At a gesture from Clancy, the crowd parted. Cameras flashed in his face. Videocams whirred.
When Theodore reached the podium, Senator Clancy grinned broadly and threw one arm around him. He said, "Thank you for inviting me to your toupee, blood brother."
"That's tepee," whispered Brother Theodore. For the press, he said, "It is a sign that the Great White Father in Washington takes the promise of the mighty thunderbug seriously that you have come, my brother."
"We will smoke the peace pipe together," Senator Clancy said boisterously. "As a sign that there will be no scalping. But I'm afraid I'll have to pass up the firewater. I'm on the wagon. Witch doctor's orders."
As Senator Clancy took a hit of his asthma inhaler, Brother Theodore thought, This guy knows less about the Red Man than I do. This is going to be a snap.
The questions started flying.
"Brother Theodore, what do you have to say about HELP?"
"HELP is a disease of modern civilization. Only those who are attuned to nature will survive the cataclysm that is Human Environmental Liability Paradox."
"What do you mean by attuned to nature?"
"Only by eating the environmentally untainted thunderbug can the white man shield his fragile skin from the deadly rays filtering down from the ozone layer he has wantonly destroyed."
"Then how do you explain the fact that your PAPA followers are dying of HELP?" he was asked.
"Only Snappers are dying. My Harvesters, who cook the thunderbug in a politically and environmentally correct way before eating them, are as healthy as Hekawis. This is the lesson of HELP. Those who wish to see the millennium must live as my ancestors-pure in spirit and politics. I have spoken."
Brother Theodore looked out over the sea of media faces. They appeared to be lapping it all up. It was all going just as he hoped.
Out of one corner of his eye, he noticed the expression on the face of Senator Ned Clancy of Massachusetts. It was an unhappy expression.
"I'm sure Brother Theodore will have more to say after my remarks," Senator Clancy said hastily. Under his breath, he added, "Knowing when to get off the stage is part of the great art of politics, my friend."
And before Theodore Soars-With-Eagles could protest, the senator's aides were pushing him off the podium and Senator Clancy started taking questions.
"Whose press conference is this, anyway?" he muttered. But no one paid him any mind. They were too busy lobbing questions at the senator, whose broad face grew broader as he spoke, like some some elastic human ego feeding on the attention of the media.
Chapter 8
Getting out of Nirvana West was proving to be difficult.
"Has every nutcase on the planet descended on this ecological disaster area?" Remo was complaining.
The Master of Sinanju shaded his eyes with a thin hand.
"I do not see the President of Vice," he said.
"Maybe he's disguised as a tree," Remo growled.
"If this is so, his head is in dire peril, for there are woodpeckers about."
They had retreated to the hillside from which they had first surveyed Nirvana West. If anything, the press and politicians were thicker than before.
"What's that over there?" Remo said suddenly.
Chiun followed the direction of Remo's pointing finger. The press were gravitating toward a central spot.
"I do not know," he said thinly.
"It looks like one of those nature films---you know, the ones that show honey bees swarming around the queen."
Chiun frowned. "I do not see a queen. Only a fat white in the center talking to other whites."
Remo squinted his eyes. Over the heads of the crowd poked a patch of discolored grayish white hair like bleached seaweed on a reddish rock. Under the bad hair was a bloated face that Remo would have recognized three states away.
"Blotto Clancy," he said unhappily.
"Who?"
"Senator Ned J. Clancy. He's the guy we're trying to avoid, remember?"
"Why do they call him Blotto?"
"Because he's half in the bag all the time."
Chiun's sparse eyebrows lifted. "What bag?"
"The one stamped 'Plastered.' "
"You are making no sense, Remo."
"Remember the Roman emperors who liked to get soused on wine and debauch all day long?"' Remo asked.
"Not personally, but their stories are known to me, through the records of my ancestors. Caligula was a good emperor. Domitian was much favored by the House of Sinanju. But Nero was best. His gold took teeth marks exceedingly well."
"Well, down there is the Nero of the twentieth century."
Chiun lifted up on his black sandals and craned his wattled neck. "Really, Remo?"
"He's not President. Never will be. But he gave it his worst shot. He also gave every female that came within grabbing range his worst shot too. If he were ever elected President, the government would be paying child support for a small army of Clancys."
"Perhaps I should meet him," said Chiun, dropping back to his normal height.
"For crying out loud, why?"
Because if he ever becomes Emperor of America, I will want to be on his good side. Emperors of Nero's caliber have notoriously long memories."
"Pass," said Remo.
"Our vehicle is in that direction," Chiun pointed out.