Remo frowned. "I don't know a lot of languages."

  "Mine is a very fine language. 'Merry Christmas' is said this way-Boldog Kardcsony. "

  "I like plain old 'Merry Christmas' better. Let's find a place we can talk."

  "You may talk. I will listen attentively and absorb your words."

  "It's a start," said Remo.

  There was a NASA commissary and it was in full swing dispensing coffee and hot food to carry NASA employees through the long night. In all the controlled excitement, they were not noticed, never mind challenged.

  Over black coffee and mineral water-Remo had the water because caffeine affected his system the way speed affects an ordinary person's system-Remo let Kinga pepper him with questions.

  "What is your frank opinion concerning this catastrophe?" Kinga asked.

  "It wasn't Martians."

  "Who has said Martians?"

  "The press. You should know that."

  "There are no Martians, according to science."

  "That's my theory," said Remo, grinning.

  Mnga blinked. "What is your theory?"

  "That there are no Martians here or on Mars."

  "Yes. Of course. But what is your theory as to the shuttle disaster?"

  "Something unknown. Maybe an enemy nation."

  "Which is most likely?"

  Remo shrugged. "Search me. The Russians are pretty quiet these days. But it's somebody out to get our space program."

  "This is not logical," Kinga said flatly.

  "You got a better theory?" Remo asked.

  "The correct English is, 'Do you have a better theory?'"

  "Thank you for the elocution lesson," said Remo, wondering why the woman wasn't trying to flirt with him. He decided to start first, just to hone his flirting skills.

  "You are stepping on my toe," Kinga said firmly.

  "It's called playing footsies."

  "The correct term is 'foot.' Where were you educated, please?"

  "In an orphanage," Remo replied truthfully.

  "That is no excuse for not speaking your native tongue correctly. I myself speak three languages, including Russian."

  Withdrawing his foot, Remo said, "You're different than other women I usually meet."

  "I am Hungarian by birth."

  "Hungarian women all like you?"

  "How do you mean by this question?"

  "Never mind," said Remo, who decided that as dates went, Kinga Zongar was a wet firecracker. Finishing his water, he said, "Well, gotta get back to my investigation."

  Kinga stood up, flinging back her long tail of chestnut hair. "I will observe, if you do not mind."

  "If you can keep up, feel free," Remo said, thinking that, on the other hand, it was refreshing to meet a woman who wasn't scratching at his fly like a cat trying to come in on a cold night.

  "I can keep up," she said confidently.

  WHEN REMO FOUND the Master of Sinanju again, Chiun was moving through the press of technicians and middle managers in a posture that clearly told Remo that he was stalking someone.

  Remo fell in behind him, forgetting all about Kinga Zongar.

  In his dark suit, Chiun was a shadow with an instinct for other shadows. And with all the floodlights and flashlights, there were plenty of stark shadows between the patches of incandescent light.

  Remo moved more openly. Behind him, Kinga asked, "Who are you following?"

  "Do you see me following anyone?"

  "I see you following a person, but I do not see the person it is you are following."

  "If you could, I'd be worried."

  On the other side of the giant tower that was the launch-assembly building, Chiun paused.

  Remo came up behind him, and Chiun waved him to hold back. Of course, Chiun was aware of Remo, even if he had given no sign until now. He could sense a flea leaping at a hundred yards by the tiny sproing of its legs.

  Obediently Remo hung back. "What's up?" he called in a low, carrying tone that would register in Chiun's ears but no one else's.

  A thin squeak floated back. "I am following a Martian."

  "Where?"

  "If I knew the where, I would be ahead of him and await him at his destination, unsuspected," Chiun hissed back.

  Remo frowned. He sniffed the air. The only scent that came through the harsh tang of burned metals was human sweat and a faint whiff of what seemed to be chocolate.

  "To whom are you speaking?" asked Kinga, peering into the dark blots between shards of light.

  "And tell your Russian friend to hold her tongue," added Chiun.

  "She's-" Remo started to say.

  "Hungarian," Kinga said for him.

