“We want black professors in every department.”

  “We’ve got them,” President McHale said.

  “Tokens,” Vishnu said. “Meaningless tokens. What about Agent Orange?”

  “What about it?”

  “What have you done about it?” Vishnu demanded.

  “We’ve kept it off campus,” McHale said.

  “Words. More words. What about dioxin?”

  “What the hell have we got to do with dioxin?” McHale demanded.

  “What did you ever do about it?”

  “What did you ever do about it?”

  “I’m not on trial here,” Vishnu said.

  “I didn’t know I was either,” McHale said.

  “What about AIDS?”

  “Campus health center’s got a program.”

  “More words. Just words,” Vishnu said. “All that’s necessary for evil to triumph is for people like you to do nothing.”

  “What do you want me to do?” McHale asked.

  “It is not for us to dictate your responses.”

  “Since when? You try to dictate everything else.”

  Smith had heard enough. He turned back to the young woman. “Where is Robin?” he asked.

  “She wanted to be with us today, but she had other business.”

  Smith was reminded of reluctant generals in World War II who were always bemoaning the fact that they wouldn’t be able to go over the top with their men when the shooting started.

  “What business?” Smith asked. “I thought everything she did was here.”

  “Robin’s a leader,” the young woman said. “She’s got organizations all over the country. Not just this one. We’re small.”

  The student leader turned his back on President McHale and pulled a paper from his pocket. He looked at the students massed a few yards away from him, then turned back to the college president.

  “Our leader,” Vishnu said, “warned us of this. She said and she told me to repeat it to you: that this fascistic, imperialistic, genocidal college administration…”

  McHale snapped, “What genocidal, for Christ’s sake? This is Minnesota. What genocide?”

  “You’ll find out when the war crimes tribunal convenes.”

  “What war crimes? What war?”

  “Crimes against Mother Earth; crimes against humanity in the never-ending war between evilness and rightness.”

  “Oh, go fuck a grass-filled duck,” the college president said and stomped away, back toward the national guardsmen still standing impassively along the front of his mansion.

  Vishnu turned toward the rest of the students. From this vantage point, Smith could see that Vishnu dyed his thinning hair to cover the gray.

  “Our leader warned that this genocidal, fascistic college would not listen to our just pleas,” Vishnu said. “And she gave me this to read to you.” He cleared his throat and began to read.

  “‘I had so wanted to be with you today when the forces of all that is good on earth confront the forces of all that is evil and sick in evil and sick America. I cannot be here, but you must carry on as if I was.

  “‘There comes a time in the lives of all when they must stand for freedom. Cowards might cry peace at any price but the brave and those who would be truly free in this evil nation know that there are times when one must fight to secure persondom’s rights. In the interests of ERA, in the battle against dioxin and Agent Orange and other terrible poisons being injected into our bodies without our consent, in the fight against genocide against our yellow brothers, black brothers, and our Third World brothers, who hold the moral hopes of all mankind, we must never surrender. We must stand and fight. We must let our wisdom and our love shine through.’”

  Vishnu looked up and put the paper back inside his shirt.

  “Will we be poisoned?” he yelled.

  “No,” the students roared.

  “Will we kill as they want us to be killers?”

  “No,” came another roar.

  “Will we surrender to this fascist regime, a representative on our beloved campus of an even more fascist regime in Washington?”

  “No, no, no,” came back the roars.

  “Will we fill the world with our love?” Vishnu yelled.

  “Yes.”

  Vishnu turned and looked at the college president’s home, then raised his arm over his head like a wagon master and brought it down, pointing toward the mansion.

  “Then let’s trash this fucking dump,” Vishnu yelled.

  Rocks suddenly began to fly toward the guardsmen standing near the mansion. The young woman next to Smith tossed her rock, with an obscene curse, then pulled more from the pockets of her jeans. She handed one to Smith.

  “Here. You too. From the goodness of the earth.”

