"What drug is that?" asked Remo.
"I think it's poison."
"What makes you think so?"
" 'Cause I'm dying."
The eyes closed and Remo sensed a stillness in the body, the last complete stillness. The man was dead.
113
Remo had found a place, possibly the place where the fast-breeder bacteria had been manufactured, and now there was no one left to tell how it was made.
But how could anyone get them all to commit suicide? And why?
Outside, a soft purring of an engine made its way up the road toward the factory. It was a car engine on an island where cars did not run.
114
Chapter Seven
"Bleem," said the woman stepping out of the back seat of a yellow and gray car that looked like a cross between a 1938 Ford and a Mercedes Benz. Sitting sullenly behind the wheel was a burly driver in a business suit, his bald head shining like a wrinkled pink artillery shell.
The woman wore a white suit with international-class styling and carried herself with the firm pace of someone with much money and about to make much more.
Her hair was like an ebony crown to a smooth, pale face. The eyes were so blue, they could cut. And her smile had a little-girl tinkle to it.
She was so beautiful, Remo half expected the dead inside the plant to rise up to offer her their seats.
"Bleem," she said again.
"God bless you," said Remo.
"Reva Bleem," she said. Her hand went out firmly to Remo's. Remo shook it. She offered her hand to Chiun. Chiun folded his hands under his morning robe.
"That's rude, Little Father," said Remo.
Chiun stepped back one pace and gave Reva Bleem an assassin's nod.
"I'm Reva Bleem, president of Bleem International, American Bleem, Hoyt Bilco Bleem, Standard Bleem, and Bleem Limited. What happened here?"
"How come your car runs?" asked Remo. "Is it some special car?"
115
"Yes, it's a special car. It's a Gaylord. Special Interest Autos magazine featured it. Special Interest Autos is the best car magazine in the world."
"How does it run? Gasoline doesn't survive on this island."
"Shit," said Reva Bleem. "What's going on here."
"First of all, why does that car run?"
"It doesn't use gas.There are other fuels besides petroleum-based fuels. There's Bleem International's new synthetic. We call it Polypussides. It's got a few kinks, but it'll run a car."
"What are the kinks?"
"It costs fifteen dollars a gallon, and the exhaust stunts human growth when it gets into the atmosphere. Right now, if everybody used it, our scientists estimate that probably mankind would be reduced to an average height of four feet, one and a half inches."
"That'll be good for dwarfs," Remo said.
"No, it won't. Dwarfs will be even smaller. You'd be able to fit one in your glove compartment. But we'll work these problems out. Frankly, I don't see four-one-and-a-half as a problem anyhow. Less food consumption, smaller houses, less drain on the world's resources. What do you think of that?"
"I don't think four feet is a height people will want," Remo said.
"Then advertising will have to come up with something else besides world good," she said. "What about 'Sex is better at four feet?' Maybe with a jingle? Would you like that?"
"I don't think so," said Remo. And he turned to ask Chiun what he would think of that, but already Chiun was walking back into the factory.
"If I can't do it with advertising, we're going to have to make difficult decisions," she said. "We just might have to change the Polypussides basic molecules to something that won't stunt growth. But dammit, that could cost millions. Tens of millions."
Reva Bleem's voice quavered. Tears rimmed the beautiful blue eyes.
116
"You've never lost a million dollars, have you?" she asked Remo.
"No."
"You have to take these things as they come. But you never get used to it"
"Money only means something if you don't have it," Remo said.
"What do you have?"
"You wouldn't understand," Remo said.
"Maybe I would."
"I have what I am supposed to be. I am more complete than you."
"That's another word for nothing," she said.
"I told you you wouldn't understand," Remo said.
"Have you tried money?"