He unlocked his attaché case with the small brass key he kept pinned to the fabric of an inside jacket pocket. From the case, he took a small round device that looked, in shape, like a two-inch-thick slab cut from a piece of liverwurst. It was an invention of his own design. On the top of the device were keys, marked with letters and numbers, and when he telephoned into the computers at Folcroft, he could spell out questions, and they would answer back, by electronic signals, depressing the printing keys, and the answer would be recorded on micro-thin paper stored inside the unit.

  The phone was a pushbutton telephone with several lines. It didn’t matter. Even if Mildred should pick up an extension in her bedroom, all she would hear would be electronic tones.

  Smith dialed the local access code for the Folcroft computers. He had recently improved the design of his telephone system so now it was possible to reach his computers through a local call from anywhere in the United States. It gave him the freedom to use a borrowed telephone and make sure there would be no record on the monthly bill of what number had been called. He knew, sadly, that he would never be able to get Remo to use the system. It required remembering numbers, and Remo had no ability and even less desire to remember anything. It had taken him five years to learn the 800 area code number he now used, and Smith thought it was better to leave things alone.

  He dialed CURE’s local number. The telephone buzzed, and then there was silence as the computers activated the telephone line. They made no sound, and Smith knew he had exactly fifteen seconds to press in his personal identification code before the line went dead.

  He held the small round unit over the telephone mouthpiece and depressed the buttons M-C-3-1-9. There was an answering beep through the earpiece. The computer had received the code and was awaiting Smith’s instructions.

  He tapped out on the small hand-held sender:

  LATEST REPORT ON INTERCEPTED TRANSMISSIONS.

  He could feel the unit in his hand whir as different electronic circuits were being triggered, then a small sheet of heat-sensitive paper emerged from one end of the unit. When the whirring stopped, he read it.

  LATEST TRANSMISSION INTERCEPTED AT 6 P.M. READS "THIS IS B. I WILL KILL PRESIDENT IMMEDIATELY UPON HIS RETURN."

  B? Smith thought. But B was dead. Robin Feldmar, Birdie, had been dead several hours before 6 P.M.

  He tapped into the telephone:

  ASSUMED B WAS ROBIN FELDMAR. FELDMAR DIED AT 4 P.M. TODAY. CONCLUSION?

  The machine responded instantly:

  CONCLUSION, FELDMAR NOT B. B HAS PERSONAL ACCESS TO COMPUTER MESSAGE SYSTEM. B SENT MESSAGE PERSONALLY.

  Smith asked:

  COULD MAIN COMPUTER SYSTEM BE LOCATED AT DU LAC COLLEGE, MINNESOTA?

  The machine waited several minutes before responding.

  AFFIRMATIVE. CONCLUSION CHECKED. COMPUTER IS AT DU LAC. CAN BE REACHED FROM ANYWHERE BY TELEPHONE HOOKUP.

  Smith asked:

  WHO ARE RECIPIENTS OF B’S MESSAGES?

  The computer responsed:

  NOW CHECKING POTENTIAL HOOKUPS OF DU LAC COMPUTER WITH OTHER MAJOR SYSTEMS.

  Smith asked:

  HOW LONG WILL IT TAKE?

  The answer: THREE HOURS.

  DO IT FASTER, Smith wrote.

  THREE HOURS, the computer stubbornly replied.

  Smith thought for a moment, then tapped on the machine’s keyboard:

  CAN YOU PLANT MESSAGE INTO DU LAC SYSTEM BY OVERRIDE?

  YES

  Smith tapped:

  PLANT THIS INFORMATION. THE TRAITOR INSIDE EARTH GOODNESS SOCIETY IS HARRY SMITH. A NEW EMPLOYEE.

  WILL DO AS SOON AS THIS CIRCUIT IS CLEARED, the computer replied.

  OUT. M-C-3-1-9, Smith typed and even as he depressed the last digit, the telephone went dead as the computer cut the connection.

  He threw the message paper into the wastebasket. Already its edges were turning dark, and in no more than a minute, the paper would turn totally black. A minute after that, it would disintegrate into powder.