  “Thank you,” Smith said. He held the rock in his hand. No one was paying any attention to him. They were tossing rocks and screaming, the crowd taking on a life of its own, seeming to swell, then recede, swell, then recede, like an engine pumping its way up to top running speed. It was only a few moments, Smith thought, before they had worked themselves up into enough of a frenzy to storm the building. And maybe those inexperienced guardsmen facing them might just fire those guns. The guardsmen were now wincing and dodging as rocks began to strike them.

  Vishnu was waving his arm in circles about his head. Smith saw his throat muscles working. The next thing would be a command to charge.

  Smith backed off two steps, fired his rock, and walked away through the crowd. Behind him, he heard a groan. He felt the students surge past him, moving forward. Twenty yards away, he turned around.

  His stone had hit the mark. Vishnu lay on the grass, unconscious, students kneeling around him, ministering to him. On the steps of his home, President McHale nodded, and an ambulance sped forward to take God to a hospital. Campus police came out of the presidential mansion and in the confusion began breaking the students up into small, manageable groups, and then dispersing them.

  And Smith walked away. His tape recorders had said that “B” was in charge of the murder plans. “B” for Birdie? Robin Feldmar’s students called her “Birdie.”

  He went back to the professor’s locked office. Dr. Robin Feldmar, director, department of computer science. When he was sure no one was in the hall to watch, he slammed the heel of his shoe against the hollow-core door, and it sprang open as the flimsy wood of the frame gave way.

  There was a pistol in the back of Robin Feldmar’s center desk drawer. Neatly arranged on a piece of paper were two chewed pieces of gum. Apparently, Robin Feldmar chewed gum and then saved it for later. There was no address book, no appointment book, but there was a small handwritten memo.

  United Airlines, 9 A.M. to New York. Earth Goodness. See Mildred.

  Smith left the campus for the airport.

  Back to New York. And when he let his thoughts get off Robin Feldmar for a moment, he found himself looking forward to seeing Mildred Pensoitte again.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE DUTCHMAN OPENED HIS EYES, frightened. Above him was smooth rock. The place he was in was fragrant. Cool cloths covered his forehead and neck. A thin, long-fingered hand brought a wooden ladle of water to his lips. He tried to push it away but was too weak. He drank.

  Squinting to focus, he made out the wrinkled, frowning old Oriental face above him with its hazel eyes and white hair.

  “Chiun,” he whispered.

  “Can you hear?”

  The Dutchman nodded.

  “You have been unconscious for several days. You must try to eat.” Chiun brought over a bowl of rice mixed with warm tea and held it out to him.

  “Why do you offer me food?” the Dutchman asked, straining to raise his head.

  Chiun propped a pillow of hops and dried leaves behind his patient. “Because you are hungry.”

  The young man brought the bowl to his lips, his hands shaking. Chiun steadied them with his own.

  “You are a fool. Don’t you know who I am?”

  “You have not changed so much, Jeremiah. I can guess why you have come.” Chiun set down the bowl beside him.

  “And you think, I suppose, that I will spare your life for a bowl of rice?”

  “No,” Chiun said softly.

  The Dutchman let his head fall back on the pillow. “So you plan to kill me while I am too weak to use my powers. You have some sense, at least.”

  “I cannot.”

  The Dutchman’s eyes flashed. “What will you do with me?”

  “I will care for you until you are well.” He brought over a basin of cold water and changed the towels on the Dutchman’s head. There was a long silence.

  “Why?” he asked, searching the old man’s face.

  Chiun shook his head. “I fear you would not understand.”

  H’si T’ang walked inside the cave, a basket of herbs in his hands.

  “Who is that?” the Dutchman asked.

  Chiun looked to his old teacher, afraid for him. “No one you need to know,” he said.

  But the blind man shuffled forward. “I am H’si T’ang,” he said.

  “H’si T’ang, the healer?”

  “So they once called me.”

  “You are blind.”

  The old Master nodded. “In one way.”

  “It is said you can see the future. Why did you not set a trap for me?”

