Nemuro Nishitsu's next words told him that despite all appearances, he did not.
"Jiro kun," Nishitsu whispered, "put that away. This man is an emissary. He must be treated with respect."
"But he threatened you," Isuzu protested.
"And he has the means to carry out that threat. But he will not, for he understands that if he spills my blood, there is nothing to prevent my soldiers from putting to the sword every man, woman, and child in this city. Now, put your sword away."
"Tradition demands I quench this sword in blood now that I have drawn it," Isuzu said stubbornly.
"If you wish to commit seppuku," Nishitsu told him coldly, "then it is your choice. Either way, you are dead. But do me the courtesy of not ensuring my death along with yours, and with it, the ruin of all we have achieved together."
Jiro Isuzu's face was stung. He lowered his eyes as the sword whispered back into its sheath. His chin quivered uncontrollably.
"Know, Japanese," Chiun said forcefully, "that if the lives of innocents were not in peril, I would rend your very heart and lay it steaming at your worthless feet."
"You may take my words back to your American masters," Nemuro Nishitsu said pointedly. "I will see that you are given safe passage to the desert."
"I have two others with me, a man and a woman. The man is of a tribe that dwells in the desert. It is there that I wish to go."
"Tribe?" Nishitsu said. His eyes sought Jiro.
"Indians," Jiro supplied. "They do not matter. Our tanks surround their land. They are known to be a peaceful tribe. None have ventured out, nor will they. Indians do not love the whites, their oppressors."
"Then go," Nishitsu told Chiun.
"One other matter," Chiun said quickly. "I demand to ransom the children. They are innocents. Whatever you intend by this outrage, they are not a part of this."
"They keep the adults passive. Fewer of my men die this way, and I am able to spare more Americans."
"Then the youngest of them," Chiun suggested. "The ones under eight years. Surely they are not necessary to your plans."
"The youngest ones are the most precious to their mothers and fathers," Nemuro Nishitsu said slowly. "But I might offer you, say, the students of one school if you will do something for me in return."
Curiosity wrinkled Chiun's wise face. "Yes?"
"I seek Bartholomew Bronzini. If you can deliver him to me, alive and in good condition, I will surrender to you the school of your choice."
Chiun frowned. "Bronzini is not your ally in this?"
"He is a pawn."
"I will consider your offer," said Chiun. And without bowing, he turned and left the mayor's office.
Jiro Isuzu followed him with hate-filled eyes. Then he turned to Nemuro Nishitsu.
"I do not understand. Why do you not offer terms?"
"You will see, Jiro kun. Is the television station ready?"
"Yes. "
"Then begin broadcasting."
"This will enrage their military."
"Better. It will humiliate them. They are impotent and soon the entire world will know it. Go now!"
The Master of Sinanju was silent all during the ride to the reservation, his eyes fixed on some imaginary point beyond the sand-scored windshield.
Neither Bill Roam nor Sheryl Rose tried to converse with him after Sheryl offered what she thought was a comforting suggestion.
"You know, Remo might not be dead. I read about a fellow who survived a skyjumping accident. It happens."
"He is dead," Chiun had said sadly. "I do not sense his mind. In the past, in times of great urgency, I have been able to touch him with my thoughts. I cannot now. Therefore he is no more."
Bill Roam was driving. They were in Sheryl's Nishitsu Ninja, which Chiun had restored to its wheels with what had seemed to be an effortless expenditure of strength. So stunned were they by the events of the day that neither Bill Roam nor Sheryl remarked on Chiun's many feats.
A single road led to the reservation. It was fenced off, but the gates were open. Beside it was a weatherbeaten wooden sign. The legend was half-obliterated by desert sun and wind-driven sand. The top line was nearly unreadable, except for the letter S at the beginning of an indecipherable word. The bottom line said: RESERVATION.
"I could not read the name of your tribe," Chiun said as they passed through the fence.
"You wouldn't know the name," Bill Roam replied dully. His eyes searched the road ahead as a line of cracked adobe buildings came into view.
"I did not suggest that I would," Chiun said flatly. "I asked the name."
"Some people call us Sunny Joes. That's where I get my nickname. I'm sort of the tribal guardian. It's a hereditary title, being a Sunny Joe. My father was one."
"Your tribe, they are mighty warriors?"
"Hell, no," Roam scoffed. "We're farmers. Even back before the white man came."
Chiun's brow wrinkled in puzzlement.
Bill Roam let out a relieved sigh as signs of life began to show in the doorways of the buildings they passed. He pulled up in front of one and got out.
"Hey, Donno, everything okay here?"
"Sure thing, Sunny Joe," a fat old man in blue jeans and a faded cowboy shirt replied. He clutched a bottle of Jim Beam. "What's doing?"
"There's trouble in the city. Spread the word. Nobody goes off the reservation unless I say so. And I want everyone in the meetinghouse inside of ten minutes. You hustle now, Donno."
"You got it, Sunny Joe," said the fat old man. He slipped the bottle into a back pocket and disappeared down the sidewalk, which was raised off the dusty street like an old-fashioned western boardwalk.
Bill Roam parked in front of the meetinghouse, a long wooden building that resembled an old-fashioned one-room schoolhouse right down to the rows of folding chairs inside. Roam went among the chairs, clapping them shut in his big hands. He stacked them against the walls with intent fury.
"Hope you don't mind squatting on the floor," he said after he cleared it. "It's clean."