"Are you certain?" Smith asked.
"I've got the real-time satellite feed on my monitor right now," Howard said. He spun his feet into the footwell of his desk. The image of the Grappler updated at twenty-second intervals. As he spoke, the old picture was eclipsed by the newest snapshot. "If you can get access to Spacetrack, you'll see what I'm seeing."
Howard heard some rapid tapping from Smith's end of the line. It was more precise than drumming fingers. If he was typing, he didn't have a standard keyboard.
The tapping stopped.
"This is not clear enough," General Smith complained.
"I enlarged the image, sir. It is your boat," Howard insisted.
As he spoke, Howard was stunned to see the image on his own screen enlarge. The larger image of the Radiant Grappler II came into starkly clear focus, much clearer than any photographic reproduction.
Howard stared at his computer in disbelief. Not only had he not touched his keyboard, his system shouldn't have been capable of enlarging a real-time satellite feed.
General Smith was accessing the Spacetrack data through Howard's own computer.
On his monitor, the bird's-eye photo of the Radiant Grappler II showed the ship continuing its remorseless trek across the cold Atlantic.
Howard bit the inside of his cheek. This was all too weird. "General, may I ask what this is all about?" he ventured hesitantly.
But the nasal voice on the phone acted as if he hadn't even spoken.
"Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Howard," General Smith said.
The line promptly went dead. A moment later, the image of the Earthpeace ship vanished from Howard's computer screen. When he checked, Howard found that his uplink to the Spacetrack system had been severed.
Howard leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms thoughtfully. He stared at his monitor for a long time without actually seeing it. Even when the screen saver came on, he didn't notice.
"Interesting" was all he said after many pensive minutes. The word was a soft murmur.
He picked up the CD on which he'd downloaded the satellite data. Fingering it for a few lingering seconds, he finally slipped it into a plastic jewel case. When he stored the disc far back in his desk drawer, there was a thoughtful expression on his pale face.
He closed the drawer with a muted click.
REMO'S PLANE from San Francisco had taken them as far as New York. He and Chiun had boarded the first direct flight from JFK to South Africa.
They were well into the second leg of their journey when Remo felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. Since the start of his Sinanju training, he'd had a problem with women finding him irresistible. Flight attendants were always the worst.
Although he had discovered a few years ago that shark meat was a natural inhibitor to his pheromones, he hadn't had any in days. Obviously, the effects of his last shark meal were wearing off.
As the stewardess persisted in tapping his shoulder, Remo feigned sleep.
"Excuse me, sir?" she pressed. Her breath was warm and close and smelled strongly of peppermint. Remo kept his eyes twisted shut. "Can't talk. Sleeping."
It didn't work. She gripped his shoulder and shook.
"Sir?"
From the seat beside Remo, the Master of Sinanju snorted impatiently.
"Answer it or it will not go away."
This irritated Remo even more. He was already ticked at Chiun for taking so long to get upset about the whole Mr. Chin fiasco. Now, after pretending to sleep practically the whole way from California to the middle of the Atlantic, the old crank roused himself just long enough to drag Remo into a conversation with some sex-crazed flight attendant.
"Thanks a heap, Chiun," Remo growled. Thinking foul thoughts of the Master of Sinanju, he turned a baleful eye on the woman.
Everything about her that would traditionally be considered attractive in the female form had been inflated to near-comic proportions. Her lips, hair and nails were huge. As she leaned into his seat, her massive breast implants threatened to put out his eyes.
"In the event of a water landing, do those things double as flotation devices?" he asked, his voice devoid of any trace of enthusiasm.
"Hmm?" she smiled. She didn't seem to hear him. "I'm terribly sorry to wake you, sir," the woman cooed in a sweetly Southern drawl, "but you have a call." She nodded apologetically to the seat phone in front of Remo.
"Oh," Remo grumbled, inwardly relieved.
But when he reached for the phone, a pair of soft, scented hands grabbed hold of his.
"Why, was there something else you wanted?" the stewardess asked coyly. She caressed his wrist lovingly.
"The use of my hand will be just fine," he replied.
"In due time, sugar," she purred. "When I'm through with it."
"I am going to be ill," the Master of Sinanju said from the adjacent seat.
"No comments from the peanut gallery," Remo growled. He pulled his hand from the woman's strong grip.
The flight attendant's face clouded.
"But it's my job to make you happy," she said, pouting.
"I'm plenty happy," Remo said, snapping up the phone.
Chiun snorted.
"I don't want to lose my job," the woman whined. "I refuse to leave till you let me do what I'm paid for." She crossed her arms over her massive, artificial pontoons.
"Remo?" the confused voice of Harold Smith asked over the seat phone.
"In a minute, Smitty," Remo said. He clapped the phone to his chest. "You know what I want?" he asked the morose stewardess.
Her cloud of dejection broke. Hope sprang anew on her makeup-slathered face.
"Me?" she sang. "You know, these seats recline."
She bent to show him.