  Chiun turned, looked at Kinga squarely and sniffed the air delicately. "Russian. But one who has dwelt in this land many years."

  "Who said that?" asked Kinga, peering deeper into the shadows.

  "That patch of black up ahead," said Remo.

  "I see nothing in the patch."

  "You heard the voice?"

  "Yes. Of course. It sounded like Mickey the Mouse and Donald the Duck speaking in unison."

  "Let's hope he takes that as a compliment," said Remo.

  "I do not," the squeaking voice from the shadows returned.

  And suddenly Chiun was moving on.

  Remo slipped up behind him. It was then that he saw the object of the Master of Sinanju's interest.

  He looked like a NASA technician. He was stepping back, his head canted, his eyes fixed on the giant ruined transporter-crawler down the long road that stretched between the launch-assembly building and the forlorn tower that was the launch gantry. Clutched in his hand was a candy bar, still in its cream-colored wrapper. He nibbled at the exposed bar of chocolate as he surveyed the damage.

  "Nothing suspicious about this guy," Remo said quietly, joining the Master of Sinanju in the lee of a blob that still had a few half-smelted tractor treads sticking from it. It had been dragged here for examination.

  "He is a secret Martian agent," Chiun hissed.

  "What makes you say-?" Then Remo caught a glimpse of the candy wrapper. Too late to stop the Master of Sinanju, who flitted forward and seized the technician by one unsuspecting wrist.

  Chiun's hand clamped down as the technician sank to one knee, his face looking the way Remo imagined his own did when they threw the juice to him in the electric chair.

  He jumped, twisted and kept jittering as Chiun's voice lifted in an accusatory tone. "You have been captured, agent of Mars. Confess the name of your warlord, or perish on this spot."

  "What-"

  Remo stepped in at that moment, saying, "Chiun! Let him go."

  "He was sent here by the insidious Mars Incorporated-therefore, he knows what transpired here. Speak, alien one."

  The technician squealed like a speeded-up voice recording. "My name is Otis Mine. I'm from Boca Raton. And I don't know what you're talking about."

  Remo flashed his NTSB ID and said, "I think there's a little misunderstanding here."

  Chiun squeezed harder, and the man's eyes began to bug out. His face became purple and rubbery, his nostrils flaring.

  "Behold, his true countenance is revealing itself. See how the eyes protrude unhumanly?" Chiun said triumphantly.

  "You're doing that to him," Remo countered.

  "I am merely encouraging him to resume his normal appearance," Chiun returned.

  "He's going to need plastic surgery if you keep that up."

  Stooping, Remo picked up the dropped candy bar. He held it to the moonlight so the bold red letters were visible.

  "Is this your clue?" he asked Chiun.

  "Yes. This spy is on a world that is to him alien, and he must consume food from his home planet to survive."

  "Chiun, this is a Mars bar."

  "Yes. From Mars."

  "No, it's not."

  "Read the small print," Chiun sniffed.

  Remo did. "Says 'Copyright Mars Inc.'"

  "Proof!" said Chiun, giving his captured Martian another squeeze. He got even purpler.

  "Hackettstown, New Jersey," Remo finished. "I'm from New Jersey. And I'm not even remotely Martian."

  "Obviously, that refers to the Martian New Jersey."

  "There is no Martian New Jersey."

  "There is a Jupiter, Florida, is there not?" Chiun demanded.

  "But there's no Hackettstown, New Jersey, Planet Mars. Trust me, I used to eat these things when I was a kid."

  "That exact same?"

  "Well, the wrapper's different from what I remember."

  "Hah! Therefore, this is a shoddy counterfeit."

  "They're selling these over at the commissary. Okay?"

  Chiun narrowed his hazel eyes until they were unreadable slits.

  Gently Remo extracted the hapless technician from the Master of Sinanju's fierce clutch.

  "Misunderstanding. You can go now."

  "But we will be watching you," Chiun called after him in a cold voice.

  The NASA technician stumbled away.

  His hands retreating into the belled sleeves of his coat, Chiun regarded Remo with thin disapproval. His eyes flicked to Kinga. "Who is this?"