  Smith put his telephone device back into his briefcase and carried it over to the couch. He took out his revolver, then locked the case, put it on a chair, and covered it with his suit jacket. He put the gun on the floor under the sofa, then lay down to rest.

  The die was cast. In a few hours or a few minutes, the assassin inside Earth Goodness would know Smith was an enemy and would be coming for him. And Smith would know in three hours who the assassins were working for. Who wanted the president dead.

  He felt a tingle at the base of his spine. There was danger ahead of him. He knew that, but he felt the excitement of the doer. He could take care of the danger, and he could take care of the threat to the president, and, yes, he could take care of the threat to Mildred Pensoitte.

  The thought of the Englishwoman flashed, unbidden, into his mind. Lying in her bed, the skin of her throat creamy white in the dim light of the reading lamp, her arms extended to him in invitation, a smile on her face. He had never had cause before to question or to criticize the stern New England upbringing that had made him who and what he was: a hard, unyielding, narrow man with an overdeveloped sense of duty and obligation, but if he were ever to question it, it would have been now.

  The feel of the rough sofa through his shirt made him think how sleek and inviting were the sheets on Mildred Pensoitte’s bed. They would be not be bumpy as this sofa was; her bed would be smooth and slippery…her body too.

  No. Stop.

  With an effort of will, he forced her out of his thoughts and reached a hand over his head, turned off the lamp by the side of the sofa, and two minutes later was asleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  THEY BURIED EMRYS NEAR the cave. H’si T’ang took the arrangement of pine, bamboo, and plum blossoms from the entrance and placed them on the Welshman’s grave. No one spoke until Griffith gave a small cry, weaving where he stood.

  “Danger.” He spoke softly, his eyes fixed on the sky above.

  H’si T’ang raised his hands and then tasted his fingers. “He speaks the truth. There is death in the sky.”

  “Get inside,” Remo said. “Hurry.”

  Griffith pointed to a cloud bank in the distance. It moved toward them at tremendous speed, changing color from gray to black to brick red as it rolled forward, blanketing the sky. “We will not be safe inside,” the boy said.

  At that moment, a shaft of lightning ripped through the red clouds and struck the cave, blasting a hole into the side of the hill where it stood. Fragments of clay pots flew out of the entrance, along with burnt shards of the grass matting that coated the floor.

  It began to hail. The stabbing pellets hurt Remo.

  Hail? Now? It was as senseless an occurrence as the rolling red sky. He forced himself to concentrate. There was no hail. It was the Dutchman. If he could understand that, he would be safe from the visions. But what about the others?

  Griffith covered his head. Chiun carefully led H’si T’ang behind a large boulder and went to the boy. Jilda looked up, stunned, cupping her hands in front of her. They filled with small stones. One struck her wrist, scraping off the skin. Dots of blood appeared on her arms. She threw the pebbles to the ground. “Who is this man who makes it rain stones upon us?” she shrieked. Her face was a mass of bruises.

  “It’s his mind,” Remo shouted above the din of falling rock. He tried to cover Jilda with his own body. “There aren’t really any stones. Look at me.” There was not a mark on his body. “They only exist if you believe they do. Don’t trust your eyes. They aren’t real, I tell you.”

  Griffith whimpered. His neck and arms were covered with blood. Chiun, doing all he could to protect the boy, shook his head. There was nothing he could do against an enemy who killed his victims from inside their minds.

  “But they do believe,” a voice said from near the cave. The Dutchman was standing on the hill over the entrance. He was smiling. Even at a distance, Jilda could see the terrifying power in his electric-blue eyes.

  “I have come for Chiun,” he said. “Let him fight me now, Chiun alone.”

  “I cannot fight you,” the old man said. “It is against the laws of Sinanju.”

  “I’ll fight you,” Remo said.

  “You are nothing to me. To kill you will bring me no satisfaction. It must be Chiun.” He waved one arm slowly. The stones disappeared. The sky rolled back. The sun shone.

  Silently, while he spoke, Jilda picked up her spear. She hurled it so hard that her feet left the ground.

  “Devil,” she muttered as the weapon flew toward him.

