Having come to an understanding, Chiun asked if there was gossip of a white American having returned to Vietnam.
The village elder pretended to ponder Chiun's request, and made a show of searching his memory. But Chiun could tell by the gleam in his eyes that he had the answer at once. But the night was young and why speed through gossip when, with some thoughtful pauses, socializing could be stretched far, and more rice wine could be consumed?
Chiun waved the proffered cup of rice wine aside, pretending that he was not thirsty.
At length the elder, whose name was Ngo, spoke. "There are stories of a white American causing havoc along the Kampuchean border. No one can catch this American. They seek and seek him. But he is not to be found. No one knows his purpose here. Some say openly that it is a prelude to the return of the American military. "
"You believe this?"
"No. The Americans are long gone. Although I would not be displeased at their return. Things are not good under the Communists."
"European ideas are always backward," said Chiun. And Ngo nodded sagely. It was good when two wise men came together like this, he thought, even though one of them was a mere Korean.
After more talk, Chiun declined the further hospitality of the village. He left Ngo at the edge of the village, saying, "I hope you will not be troubled by the dismembering of the soldiers of your village."
"They sneak food and try to take advantage of the women. They will not be missed by us, and tomorrow there will be two more just like them, wearing the same clothes and spouting the same revolutionary nonsense. "
"Perhaps when the Communists die off, three or four centuries hence," said Chiun, "one of your descendants may call upon one of mine for service. The era of the Ammamese kings ended young and with its true glory unfulfilled. "
"I will pass your wish along to my grandson, and he to his," promised Ngo.
And Chiun took his leave of the village, content that he had planted the seeds for future employment in a market long disowned by his recent ancestors. Perhaps, he thought, some good might come of Remo's disobedience after all.
Chapter 16
Night fell with the guillotine suddenness of Vietnam.
Remo had left the main road. He jockeyed the tank over a low hill and onto a cratered road going north. From what Lan had told him, they were working up the Vietnamese-Cambodian border. Remo still had no idea where he was or what he should be doing. They had found a manioc field at midday, and cooked the sweet-potato-like vegetables in a Vietnamese pith helmet, but even a full stomach hadn't cleared Remo's mind.
The area was alive with patrols. But most of them ignored the tank, thinking it occupied by Vietnamese. Once, they were sniped at by peasants in black pajamas, who had only pistols and bolt-action rifles. They looked like VC, but Lan had explained that they were Cambodian peasants who fought the Vietnamese.
The whole world had been turned upside down. And Remo didn't know where in it he belonged anymore. Lan was driving the tank. Remo was nerve-tired, and took the time to show her how to operate the clanking machine. He curled up in the back and tried to sleep. Lan's whispered call snapped him awake.
"What?" Remo mumbled. His head felt drowsy.
"Strange man in middle of road. What I do?"
"Soldier?"
"No. Old man."
"Go around him."
"Cannot. Him block whole road."
"The entire road?" Remo repeated incredulously. "Who is he-old King Kong?"
"I try to turn. He step in way. I go other way. He always there."
"I'll scare him off," said Remo, grabbing his AK-47 and climbing up the turret. He popped the hatch and poked his head out.
The tank clattered to a halt.
The man couldn't have been much more than five feet tall. He was old, with a shiny head decorated with little puffs of hair over each ear. He wore a gaudy skirted outfit that Remo had never seen on a Vietnamese before. Lan poked her head up beside Remo's.
"Is he a priest or something?" Remo asked quietly.
"Not know. Never see one like him."
"Tell him to get out of the way."
"Step aside, old man," Lan called in Vietnamese. The old Oriental rattled back words in sharp Vietnamese.
"What'd he say?" Remo asked.
"He want to know if we've seen an American." Remo pulled his helmet lower over his head.
"Ask him why."
"Why you seek an American?" Lan asked.
The old man squeaked back and Lan translated. "He say that his business, not ours."
"Tell him to get out of the way, or be run over," Remo said, disappearing below. He got behind the handlebarlike lateral controls and started the tank up. He inched it forward.
The old man stepped toward him. Remo shifted the tank right. The old Oriental shifted in tandem. "What's his problem?" Remo muttered.
Lan called down, "He says he wants a ride. He's tired of walking."
"Tell him to screw off."
"Tell him to what?"
"Never mind," Remo sighed, grabbing up his rifle. "There's only one way to convince him we mean business. "
Remo popped the driver's hatch and stepped to the front of the tank. The old Oriental stood, arms tucked in voluminous sleeves, directly in front and beneath him.
Remo pointed the rifle at his stern, wrinkled face. "Get lost," he said.
The Oriental's face suddenly lost its impassive demeanor.
"You," he shouted in squeaky, angry English. "Liar! Deceiver! You would do this to your own father? How could you leave me after I gave my word to your emperor?"
Surprised, Remo lowered his rifle.
"Who's he talking to, you or me?" he asked Lan.