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.Ijust made sure that certain people readjusted the formula for the ink so thatit would be toxic right away.The new ink isn't in place quite yet.But now isthe time to get yourself on the ground floor.Now is the time for you to startaccusing the Treasury of sloppy practices, perhaps even hint at the poisoningof innocent victims, everyone who trusts the American dollar."Harold W.Smith could not miss the signs coming from Palmer, Rizzuto They werenot only going to do it again, they were going to do it to America.But thistime they made their biggest mistake.At Grand Booree they had advertised they were coming.But in the new attack onthe government money supply, Palmer, Rizzuto had made the fatal slip.Previously there had always been some form of protection on certain calls.Smith could tell when the blockages came up.But now these very calls fromthat source that had to be the source of all the accidents was open.And theyhad made the mistake of communicating with the government printing plant inNevada, the one just outside the atomic testing range.It was to this one that Harold W.Smith had ordered Remo, praying that it wasnot another trap like the Grand Booree.He really had no choice.If moneycould be made toxic, then there would be more than a negligence case.A wholenation would be crippled.And Remo knew this.He knew the dangers as much as Smith.But someone, hesaid, had taught him a lesson about courage.Someone, he said, who hadsurprised him with her courage."We are not going down without a fight," he had said.Smith felt relieved until his computers started picking up trouble at theatomic range site.It seemed that there was going to be an accident.Robert Dastrow sat in his fixit shop, the perspiration pouring from hisforehead.He wiped his hands several times on his slacks, and to take his mindoff his worrying he played with his personal cyclotron for half an hour.Buteven that didn't help.He had finally come up against something he couldn'tunderstand.This time he didn't know how things worked.He had seen the reactions of Remo and Chiun, so he knew these were no ordinarymen.But he realized they weren't mystical either.These two had perfectedoptimal use of the human body.Normally, less than ten percent of humanphysical potential was used in lifting and running.These two had somehowlearned to use it all and maximize their power.Page 82ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlEverything Dastrow had done was done right.You examined something and thenyou fiddled a bit and then you knew how it worked.He had examined Remo andChiun on the stage at the Save benefit performance.He had readouts that wouldhave shamed an internist.Physically he knew exactly what they could do.Theycould do almost anything.Then he did the fiddling.He tried them with guns, knives, and explosives, andthat didn't work.So instead of fiddling some more he used what couldn't bedodged.A massive amount of water pressure, and the trap baited by triggeringthe patriotic urge of one of them.It had worked perfectly even though it hadn't worked at all.They were betterthan he had thought.It was then that Robert Dastrow panicked and used a fullcourt press.He not only drew one of them to the atomic site, but he worked on what he hadfound out from Debbie Pattie.It was merely a tinkerer's kick at a machine.Hewas trying several things at once.And so he waited, watching the clock and waiting for his machines to tell himthat at least one of the enemy was dead.But the word didn't come.He madehimself a peach milkshake with sweet marshmallow sauce and fruit sprinkles.Hedrank down the sweet goo, licking the faint pink mustache delicately from hislips.He had two more while waiting for Nevada to blow up.Instead ofexplosions he saw his machine answering someone, and then a red light when themachine indicated that it had a question from a caller it couldn't answer.Robert picked up the phone, pressing a button for a fast review of theconversation.It was Chiun, the Oriental part of the two-part team."Here," said Dastrow.He tasted the residue of peach and marshmallow stickingto his teeth.He sucked it down his throat and rubbed a hand over his lip togather the last traces of sweetness."Are you the voice that spoke to me from the walls of my motel in Booree?"came the high squeaky voice of the Oriental [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]