  The Dutchman’s hands moved. The spear shattered into a thousand pieces in midair.

  “The girl amuses me,” he said. “And she is a beauty. Perhaps she will please me later.”

  “See if this pleases you, scum,” she shouted, taking her ax from her belt.

  “Jilda—” Remo reached for the ax. Jilda kicked at him.

  “He is mine,” she said.

  She rushed at the hill, stopping suddenly near the cave. The Dutchman watched her.

  “Go ahead. Attack,” he said, smiling.

  Her breath was labored. She clutched the ax tightly. She turned. Her eyes were frightened, her mouth twisted.

  “Jilda?” Remo asked, walking uncertainly toward her.

  “Stay away,” she hissed. “I can’t—I don’t know what he’s doing.” She broke into a run. When she was near Remo, she swung the ax with all her force at Remo’s neck.

  He leaped out of the way. It had been so close that he had felt the wake of the blade.

  “Run!” she shouted. “I cannot stop!” She attacked him again. He struggled with her, but her strength was enormous. She pulled away and swung, screaming, full force at Remo’s belly.

  He saw the blow coming. At the beginning of the swing, he flattened himself on the ground and rolled toward her, knocking Jilda off her feet. Then, spiraling upward, he kicked the ax away and landed on her hand, hard. He heard the small bones crack, and when she moaned with the pain, he felt as if a hammerblow had been struck into his own gut.

  “I couldn’t let you go on,” he said.

  She lay on the ground, curled into a ball. The useless hand stretched in front of her. “I know,” she said. She hid her face so that he could not see her tears.

  Chiun watched it all in horror. He had not expected the Dutchman’s power to be so complete.

  The laws of Sinanju had prohibited him from killing the man when he’d had the opportunity. He had obeyed those laws. Now he realized that by letting him live, he had unleashed a beast that would destroy them all. Now it was too late to fight him. The Dutchman was too powerful. Remo had been the only hope, but Remo still did not understand that he was Shiva. He, too, had no chance. There was only one thing left to do.

  Chiun walked slowly into the clearing. “It is I you want,” he said. “Very well. I understand your power. I cannot fight you, for reasons known only to my village.”

  “Chiun!” Remo shouted. “What are you saying?”

  “Take me. Let the others live.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” Remo said, joining the old Oriental. “You take him on, you take me, too. You might be able to kill one of us in battle, but not both of us together.”

  “No,” Chiun insisted. “If there were even the smallest hope that we could fight him and live, I would take it. But there is none. You’ve seen what he can do. I am an old man, and have made my peace. Let me go.”

  Remo swallowed. He looked up at the Dutchman. “You don’t get to him unless you take me first,” he said.

  “That will be no problem,” the Dutchman said. From his perch on the hill, he raised both arms, his fingers curved like the talons of a bird of prey. The blue eyes glowed. From them came a wave of pure energy, as powerful as the shock waves from a nuclear blast.

  Remo felt as if the skin on his skull were rolling back with the force. It took all his concentration to remain standing. His shoulders began to shake. His breath came shallowly. He felt a spot in the center of his chest giving way. His heart. His heart was about to burst right out of his body. He wasn’t even going to get a chance to fight.

  He closed his eyes. No sight, no sound. Nothing remained before him but the gaping hole of the Void.

  He thought of Jilda. Her hand would heal in time, even if she couldn’t fight anymore. It was just as well. She was awfully beautiful to be a warrior. He only wished he could have met her earlier. It hadn’t been enough time. But then, a lifetime wouldn’t have been enough time with her.

  And Chiun. The pain would be tough on Chiun.

  Remo tried to speak, but couldn’t. His mind formed the words: I’m sorry I let you down, Father.

  The pressure receded. Chiun must have heard him. It would soon be over for both of them.

  But the Dutchman’s force didn’t only lessen. It died altogether. With a deep, involuntary breath, Remo opened his eyes. He and Chiun both stood in the shadow of H’si T’ang.

  The old Master had stepped in front of them both to absorb the full power of the Dutchman alone. Chiun made a move to stop him, but H’si T’ang held out his hand.

