"What are you, color-blind?"
"Yes, I am color-blind."
The handicap turned out to be a blessing when the great balloons of the Beasley Company descended moments later.
Their effect was magical. Men lay down their arms and took up expressions of childlike wonder and awe when the cartoon faces showed themselves.
And everyone spoke of the impossible pink color of it all. Dominique saw only bright light tinged with dull gray. For all colors were shades of gray to her green eyes. In her heart she envied the Americans for their ability to become so childlike at what was after all a blatantly commercial spectacle.
But she had a mission to perform.
The balloons did not drop out of a clear sky, she knew. Someone had to guide them to their landing area. And Dominique Parillaud was determined to discover that someone.
For with the pressing crowd of soldiers in dark gray and light gray, and the outer ring of American TV reporters crowding close, it was impossible to reach the man she most wished to reach, Mickey Weisinger.
AS THEY WALKED BACK into the Petersburg National Battlefield, the Master of Sinanju was saying, "It was very understanding of you to accept Emperor Smith's explanations of his failure."
"I know he tried," Remo said unconcernedly. "Guess I have to give this back."
He pulled from his pocket a coffin-shaped white pill.
Chiun regarded it with quirking brows. "Smith's poison pill?"
"Yeah, remember I confiscated it last time out? Swore I wouldn't give it back until he dug up my past."
"You are very understanding today."
"That time Smitty had to erase his computer data bases when the IRS swooped down on Folcroft probably crippled his ability to do deep background searches like he used to."
"You are undoubtedly correct, my son."
"Thank you, Little Father."
As they walked they came to a place where a screen of trees obscured their view of the pink shine that lay over the battlefield like an angelic aura.
Remo's face abruptly darkened. "That damn Smith!" he said suddenly.
"Remo!"
"He had no intention of finding my folks. Never had."
"Remo, what has come over you?"
"When I see him again, I'm going to shake the lame excuses out of him, and then we'll see how motivated he is"
"You are very childish, you know that?" Chiun fumed. "One minute you are well behaved and then next you are throwing a temper tantrum like a spoiled child."
"You should talk."
"Me? I-"
They passed through the pines and came upon Crater Field again. The pink glow touched their face like an angel's kiss.
"I am sorry I raised my voice to you, Remo," Chiun said, suddenly mollified.
"And I am sorry I got out of line, Little Father. You know I think the world of you."
"And well you should," Chiun purred contentedly.
Remo spotted a figure in a slip dress and beret. "Hey, isn't that April May?"
"Yes, she is sneaking away."
"Smith said to find out what she knows. Why don't we follow her?"
They returned to the screen of pines, their feet not disturbing the brown carpet of needles any more than did the passing daddy longlegs spiders that patrolled the area.
As they blended into the intermittent shadows, becoming hunters again, their faces lost their placid cast and they became hard of eye. But they said nothing.
MARC MOISE couldn't for the life of him figure it out. As chief communications officer of Operation Crater, it was he who miked the battlefield so that all enemy operations could be monitored. He had planted the mikes personally. Video cameras were not an option. They were too big to hide in the treetops without running the risk of detection.
But when the balloons landed, they carried remote cameras, and Marc was busy monitoring the feeds from those.
That was the worst part. During the balloon launch, he had been preoccupied inside the mobile communications van parked down the highway. After the balloons had been launched, Bob Beasley had entered the van, saying "Carry on" in a gruff tone of voice entirely unlike his usual avuncular one.
But since he was practically Sam Beasley reincarnate, Marc Moise had carried on.
When the first video feeds came in, Marc duly taped them for later analysis and evaluation. They showed Mickey Weisinger giving the performance of his insincere life and winning the crowd over.
It was the lights. Marc didn't know how it was the lights. But he saw the way the crowd had turned-just as the crying faces of children changed for the better when Mongo or Dingbat or any of those other twodimensional idiot grins flashed their way.
As it happened, the seated figure of Bob Beasley chuckled from the other console. "Give an American kid a choice between the keys to the kingdom of heaven and two free tickets to Beasleyland, and the little bastards will snatch up the tickets nine times out of ten."
The voice didn't sound quite like Bob Beasley's, Marc thought as he struggled to catch every word coming through his earphones.
Then his heart jumped so high in his throat he opened his mouth to let it out.
Bob Beasley emerged from the Crater and gave the cheering soldiers a hearty wave of approval!
"But-" Morse sputtered.
A chill ran down his hunched-over spine. Something was not right here. Bob Beasley couldn't be out at the field. Bob Beasley was seated at his back.
Marc got a grip on himself. This was some fluke, some nutty glitch. Maybe the figure he was seeing was some animatronic robot. Maybe the situation was too dangerous to risk the real Bob Beasley, valuable corporate spokesman that he was, in the field, and that was a double waving to the crowd. Sure. A double. The guy snapping switches behind him was the authentic Bob Beasley. That was it.
But the body language of the man on the field was definitely that of Bob Beasley. No actor was that good. Not when playing to an ignorant audience.