Warren Murphy: Acid Rock

"Sure, Maggot, sure. But I always have my morning tonic."

She took out one of the pills, but on its way to her mouth, it was intercepted by Maggot's hand.

"Eat, I said." He tossed the blue pill off toward a corner of the room, then picked up a roll and stuffed it into her mouth.

Vickie Stoner looked at Maggot with a new sense of appreciation. In bed, he wasn't much, nothing like that short-haired straight, Remo. But the thoughtfulness was nice.

"Come on," Maggot said. "Eat that roll and let's kick around those soybean futures."

CHAPTER TWENTY

The sun was high and the air was still and the heat lay over the twenty-five-acre concert site like an airproof iron blanket.

Remo and Chiun moved slowly through the grounds, looking for the bandstand.

"Where's the bandstand, pal?" Remo asked a young bearded man, who sat cross-legged on the ground, rocking back and forth.

"What bandstand, man?"

"The place where they're going to play."

"Yeahhhh, they going to play and I going to listen."

"Right. But where?"

"I going to listen right here. In my ears. My pretty pearl-drop ears that hear all the good and reject all the evil. In with the good and out with the bad." He giggled. "That's my secret formula for artificial respiration."

"And what's your secret formula for lunacy?" Remo asked in disgust. He turned away and continued walking with Chiun.

"Very enlightening," Chiun said. "They come to see and hear but they do not know who or where. It is very interesting, how clever you Americans are. And what is this smoke that covers these grounds?"

"It is just burning grass," Remo said maliciously.

"It does not smell like burning grass," Chiun said. "Yet if it is, why is no one afraid? Do they not fear fires?"

"If you burn enough grass, you're not afraid of anything," Remo said.

"That answer makes no sense," Chiun said.

Remo looked pleased. "It's vague only to you."

A quarter of a million people had already jammed into the site and more were marching in every moment, making movement almost impossible. All pretense of ticket taking had stopped and now field and concert area was just open country. The promoters of the concert had made their money on advance sales, and with that in the bank, they did not care how many freebees ripped them off for admissions.

The old farm area was now a sea of dots, each dot a cluster of three or four or five people, some sitting on the ground, some lying on air mattresses, others in pitched tents. Normally, Remo would have looked to see which way the tents were facing, but these small groups were formless, pointed in no direction, having come not to see or hear but to be seen and to be heard. Each protected his own little piece of turf, and Remo and Chiun drew dirty looks, a few curses and much mild abuse as they moved through the little pockets of territoriality, looking for the stage.

Up ahead, Remo heard a motorcycle rev up, start up with a cough, then roar the engine into warmth.

"We're going right," he told Chiun.

"How do you know that?"

"Find the motorcycles and you find the stage," Remo said.

"It is part of the music?" Chiun asked.

"No, but the sounds are almost indistinguishable," Remo said. Resolutely he moved ahead, Chiun behind him, his head swiveling around, looking in wonder at the flow of humanity there.

"Look, Remo," he said. "That one is wearing the costume of your Uncle Samuel."

"Swell," said Remo, without looking.

"And there is Smokey the Bear."

"Great."

"Why is that one wearing a General Custer uniform? And there is a gorilla suit."

"Terrific."

"Why do you not pay attention? As the youth goes, so goes your country. Do you not want to see your people's next generation of rulers? Look! There is a boy dressed as Mickey Mouse and a girl dressed as Donald Duck."

"Good. What are they doing?" Remo asked, still moving forward.

"I would rather not say," Chiun replied. He speeded up his steps to come alongside Remo. "If this is what the next generation of rulers will look like in your country, I think you and I should begin looking for a new emperor," Chiun said.

"I agree," said Remo. "Just as soon as we get Vickie Stoner out of here in one piece."

"And settle with Mr. Nilsson," Chiun said.

"You think he'll be here?"

"I know he will be here."

"Well, keep your eyes open for him," Remo said smartly.

"Keep your eyes open for him," Chiun mocked. "No, I will keep my eyes closed."

The two had gotten past the last clustered clump of bodies now, and were standing alone on a fifteen-foot grassy strip that ran in a huge semicircle at one end of the property. At one side of the grassy band were the customers of the rock festival; fifteen feet away at the other side, a long string of motorcycle bums, wearing their leather jackets, standing almost elbow-to-elbow in front of their machines, trying to look tough. Behind them rose the stage, elevated 15 feet in the air. Sound towers rose on both sides and in the back, to pump the sound out over the entire area.

Remo and Chiun moved forward.

"Hey, you. You're in no man's land. Beat it."

The speaker was a black-suited motorcycle rider who stood facing them. His voice brought three or four others to his side. They were wearing identical costumes. On their peaked gestapo hats, Remo could read the legend: "Dirty Devils."

"It's all right," Remo said. "We're friends of the owner."

"That don't mean nothing to me," the loudmouth said.

"Well, that means it must mean something," Remo said. "Don't you remember from school: negative double causes trouble? Sister Carmelita taught me that. Didn't you learn that in school? That is, if you went to school. Did they have school at the zoo?"

"All right, buddy. You and the old gent there, move on out."

"I'll give you a nickel if you let us pass," Remo said. "Just think. A nickel of your own. You can get your own bag of peanuts, and maybe your friends'll shell them for you."

Chiun put a hand on Remo's shoulder. "We may wait. There is no one here yet and there will be plenty of time."

Remo looked at Chiun, thoughtfully, then nodded. He turned back toward the four leatherclad cyclists. "Got you, fellows. See you later."

He turned and stepped back with Chiun out of the no-man's-land ring of grass, into the tightly packed cluster of young people.

A little blonde girl jumped to her feet and embraced Chiun. "It's Bodhi-Dharma come to life," she said.

"No. I am only Chiun," Chiun said.

"You didn't come to take me to the Great Emptiness?" The girl seemed hurt.

"One can take no one to the Great Emptiness. Because to find it is to fill it and then it is emptiness no more."

"Well, if that's so, what sense does Zen make?" the girl asked. Around her feet sat three other girls, all mid-teens, their eyes all slightly vague, Remo noted. The ground around them was littered with what the unsophisticated eye might have perceived as tobacco ashes and cigarette butts.

"Another master was once asked that question," Chiun said. "He beat the questioner with a stick and then said, 'Now I have explained Zen.' It is, child, no more difficult than that."

"Bitchen, man, bitchen. Sit down with us and tell us some more. You too, man," she said to Remo.

Chiun looked at Remo, who shrugged. One place was as good as another and this one was close to the bandstand, which would be helpful when they had to make their move later. Chiun sank slowly into a lotus position on the ground. Remo dropped down next to him, drawing his knees up to his chin, watching the crowd, his concentration drawn away from Chiun and the four girls.

"You study Zen?" Chiun asked the blonde.

"We try. We all do, but we can't understand it," she protested.