considered taking the pieces of the plastic pistol from his suitcase and assembling them. The pistol was spring-driven, like a zip gun, and it would easily go through the car seat and into the driver's back. It would not do to call attention to himself in any way, but Pavel decided a dead body was worse than a puzzled driver, so he changed his mind.
"I know," the driver bellowed as they pulled up before the Will Rogers Lucky Shamrock Bar and Grill. "You're a Polack!"
"A what?"
"You know— one of those guys from Poland. We get a lot of you people since the Russkies busted up the union."
"Yes, that is right," Pavel told him as he paid the fare. "I am Polack. Good-bye to you."
Pavel Zarnitsa walked up to the bar, happy he had not killed the cab driver. Now he had a reasonable explanation for his awkward accent.
"A Scootch and three tacos, please," he told the bartender.
"A what and three tacos?"
"Scootch. On the rocks."
"I getcha. Scotch on the rocks," he said, setting the drink before the black-haired customer.
"Please do not mind my accent," Pavel told him. "I am a Polack, new to your country."
"That so?" the bartender said as he took three frozen packets from an under-counter freezer, stripped them, and put them in a sizzling Fry-o-lator, where they immediately turned the color of dry soil. "Most Polish people don't like being called Polacks. Nice to meet someone different."
"I am a very reasonable Polack," Pavel said, sipping his Scotch. "I even like Russians. Are you not going to make my tacos?"
"That's them in the Fry-o-lator."
"Really? I have never seen them prepared before. I did not know they were fried in oil. Amazing. How long do they take?"
"Done now," the bartender said, dumping the tacos onto a plate next to Pavel's Scotch.
Pavel took an eager bite and didn't know whether to chew or spit. He chewed slowly and swallowed with difficulty. A ghastly expression settled on his strongly molded features. Doubtfully, he forced himself to eat the whole thing.
"I do not understand," he said finally. "This taco is hard. The shell is hard, not soft as in New York. And I tasted no meat."
"This ain't New York buddy. I don't make 'em on the premises. They come in frozen and I unfreeze 'em. No meat, either. Just refried bean filling."
"Pah! These are not tacos. These are fakes!"
"I can get you something else..."
"You can get me another Scootch," Pavel said miserably. "I am no longer hungry."
"Suit yourself."
After fortifying himself with another drink, Pavel gave thought to his investigation into the strange newspaper reports suggesting something was wrong with America's missile bases. It would not do to personally approach any United States installation, even without the problem of his accent. How then?... Of course, he thought. The bartender. All bartenders the world over are repositories of information picked up from their customers.