  H’si T’ang looked at him sadly. “My son, there is none living who is more trapped than you.”

  “Go away!” the Dutchman shouted hoarsely, his thin face ravaged. “I have no need of your useless ministrations. Or the feeble philosophies of a blind old relic. I have come to kill you, and when I am able, I will kill you. I promise that!” He shivered, his teeth chattering.

  H’si T’ang turned his back and walked away. Silently Chiun covered the Dutchman with a thin blanket.

  “Leave me, I said!” His eyes were squeezed shut in a grimace. A tear trickled over the skin of his temple into his hair.

  Chiun left his side, and the Dutchman slept.

  He awoke after nightfall. His eyes adjusted automatically to the darkness of the cave. He tested his fingers. They worked. The rice had given him enough strength to move. He pushed aside the damp rags on his forehead. There was no fever now.

  The blind one was gone. Chiun sat a few feet away in lotus position, his eyes closed. Watching him, the Dutchman carefully removed the blanket that covered him and rose. The Oriental didn’t awaken.

  He stole toward the sleeping figure with movements so controlled that even the air around him was not disturbed. Then, bending low, he prepared his attack.

  Chiun’s eyes opened wide. There was not a trace of grogginess or confusion in them. Expectant, alert, knowing, they seemed to take in the Dutchman’s very thoughts at a glance.

  The Dutchman stopped, his jaw dropping.

  “Why do you hesitate?” Chiun said sharply.

  The Dutchman felt his breathing come faster. “I—I—”

  “Can you kill only sleeping victims? Have you been reduced to that?”

  The Dutchman backed away, trembling. “It would have been easier,” he said. “Master, I do not wish to kill you.” It was a cry of desperation. “But I must. It was my vow to Nuihc. While you live, I will never find rest. It was his curse upon me.”

  “Nuihc lied to you. You will not find the peace you seek by killing me.”

  “You are wrong,” he said passionately. “He will free me then. I will be permitted to die.”

  Chiun looked at the miserable, thin man with his hunched shoulders. He remembered that he had once been a beautiful youth with a quick, fine mind and hands as fast as the wind.

  “Even then, you wanted to die,” Chiun said absently. “Did you never try to end your life?”

  The Dutchman laughed, the sound thin and bitter. “I cannot count the times. But it won’t let me, this—” He pounded his chest with his fist as if it were a distasteful alien thing.

  “The power,” Chiun said.

  “It is a greater curse than the fires of hell. It will only leave me after your death.”

  Chiun shook his head sadly. “Nuihc knew that you were born with abilities beyond the scope of others. By not teaching you to control your power, he guessed that it would drive you to fulfill his purpose. He tricked you, Jeremiah. There will be no rest for you. The power is too strong by now.”

  “Liar!” His arm struck out at Chiun. The attack was swift, with the perfect form Chiun remembered. At the moment before the side of his hand made contact with the old Oriental’s face, he screamed and lurched backward, off balance. Aghast, he looked up. Behind Chiun, in a low doorway leading to an adjoining chamber of the cave, stood the blind H’si T’ang. The old man stood stock still, his face expressionless.

  “The power.” the Dutchman whispered. “You have it, too.”

  H’si T’ang turned and walked back into the shadows, his hands clasped together.

  The Dutchman’s eyes remained fixed on the spot where the old man had stood. “But it has not…”

  “Destroyed him?” Chiun finished. “No. He has not used it as you have.”

  The young man’s eyes widened in pain. “You mean it was not necessary…I could have…”

  “It is too late to think of those things now,” Chiun said gently.

  The Dutchman swallowed. All the suffering, for nothing! It could have been prevented. The power could have been controlled, the beast silenced.

  “Nuihc knew?” he asked numbly.

  “Yes,” Chiun said. “He knew. I am sorry.”

