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Smith called up "TANDAVA."
"THE DANCE OF DESTRUCTION SHIVA DANCES IN CHIDAMBARAM, THE CENTER OF THE
UNIVERSE," he read, "THUS CREATING AND RECREATING THE UNIVERSE OVER AND
OVER."
He went to the Shiva file. Most of the information he knew. Shiva was one of
the Hindu triad of gods, personification of the opposing forces of destruction
and reintegration. His symbol was the lingam.
Smith input "LINGAM."
The definition was succinct: "PHALLUS."
And Smith remembered Remo's rather personal problem.
It was all, he decided, too much to be called coincidental.
Woodenly he logged off the encyclopedia file.
He leaned back in his chair, his gray eyes slipping out of focus.
"What if it's true?" he whispered, his voice awed. "What if it's really
true?"
Stunned, he reached out for the red telephone. He hesitated, grimacing. What
could he tell the President?
He turned in his big swiveling executive chair.
Out beyond the big picture window-his only window to the world during time of
crisis-a bluish moon was rising over the liquid ebony waters of Long Island
Sound. They were as black as an abyss.
Harold Smith was a practical man. The blood of his rock-ribbed New England
ancestors flowed through his veins. Men who had come to a new world to carve
out a new life. They had planted according to the almanac, worshiped in
Spartan churches, and put aside family and farm when their country had called
them to war and national service. Unsuperstitious men. Patriots.
But he knew in his heart that no ordinary power could sway Remo Williams to
join the Iraiti side. He knew he had inadvertently sent Remo into the arms-the
four arms, if his story could be believed-of an unclean thing that, whether or
not she was Kali, possessed a supernatural power even a Master of Sinanju
could not resist.
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And he had lost Remo.
Now the world teetered on the edge of what Kimberly Baynes-if she truly was
Kimberly Baynes anymore-called the Red Abyss.
No, Harold Smith realized, he could not tell the President. In truth, he could
not do anything. He could only hope that some power greater than mortal man
would intervene before the world was lost.
Harold Smith steepled his withered old fingers, as if in prayer. His dry lips
parted as if to invoke salvation.
Smith hesitated. He no longer knew which gods he should invoke.
Finally he simply asked God the Father to preserve the world.
He was no sooner done than one of the desk phones shrilled in warning.
Smith turned in his seat. It was the multiline Folcroft phone. At this hour,
it could be only one person.
"Yes, dear?" he said, picking up the phone.
"Harold," Maude Smith said. "How did you know it was me?"
"Only the director's wife would call at this hour."
Mrs. Smith hesitated. "Harold, are . . . are you coming home?"
"Yes. Soon."
"I'm a bit nervous tonight, Harold."
"Is something wrong?"
"I don't know. I'm uneasy. I can't explain it."
"I understand," Smith said in a comfortless voice. He was not good at this. He
always had problems being warm. Even with his wife. "All this war talk."
"It's not that, Harold. I saw the strangest thing tonight."
"What is that?"
"Well, you remember those strange neighbors who lived next door. The ones who
moved?"
"Of course I do."
"I thought I saw one of them not an hour ago."
Smith blinked, his heart racing. Remo! He had returned.
Smith took hold of his voice. "The young man?"
"No," Mrs. Smith said. "It was the other one."
"Impossible!" Smith blurted out.
"Why do you say that, Harold?"
"I . . . understood he returned to his home. In Korea."
"You did tell me that, yes. I remember now." Mrs. Smith paused. "But I
happened to look out the dining-room window, and I saw him in the house."
"What was he doing?" Smith asked in a strangely thin tone.
"He was . . ." Mrs. Smith's somewhat frumpy-sounding voice trailed off. She
gathered it again. "Harold, he was staring at me."
"He was?"
"I lifted my hand to wave to him, but he simply threw up his hands and the
most ungodly expression came over him. I can't describe it. It was terrible."
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