  "Kinga. She's a reporter."

  "Why is she following you?"

  "It's okay. She's the first woman in a zillion years who doesn't want to jump my bones."

  "I do not know this phrase," Kinga said. "What does it mean, please?"

  "Ya tebya lyublu, " said Chiun.

  "Prastee'te?" Kinga replied.

  Chiun leveled accusing eyes at Kinga. "She is Russian, not Hungarian."

  "I am Hungarian, but I speak fluent Russian."

  "Bocsanat," said Chiun.

  "Koszonom," replied Kinga. Then in English, "You speak Magyar?"

  "Obviously," said Chiun.

  "What's Magyar?" asked Remo.

  "The Hungarian national language," said Kinga.

  "I thought the Hungarian national language was Hungarian."

  "Only an American could be so ignorant not to know of Magyar," Kinga scoffed.

  "Well, Polish people speak Polish," Remo said.

  "That is a different matter entirely. Poles are Slavs."

  "How many fingers do I hold up?" asked Chiun, displaying four fingers.

  "Negy," said Kinga.

  "Not chety're?"

  "That is the Russian word. I will reply to your question in Russian if you wish."

  "You smell Russian. You smell of borscht and black bread."

  "I have eaten these foods, but not recently. I much prefer American foods exclusively since I come to this country. Especially Beeg Meks and chizburgers."

  "You will die young and in pain, then," spat Chiun.

  "Who is this fulminating little man?" Kinga asked Remo.

  "That's Chiun. My partner."

  "He is very unusual. Such frankness of speech to a stranger."

  Chiun made a nasal sound like a polite snort. He had the Mars bar and was examining it critically.

  "This is unfit for human consumption."

  "It's chocolate, caramel and nougat," Remo said.

  "Fit only for Martian stomachs."

  Remo sighed. "Look, we're getting nowhere at this rate. Let's get serious or get out of here. We've seen that whatever did this was the same thing that zapped the BioBubble."

  "What do you know of the BioBubble disaster?" asked Kinga suddenly.

  "That it was a mercy killing," said Chiun, bustling up. "What do you know of this, Russian?"

  "I am Hungarian," Kinga insisted.

  "Perhaps. Answer the question."

  "I am reporter. I am interested in your theory as to what force or agency is responsible for what has transpired here."

  "Martians," said Chiun, turning on his heel.

  Remo started after him, calling over his shoulder, "You coming or not?"

  "I am coming. I find you both very interesting."

  "That's a start," said Remo.

  "I do not understand you very well," Kinga said, a plaintive note coming into her cultured voice.

  "The feeling's mutual," returned Remo.

  "Men are from Mars, women are from Venus," sniffed Chiun. "And if you both are wise, you will remain in your own spheres."

  "I hear Mars needs women," countered Remo, grinning.

  Kinga fixed them with a look that could only be called askance.

  Chapter 18

  In a darkened Orlando hotel room, a roll of film was coming out of the portable developer. Once exposed, the film would have far-reaching geopolitical consequences, though no one would recognize this until it was too late to turn back the doomsday clock on humanity.

  Travis "Red" Rust took a jeweler's magnifying eyepiece to the contact sheet and was going through each shot looking for the best one.

  He got to shot thirteen, moved on, then jumped back so fast and hard he bruised his eye.

  When the tearing stopped, he looked at the image with his right eye, then the left, then the right again to make triply sure what he was looking at wasn't an emulsion glitch.

  Rust started to reach for the telephone, then thought better of it.

  "This is worth more to the networks than to that rag," he muttered. "It's red-hot."

  He got to work developing print thirteen.

  At the local CBS affiliate, the news director was having none of it. "It's a still picture. We're TV. We need tape. Still pictures make viewers reach for their clickers."

  "It shows the exact instant before the ray hit the Reliant," Red said urgently.

  "You got the moment of the explosion?"

  "No. But I got some great after shots. Shows the thing actually hissing and spitting like a volcano."

  "We might be able to use them. Leave them, and we'll get back to you."

