«How many lives could you save with that, brother?»
Dr. Gunner Nilsson thought a moment, then shook his head. «I don't even want to entertain the thought. It makes me too sad.»
«A hundred? A thousand?»
«Thousands. Tens of thousands,» said Gunner. «Because the money could be used to create systems that would perpetuate themselves.»
«I was wondering,» said Lhasa. «If one person's life is worth thousands of native lives.»
«Of course not.»
«But she's white,»
«You know how I feel about that. Too long has the color of a man's skin determined how long he will live.»
«But she is rich and white.»
«All the more reason,» Gunner said.
Lhasa rose from his seat and tried to stretch the muscle of the cauterized wound. It throbbed as if it had its own heartbeat.
«There is a rich white woman in the United States whose very breath could give you the tools to help this land. But we are not in that business anymore so I must forget it. We are the last of the Nilssons. You settled that a long time ago.»
«What are you talking about?» asked Gunner.
«The one million dollars is real, brother. I was not creating a hypothesis for you. I was giving you a plan of action.»
«We will not use the family knowledge.»
«Of course,» said Lhasa, smiling. «I agree with you. And frankly I must confess I believe one rich white life to be worth much more than all the stinking natives of this stinking jungle.»
«What are you doing to me?»
«I am allowing you, dear brother, to watch your patients die so that a rich white American can live. Of course, even that won't save her life because she will be dead shortly anyhow. But enjoy your ideals as you bury your little black friends.»
«Get out of here,» said Gunner. «Get out of my hospital.»
But Lhasa left only the office. He waited in the ante room along with a woman whose gums were purple from chewing betel nut or from infection. Lhasa could not tell the difference, nor did he care very much.
In two minutes, Gunner strode from his private office,
«I'm here, brother,» said Lhasa, laughing, and they left the hospital for a very long walk through the village.
Was Lhasa sure of the money?
Yes. He had heard of it four days ago when he was upriver. He had checked it out very carefully by telephone from the British staff officer's house. He still had some contacts on the continent. And he had finally talked to the man hi charge of disbursing the money. It was firm. One and a half million dollars. The man had heard of the Nilsson family. He would be pleased if they would take the assignment.
«But when I returned you would not even speak to me but ordered me after this panther,» Lhasa said.
«I have this fear, brother, that you like to kill for the sake of killing,» Gunner said.
«Me, brother?»
«Of course you. Why did you take bow and arrow to hunt panther?»
«Did I do that?»
«You know you did. Were you hunting the buffalo again, an animal these villagers tame for their livelihood?»
«A buffalo likes to kill, brother,» said Lhasa.
«Especially when you hunt it. I will tell you what I fear. I fear there is no money or little money in this thing and you just want to kill for enjoyment.»
«Phone yourself, dear brother.» «I would have to teach you techniques, arid I fear you would use them for your own pleasure.»
«You taught me to hunt panther. Have I used that incorrectly?» Lhasa asked.
Dr. Gunner Nilsson paused near a mudhole on the main thoroughfare of the village. A young boy, his legs gnarled by a vitamin deficiency, hobbled along the dirt road.
«And, brother, why do you fear giving me knowledge which is rightfully mine? You know, it ends with me. I cannot pass it on to a son. And should I get about with this knowledge, practicing our family business, how many can I hurt compared with what poverty and ignorance does here?»
Twelve hours later, Lhasa Nilsson was upriver at the British field agent's telephone. He informed the man in Switzerland that he could deposit the money in an old Nilsson account. He had just learned of the account during an afternoon of intense discussion. Of that account and many things. He told the banker there would be no question of his collecting the money. And please keep other people out of the way. Amateurs only confused things.
CHAPTER EIGHT
When he was asked why eleven persons were killed and twenty-four injured at the North Adams Experience, the county sheriff replied that it was the result of close cooperation between all police departments,
«Thank God it wasn't the Beatles,» he said, displaying his knowledge of contemporary music. «We really would have had a mess if they were here, although I think we could have done the same fine job.»
The press agent for Maggot and the Dead Meat Lice did not have so easy an answer. He faced a problem. Should he say the Lice regretted what had happened or should he attempt to advertise it? The newspapers solved his problem for him.
Editorials railed against what they called the violent nature of acid rock. Stories compared the casualties at these concerts to guerilla wars. And a national television commentator asked, coast to coast, prime time: Does America Need This Abomination?
Shea Stadium in New York not only sold out for the Dead Meat Lice concert but the album, North Adams Experience, on which one could hear the bombs, sold 780,000 copies within ninety-six hours of the concert, not counting the bootleg editions produced in Mexico, Canada, and Bayonne, N.J.
What amazed Remo was how quickly the album was produced. When Vickie Stoner insisted she have one, Remo asked why, since she had heard much of it live.
«To live it again, man.»
«You almost didn't live it the first time,» Remo said.
«You the fuzz or something?» asked Vickie.
«No.»
«Then why are you so heavy on my ass?»
«Because I want to see you alive.»
«Why?»
«Because I love you, Vickie,» said Remo, staring at her with the balanced power he had been taught and had found out was most effective with women.
«Okay, let's ball,» said Vickie. Her tee shirt was over her head and flying across the hotel room by the time her blue jeans were unsnapped and falling around her ankles. She had young rising breasts with perfectly symmetrical ruby crests, firm smooth legs, and just a touch of softness around the hips.
She bounded backwards onto the bed, raising her legs in a V, her red hair fluffing over the pillow. The Waldorf Astoria in New York City had probably never seen such a fast disrobing in all its elegant history, thought Remo.
«What are you waiting for?»
«Stop playing hard to get,» said Remo. «I mean, if you're going to make it an ordeal.»
«C'mon already, I'm ready,» said Vickie.
Remo went to the bed, wondering if even with all his powers he could have removed his slacks, tennis shirt, and loafers as quickly as his charge. He sat down beside her and placed a hand softly on her shoulder. He wanted to talk to her. There were problems and he had to explain that Chiun was not the sweet guru she thought he was, that one did not disturb the Master of Sinanju during his television shows and one never, absolutely never, touched one of his garments or tried to take something of his as a souvenir.
Remo squeezed her shoulder.
«Enough foreplay. Get to it,» said Vickie.
«Vickie, I want to talk to you,» said Remo. His hand moved to her breast.
«When you're ready, let me know,» said Vickie. She squirmed out of bed. «I'm gonna ball the Master. I've waited long enough.»
«Not now. He's watching his serials. No one ever disturbs Chiun when he's watching his soap operas.»
«Until now.»
«Until never,» said Remo. He took her by one of her wrists that flailed at him, brought her back to the bed and, working her body to excitement, brought her to agonizing fulfillment. He tried to avoid falling asleep while doing it.