  “I can withstand him better than you,” the blind man said.

  The Dutchman’s face contorted.

  “He is weakened,” Chiun said, amazed.

  While the Dutchman focused his concentration on H’si T’ang, Remo ran silently behind the hill and climbed it swiftly. The Dutchman never turned. Using his strongest attack, Remo sent out both legs in a powerful thrust aimed at the Dutchman’s spine.

  The legs swung through empty air. There was no one on the hill.

  Below, Remo saw H’si T’ang clutch at his chest and fall. At the same moment, the Dutchman stepped from behind a bush near the old man.

  “A mirage,” Remo said, feeling his heart sink. The figure on the hill had been no more than the projection of an image in the Dutchman’s mind. He had been standing near them all along.

  But something was wrong. Chiun wasn’t watching the man coming from the bushes. He was bending over H’si T’ang, massaging the old man’s chest.

  “Chiun! Behind you!” Remo screamed.

  But the Dutchman had already prepared his blow by then, and even though Chiun readied himself in an instant, he was too late. The Dutchman’s hands moved like lightning, striking two fierce slices into Chiun’s abdomen. The old Oriental seemed to fly through the air, arms windmilling. His face registered pain for the first time Remo could remember. He landed face down in the sandy grass.

  The thin old body didn’t move. Chiun’s gown was twisted between his legs, making him look like a strange little doll that someone had discarded. His feet showed.

  “Chiun?” Remo whispered, unable to believe the sight before his eyes. Jilda, clutching her broken hand in the other, her face swollen from the rocks that had struck it, screamed in terror. The boy, Griffith, knelt by H’si T’ang, whose legs twitched weakly.

  The Dutchman looked expectantly at the ground, then the sky. He examined his hands. He was speaking. A gust of wind carried his words to Remo on the hill.

  “It is the same,” he said, sounding surprised. “There is no peace from killing him. You promised me rest, Nuihc. What of your promise?”

  And far away from all of them lay Chiun, lifeless and still. The old man was dead. It had never before occurred to Remo that Chiun would die.

  Inside him grew a sadness so deep that his body could not contain it. Remo lifted his head and wailed like a man who had saved all the frights and tears of his life for one moment.

  “My Father,” he called.

  It was time to fight the Dutchman. Alone. He walked down the hill to meet his opponent. His last opponent, most likely. If the Dutchman’s power was greater than Chiun’s, it surely surpassed his own.

  The thoughts passed through his mind like wisps of air. It didn’t matter. He cast one more glance at Chiun.

  There was so little left to lose now.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  SMITH SLID INTO CONSCIOUSNESS. He was not alone. There had been some kind of a light flashing, and now there was someone in the room, and his hand started to move down toward the revolver, which he had hidden under the sofa.

  But his hand stopped when it met something smooth and soft. It was fabric—satin—and it was draped over the legs of Mildred Pensoitte.

  “Mildred?”

  “Shhhhh.”

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Shhhhh,” she whispered again. He tried to raise himself to a sitting position, but she put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back onto the sofa.

  How long had he been asleep? He glanced at his watch. Less than two hours.

  Mildred Pensoitte was wearing a long white satin robe that flickered eerily in the moonlight. Her hands were still on his shoulders, and then she moved closer to him, and then she was straddling him, looking down at him, one leg on each side of his waist.

  “Did you think you were going to survive the night?” she asked. He could see her smiling in the faint light that the bright moon reflected into the room.

  “Please, Mildred. We can’t.”

  “We must,” she said.

  She reached down to open his shirt buttons. The moon emerged from behind a cloud and he saw her smile again, but it was a different smile now. It was a hard and cold smile, and there was no warmth in it. It was a smile he had seen before, many years ago, and she said again, “We must,” and her hand went to a pocket in her satin robe, and in the moonlight he saw a knife glinting in her hand. As she plunged the knife down toward his throat, Smith spun and rolled and dumped her off him onto the floor.

  Smith sprang to his feet, grabbed his revolver, and ran across the room to flick on the light switch.

  Mildred Pensiotte was on the floor, her knife still in her hand. The white robe was open, and her breasts were exposed.