And from Petersburg National Battlefield was coming the first sketchy reports of a pitched battle under way.
It was high noon. Memorial Day, 1995. Perhaps the last Memorial Day in U.S. history if the tides of battle were not quickly reversed.
When the blue contact telephone began ringing, Harold Smith was so intent he didn't register the sound at first. It took three rings before his aged hand reached out and brought the receiver to his pinched gray face.
Harold Smith was a New England Yank, but his colors were Confederate gray. He wore a gray threepiece suit enlivened only by his Darmouth college tie, which was hunter green. His eyes were gray behind rimless glasses. His sparse hair was a grayish dusting on his head. Even his dry skin had a grayish cast, the manifestation of a congenital heart defect.
When he spoke, his voice was as flinty as the granite hills that had birthed him.
"Yes?"
"Hey, Smitty," said Remo in a bright voice.
"Remo, I have reports of a battle going on at Petersburg National Battlefield."
"Guess that's why they call it a battlefield, right?"
"Remo, this is serious!"
"No," corrected Remo, "this is over."
"Over?"
"Over. As in the boys can start going home now."
"But I have reports of other reenactment units moving on Virginia."
"Well, when they get here they can move right out again. The Blue and the Gray have patched things up."
"What happened?"
"Mongo Mouse dropped by, and everybody came to their senses."
"Remo, you are babbling."
A squeaky voice piped up. "No, Emperor, everything Remo says is true. Mongo came, along with Dingbat and others of his gallant company."
"They dropped down in balloons," Remo added.
"Balloons, Remo?"
"Big pink ones. Lit up like bottles of calamine lotion with light bulbs inside."
"Remo, you are not yourself."
"Hey, I just had a pleasant afternoon. Don't spoil it with your ulcerous crabbing."
"Ulcerous crabbing? For the first time in over a century we have civil war!"
"I told you," Remo said patiently. "It's over. It was a great big misunderstanding. When the balloons showed up, everyone simmered right down. Mickey Weisinger made a big reconciliation speech and won 'em all over. They've laid down their muskets, and there won't be any more trouble. Chiun and I hardly had to do anything. Isn't that great?"
There was a pause on the line.
"Remo," Smith said in a cautious voice, "I have some bad news for you."
"Shoot."
"I have hit another stone wall in the search for your parents."
"Aw. Too bad. But I know you'll keep trying, Smitty."
"That is just it," pressed Smith. "I have reached an absolute dead end. There is no other avenue to search."
"Gee, that's disappointing," said Remo.
"I am calling off the search. Do not ever raise this subject again."
Remo's voice diminished as he turned from the telephone and said, "Chiun, he's calling off the search for my parents."
"At least he tried," said Chiun without concern.
Remo's voice came back to the telephone receiver. "I know you tried, Smitty. Appreciate it. Really."
"Remo, you are not talking or acting like yourself."
"Who else would I talk and act like? Daniel Boone?"
"You are too calm, too relaxed, too accepting."
"I told you I feel pretty mellow."
"Remo, what happened out there today?"
"Told you. The war's over. Hallelujah."
"Remo, did anything unusual happen out in the park?"
"Well, lemme see," Remo said slowly. "I can't think of anything except the yellow bomb."
"What yellow bomb?"
"You hung up before I could mention it last time. A black helicopter buzzed the Crater, dropped this thing that looked like a traffic light except all the lights were yellow and when it hit, everything turned really yellow."
"What do you mean-everything turned really yellow?"
"We were running away because we thought it was a bomb."