  "It's the before shot that's important. Everyone knows the Reliant was torched. But no one know what did it. This picture may be the only clue."

  The news director got interested. Grabbing the picture, he looked at it and made assorted faces. "What am I looking for?"

  "Letters in the sky."

  He looked closer and saw the white configurations against the background star constellations just behind the Reliant.

  "Those?"

  "Yeah. See? They spell out a word, probably in an alien language."

  "Looks like plain English to me."

  "Look closer. The N is backward."

  "Okay, it's backward. And it's a little p not a big P. So what?"

  "But the M and the P face frontward," Rust said excitedly.

  "I repeat my so?"

  "That means it's not an M and a P. Not our M or P."

  "What are you saying, Rust?"

  "I think this is a signal from Mars."

  "Oh, get off it."

  "Okay, maybe not Mars, but some language from beyond our earth. Maybe this was a warning. Stop launching shuttles or you're all toast."

  The CBS news director cast a skeptical eye in Travis Rust's specific direction. "M, backward N and P say all that?"

  "They could," Rust said hopefully.

  "They could be the call letters for Martian TV, too.... Who did you say you work for, Rust?"

  "I'm free-lance," Rust said quickly.

  "Who's your best client?"

  Rust swallowed. "The Enquirer, " he admitted.

  Print thirteen went sailing toward the exit.

  "Follow it out. No sale."

  At the ABC and NBC affiliates, the doors were slammed in his face before Rust could barge past the lobby guards.

  "We were warned about you," he was told at both locations.

  That left Fox.

  At Fox, they were very interested. Very.

  "Our ratings on the alien-autopsy special were so high we had to show it all over again the next week," the Fox news broadcaster said gleefully as he shuffled through Rust's stack of photographs.

  "Then you'll take it?"

  "We've got a news organization now. Of course we'll take it. But it's gotta be a world Fox exclusive. And you come along as part of the package."

  "Package?"

  "These are stills. I need a talking-head expert to tell the story, and you're the only game in town."

  "Twenty thousand bucks," Rust said quickly.

  "Deal."

  Fox had a news special on the air within the hour. Travis Rust found himself happily sweating on national television, explaining what he was doing in the marshlands outside the Kennedy Space Center, what he saw, what he didn't see and his theory on the alien letters that appeared in the sky before an unknown power had puddled the orbiter Reliant.

  The program went out live, and Rust had visions of fame and fortune. Not to mention a career change. The media was always hungry for telegenic experts. Travis Rust would be only too happy to pontificate on the extraterrestrial threat to Earth-a subject on which he was an unqualified expert, having read the National Enquirer every week since 1984.

  That was before the three men in the charcoal black suits and impenetrable sunglasses burst in on midtelecast and confiscated every photo in sight. Travis Rust, too.

  "Who are you people?" the hapless interviewer was saying as Rust was picked up by his elbows and escorted off camera with his shoe heels barely dragging the floor.

  "Government agents," one of the trio barked, failing to display ID.

  "They're the men in black!" Travis Rust screamed. "They cover up stuff like this!"

  The newscaster followed with a microphone. "What?"

  "My Enquirer editor will know! Tell him what happened here!"

  And that was the last the public saw of Travis Rust until the world had been dragged to the brink and beyond.

  Chapter 19

  Dr. Harold W Smith was toiling under the shaky fluorescent lights of Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York. His computer beeped at him, alerting him of a mission-pertinent story moving on the wire.

  It was out of AP. They were carrying a report that Fox TV was broadcasting a live interview with a news photographer who had snapped critical shots of the Reliant disaster.

  The touch of a hot-key transformed Smith's amber monochrome screen into a color TV set. He got the local Fox affiliate by entering another code.

  The picture resolved just as Travis Rust was being escorted from the studio by three faceless men in dark sunglasses and dull black business suits, calling out something about men in black.

  "What are men in black?" Smith wondered aloud.

  Putting the question aside, he watched as the stammering Fox broadcaster tried to fill the dead air now that he was alone in the studio facing an empty guest's chair that still spun from the velocity with which Travis Rust had been taken away.