And the word back from Vanaheim was, "You are sanctioned to self-destruct. Initiate countdown."
"I'm not dying for my job," Rod had snapped over the satellite uplink.
"If you're captured, they'll prosecute you under a zillion French laws. You invented the hypercolor laser."
"I didn't order it installed all over this white elephant! I was just following orders."
"Tell it to a French magistrate."
"I will, because I don't plan on dying."
"This is disloyalty and punishable by termination."
"Duck you. I just declined to commit suicide for the company. I'm not exactly about to change my mind to hold on to my job."
"That is not what we mean by termination."
"Blowing myself and Euro Beasley to smithereens is not in my job description."
"We pay excellent survivor benefits."
Rod sighed. "My cats will be delighted. Now, let's get real, shall we? What's plan B?"
"Defend our hypercolor technology at all costs. It must not fall into unfriendly bands. We have loose ends and damage control to do back here. Once we're done, we'll extract you."
"How do I know you're not hanging me out to dry?"
"You could implicate the company."
"True..." Rod said slowly. "Tell you what, you fax me a release on the TV remote finder, and I'll stick it out as long as I can."
"Robber," growled the voice of Bob Beasley.
"Takes one to know one," said Rod, who knew he had the company by its ratlike tail.
The fax arrived within fifteen minutes, and after he had read the fine print, Rod called Vanaheim back.
"It's a deal. Don't keep me waiting too long, okay?"
For twenty-four hours it had not been bad. The French had given up after the first two assaults. Every time they showed signs of advancing, Rod activated the low-power pink periphery light. That made them grin and purr and try to lick the pink air as if it were cotton candy. It also forced the French field commanders to rotate their troops every few hours.
Now, according to the radio they had the park under what was being called cultural quarantine. It was a perfect standoff.
Then the two Americans showed up and made mincemeat of the Mesozoic Park population.
It was patently impossible. It was true that as dinosaurs went, the animatronic constructs weren't exactly perfect. They tended to stumble a lot, and the complex software that controlled their movements got their commands fouled up sometimes. Either that or some joker had deliberately installed a cannibalize program.
Still, they were several tons of mobile metal monster. They should have flattened the skinny white guy and the old Asian. Flattened them dead.
Unfortunately it had been the other way around. And now the unstoppable duo was creeping through Mesozoic Park, and Rod Cheatwood had a pretty damn good idea where they were headed.
The access tunnel to Utilicanard.
As the first droplets of cold sweat began popping out on his forehead, Rod Cheatwood went to check the generator.
There was enough power for a fast hypercolor pulse, he found. Maybe two or three if it wasn't juice-sucking Optired or Supergreen.
"Okay, let's see if you guys can take it as well as you can dish it out."
And Rod Cheatwood reached for a joystick that sat above a brass plate reading Supersaurus.
"UH-OH," SAID REMO, looking up through the trees. "More company."
The helicopter looked like a prehistoric dragonfly skimming low over the treetops. It circled, whipped up the plastic ferns and settled in a clear patch by a stagnant pool of plastic algae.
Out stepped the French agent they knew as Avril Mai. She advanced with her nose in the air and her cold green gaze fixing them.
"I see someone has wiped ze vomit from your sorry faces," she said haughtily.
"Have a care how you address the Master of Sinanju, Frankish wench," warned Chiun.
Avril Mai stopped dead in her tracks. The ice in her eyes seemed to shatter in shock.
"You are not-I mean, do you claim ze title of Master of Sinanju?"
"Does the sun claim to shine?" Chiun retorted coldly.
Avril Mai lost her color. Her face became slack. She made a red O with her mouth, and it began contorting into ovals and hoops of uncertainty. "Wha-what is your mission here?" she demanded at last.
"Tell us yours and we might tell you ours," said Remo casually.
"Nevair!"
"Suit yourself. C'mon, Little Father, we have things to do."
They started off. Avril Mai hurried to catch up. She wore a formfitting taupe unitard and a black balaclava rolled up on her head like a knit cap.
"I am coming with you," she said.
Remo noticed the balaclava. "Lose your beret?"
"Parisians do not wear berets except in stupid Americain cartoons. My beret was a disguise."
"Tell that to the troops camped outside the gates," said Remo.
"Zat is different. Zey are military men."