  The young man staggered backward toward the cave entrance, brushing the back of his hand across his eyes. “You were stupid to let me live,” he said brokenly. “I am not strong enough to kill you now, but I will be soon. And then I will come back for you. I’ll kill you then, old man, do you understand? I’ll kill you.”

  He rushed out into the night.

  H’si T’ang emerged. “You have done a good job of nursing our visitor,” he said, smiling. “My poor powers were strained nearly to breaking just to halt his attack on you. I am too old to attempt these exertions. The boy is stronger than he believes.”

  “He knows how strong he is,” Chiun said. “He could have attacked me again after you left. Or he could have used his powers against me. He spared my life because I spared his.” He looked toward the cave entrance. “The pity is that he was born to be a decent man. Even Nuihc’s evil could not erase all his decency.”

  “Will he not return?”

  “Oh, he will return.” Outside, he heard the Dutchman’s careless, stumbling footfalls. “You see, he believes that killing me is his only chance to find peace. He cannot accept that he has no chance at all.”

  H’si T’ang lit a candle for Chiun’s benefit, and the two Masters drank tea. For a long time, past many miles, Chiun could still hear the Dutchman, weeping.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  NUIHC, YOU COULD HAVE helped me.

  The Dutchman stumbled across the sandy, grass-tufted earth, oblivious to the deep snake holes. He just wanted to run, to crawl into the night like a small blind animal.

  I thought of you as my father. I spent my life trying to please you.

  He had learned the exercises Nuihc had given him. He had practiced until his fingers were bloody and his body ached for months on end. He had been both son and servant to the dark-eyed man who had said he came to save him. And the whole time, he now realized, Nuihc had seen Jeremiah’s torment as the boy struggled with the extraordinary mental gift he had been born with, and had ignored it.

  Nuihc knew how to control the beast. And he never told me.

  He draped himself over a boulder and cried.

  But the old man had the power, too.

  He raised his head. He wasn’t the only one. H’si T’ang’s old body housed a beast, too, only he could control it. Maybe the old man’s power wasn’t as strong as his own, but the fact was, it belonged to him. The beast didn’t own H’si T’ang.

  Was it possible? The Dutchman sat up slowly, his senses tingling. Could he, too, learn how to use his gift only when he decided? It would take effort, and time…

  His mind raced. He was sane now. Otherwise, he could never have walked out of the cave without lashing out at Chiun with the power. It was the first time he’d felt sane since before the incident with the girl in the Russian forest. It must have been the long rest, or Chiun’s care, or the atmosphere of the cave itself. Whatever it was, though, it would pass quickly. He knew his beast. It would not leave him alone for long.

  Think. Think quickly, while you have time.

  Maybe Chiun was right. Nuihc had deceived him about his power. Maybe his promise that the Dutchman would find rest after killing Chiun was just another lie. In the past, killing had only led the Dutchman to more killing. The destructive power fed on itself. With each murder, the need for others grew in him. Why should it be any different with Chiun, who had saved his life and above all others that deserved to live?

  If he could just go away somewhere, think, study. He had lived a lifetime of spartan discipline. Surely, with time, he could confront the beast and tame it. Surely…

  He heard the commands of a North Korean patrol as they tramped over a hill. Maneuvers, he guessed. There were only six of them, carrying weapons and dressed in combat fatigues. He crouched on the ground, waiting for them to pass, but they spotted him.

  “You there!” the leader called.

  No. Not now, the Dutchman thought. I must be left alone now. The time was too short. He had to escape with the beast still in its flimsy cage.

  “Your papers, please,” the leader of the patrol snapped, approaching him.

  “I don’t—”

  “No papers? What is your purpose here?”

  The Dutchman stepped backward slowly. He closed his eyes. The colors…“Leave me,” he said, choking.

  The leader laughed harshly. “Arrogant white dung. What makes you think you can walk around with no identification? Filthy spy.” He shoved the Dutchman. “You’re coming with us.”

  He shook. The colors were brighter. Wild, frightening music sang in his ears. His vision clouded, then sprang into sharp, brilliant focus.