Warren Murphy: Sole Survivor

Finally Remo asked his question.

"Why is it before you step into the shower, your body feels dirty but your mouth feels clean, but when you step out, it's the opposite?"

Chiun's face shook with surprise. His mouth opened. His beard trembled excitedly. His hands, resting palm-up in his lap, closed into tiny long-nailed fists.

"Is this a trick question?" he demanded angrily.

"It was the only question I could think of," Remo said.

"Well, I will not answer it. There are no showers in the histories of Sinanju. I will not answer such a question. And you offend me with this frivolous and cheap waste of my magnificent mind."

"You said any question," Remo protested.

"I did not say any frivolous question."

"You said 'trifling.' I distinctly heard the word 'trifling' used."

"Trifling I would have accepted. But not frivolous."

"I'm sorry, Little Father. I . . ." Remo stopped in mid-sentence. The shrill voice of Cheeta Ching cut into his thoughts with one word. The word was "homeless."

"Please, Little Father. I want to hear this," Remo said.

"I was just leaving," said Chiun. "I am returning to Folcroft. "

"Be with you in a minute," Remo said. Then he listened to the harsh voice of Cheeta Ching lament the fate of a single man, an American who had no home because unthinking, unsympathetic people refused to let him live in their communities. Here was a man who was truly homeless, she said.

After the report was over, Remo punched the Off switch and stepped into the next room, where the Master of Sinanju was packing.

"I have to go to Washington," Remo said stonily.

"We are in Washington," said Chiun, not looking up. "We are in Washington, D.C. I have to go to Washington State," Remo said.

"Only you would split hairs like that," said Chiun. "Why do you have to go to this other place?"

"There is a homeless man there. A real one. He has nowhere to go. Every place he goes, people send him away. I have to do something about his situation."

The Master of Sinanju looked up. He saw the anger in his pupil's eyes.

"This is very important to you?"

"Yes," said Remo coldly.

The Master of Sinanju, seeing the whitened knuckles of Remo's clenched fists, nodded sagely.

"I will return to Folcroft and await you there," he said.

"Thank you, Little Father," said Remo, bowing slightly.

"I do not need thanks."

"I know you do not," Remo said, the tension going out of his face.

"But I would accept a personal introduction to Cheeta Ching," Chiun added mischievously.

Chapter 3

The President of the United States looked at his Secretary of Defense. The Secretary of Defense looked back, his mouth hanging open.

"What did he say?" the Secretary of Defense said slowly.

"It sounded like 'Hello' to me," the President said, doubt shading his words.

"Actually he said, 'Hello is all right,' " inserted the NSA stenographer.

"Let me see that," said the Secretary of Defense, tearing loose the long roll of paper on which the transmissions from the Soviet shuttle were recorded. " 'Hello is all right,' " the Secretary read aloud. "What does that mean?"

"Probably broken English," suggested the NSA man. "They are sending us greetings and assuring us that they are well."

"Why us?" demanded the President, his face gathering in concentration. "Why are they communicating with us and ignoring their own control people?"

"Perhaps they are unable to receive the Russian ground transmissions," the NSA man suggested.

"Is that possible?" asked the President of the Secretary of Defense.

"Hardly."

In the background, the Soviet ground control requests had grown more shrill. They, too, had overheard the brief burst of English from the shuttle craft and were demanding equal time. But there was no response to their urgent demands.

"I think we should attempt to contact the shuttle," the Secretary of Defense said after scanning the stenographer's running transcript of the Soviet pleas.

"Won't that annoy the Soviets?" asked the President. The Secretary shrugged. "It will serve them right for trying to get the jump on us. Besides, they're not getting through to their people. We can call this a humanitarian gesture on our part."

"Can you patch me through to the shuttle?" the President said after a thoughtful pause.

"You, Mr. President?"

"Why not? They can't accuse us of doing anything underhanded if I handle this personally and it's page-one news in tomorrow's papers."

"I see your point, Mr. President," said the Secretary of Defense, and excused himself to confer with a tracking officer at a nearby radar console.

A moment later, the Secretary of Defense returned carrying a portable telephone set.

"You can start at any time, Mr. President," he said, handing the device to his commander-in-chief.

The President of the United States took the receiver and turned to face the elaborate computer tracking simulator which showed the Soviet shuttle as a coded green triangle floating over a wire-frame simulation of the globe. He cleared his throat.

"Hello, Yuri Gagarin. Can you hear me? This is the President of the United States speaking."

The President waited. After a pause, the flat toneless voice came again through the loudspeaker.

"There is no Yuri Gagarin here," it said.

"You can speak English?"

"Yes. Of course."

"Well, I'm happy to hear from you. The whole world is worried about you and your crew, Yuri Gagarin."

"I am not called Yuri Gagarin," the voice said.

The President chuckled. "Yes, I know," he said. "Yuri Gagarin is dead."

"It was necessary to kill him," the voice said. "He and the others would have interfered with my reentry, which is necessary for my continued survival."

The President looked at the Secretary of Defense doubtfully.

The Secretary shrugged.

"I don't understand," said the President.

"It is not important that you understand," said the voice. "It is important that I survive."

"That accent is not Russian," whispered the Secretary of Defense. The NSA stenographer nodded in mute agreement.

"Yuri Gagarin, why don't you answer the requests for acknowledgment from Russia?"

"Because I do not speak Russian," the voice said. "I am programmed for English only."

"I see," said the President. Cupping a hand over the receiver, he turned to the Secretary of Defense. "What the heck is he talking about?"

"I don't know, Mr. President," the Secretary of Defense said worriedly. "Why don't you ask him what he wants. "

"What do you want?" the President said into the receiver.

"I wish to land."

"Here?"

"I do not know where 'here' is. Please clarify."

"I mean in America."

"Yes, I wish to land in America. This is why I had to destroy the meat machines infesting this craft. They would have prevented me from landing in America. I cannot reenter earth's atmosphere without being incinerated by reentry forces. This craft will protect my vital parts during reentry."

"What is he babbling about?" asked the President.

"I have no idea, sir. He may be suffering from a psychosis or brain injury. But if I read him correctly, he seems to have murdered his fellow crew members."

"Murdered?"

"He said he destroyed the meat machines. I think he means people. Unless the Soviets have launched the first experimental butcher shop into space."

"I've never heard people called that."

"You should attend a Pentagon meeting sometime," the Secretary of Defense said. "They've got a tricky euphemism for everything. Nuclear-war casualties are termed 'collateral damage.' I think the latest word for 'retreat' is 'retrograde advance' or something."

"Why would he murder his crew?" asked the President.

"To get them out of the way, perhaps. He may want to defect. Why not ask him?"