〃I was thinking last night what if the man who runs this group decides to take over the country？〃
〃You always got the phone。〃
〃Suppose he plots the murder of the President？〃
〃You're the only one who can OK the use of the one person who would do it。 The other man who knows about that outfit。 Just one man。 That's the safeguard。 Hell； I know you're shocked。 You shoulda seen my face when the head of this group got a personal visit with me。 The President didn't tell me a thing before he was shot。 Just like you won't tell your vice president。〃 He turned and smiled at the crowds。 〃Especially yours。〃
He smiled a creased smile and nodded solemnly to the people on his side of the car。 The Secret Service bodyguards puffed alongside。
〃I was thinking last night； what if the head of this organization dies？〃
〃Damned if I know；〃 said the Texan。
〃Frankly； this revelation frightens me；〃 said the President…elect； raising his eyebrows； head and hands as though just spotting a close friend in a crowd of strangers。 〃I haven't felt at ease since you told me about it。〃
〃You can stop it anytime；〃 the Texan responded。
〃That one man they've got must be pretty good。 The one who goes on the assignments； I mean。〃
' 〃I don't know for sure。 But from what that little feller told me that day； they don't just use him for wrapping up garbage。〃
〃Let me make one thing perfectly clear。 I don't like this whole business。〃
〃We didn't ask you to take office；〃 said the Texan with a smile。
So Remo Williams stood silently in the gymnasium feeling his conditioning leave him。 He breathed deeply； then slid through the dark； in almost imperceptible movements； and was in the balcony。 He wore black tennis shoes so that he could not see his feet； a tee shirt dyed black so that the white of the shirt in the dark would not throw off unbalancing brightness。 His shorts were black。 Night moving in night。
He moved from the balcony rail to the top of the basketball backboard。 He seated himself carefully； with his right hand between his legs and his legs stretched out over the hoop below。 Funny； he thought。 When he was a policeman in his twenties； he would have been puffing if he ran a block； and probably would have had to engineer a desk job by thirty five or face a heart attack。 It was nice then。 Just walk into any bar you wanted when off duty。 Have a pizza for supper if you wished。 Get laid when you had a chance。
But that was when he was alive。 And when he was officially alive； there were no such things as peak periods with rice and fish and abstinence。 Actually； he didn't really have to follow the regimen。 He thought about that often。 He could probably do very well at less than full capacity。 But a wise Korean had told him that deterioration of the body is like a stone rolling down a mountain。 So easy to start； so hard to stop。 And if Remo Williams couldn't stop； he would be very dead。
He lowered his shoes to the rim； getting the feel of its grip into the backboard。 If you know the feel of objects； the feel of their mass； their movement and their strength； you could use that as your strength。 That was the secret of force。 To not fight it。 And to not fight it was the best way to fight people when you had to。
Remo stood up on the rim and gathered the where of the floor into his balance。 He should have changed the height of the hoop； because sooner or later he would be performing muscle memory instead of proper use of balance and judgment。 When he had first learned the exercise； he watched a cat for a day and a half。 He had been told to bee the cat。 He had answered that he would prefer to bee a rabbit so he could get laid； and how long was this dingaling training going to go on？
〃Until you are dead；〃 he was told。
〃You mean fifty years。〃
〃It might be fifty seconds； if you are not good enough；〃 said the Korean instructor。 〃Watch the cat。〃
And Remo had watched the cat and for a few moments thought； really thought； he could bee the cat。
Now Remo Williams indulged his own private little joke which signalled the start of the exercise。
〃Meow；〃 he whispered in the silent； dark gym。
He stood on the rim； straight up； and then his body fell forward； shoes gripping the rim by pressure； head going forward； shoes flipping up； rim adding force； body heading straight down； hair and head aiming straight at the floor…like a dark knife dropping into a dark sea。
His hair touched the varnish of the floor and triggered a body trunk flip； the dark form in the blackened gym spinning in space； the sneakers ing around quick… rocket fast…arching and down steady standing on the wooden floor。
Blat。 The sound echoed in the gymnasium。 He had held for the last hair…touching instant and then let the muscles take over； the muscles of a cat which shifted the body in。air and put the feet on the floor。 An exercise the body could do only when the mind was trained； trained to steal the balance of another animal。
Remo Williams had heard the blat in the gym； the sound of his sneakers hitting the floor。 He was not purring。
〃Shit；〃 he mumbled to himself。 〃The next time it'll be my head。 That dumb bastard is gonna get me killed yet； with his goddam peak period。〃
And he returned to the balcony and the backboard； this time to do it right。 Without a sound when his sneakers hit the floor。
CHAPTER THREE
The sun reflected on the scales of the fish and played on the water and warmed the covered wood …pier of Giuseppe Bresicola's wholesale fish market which jutted out into San Francisco Bay like dirty toy sticks on a blue plate。
Bresicola's did not smell of fish： it breathed of fish and sounded of fish； from the splat of mackerel piled on mackerel to the scrape of steel across scales。 Entrails in giant barrels in seconds began the inevitable decay。 Fresh seawater sqnooshed over the scale…caked wood。 And Bresicola smiled because his friend was again visiting him。
〃I no tella you the orders today； Mr。 Time…Study man。 Not today。〃 He made a playful stab at his friend's head。 How nice this boy moved。 Like a dancer。 Like Willie Pep。 〃You don't get the orders today。〃
〃What do you mean； not today；〃 asked the friend who was six feet tall and husky。 He scraped his brown shoes playfully on the wood； a small dance without motion。 They were good shoes； 50 shoes。 Once he had bought ten pairs of 100 shoes and then heaved them out into the Bay； but the next day all he did was draw money from his account and buy new shoes。 So； he had gotten that out of his system and throwing shoes away meant only that you had to take the trouble of buying more。
〃It's abalone；〃 said Bresicola。 〃We got another order from New York。 Just now。〃
〃So？〃
〃So the last time I tell you about abalone； I no see you for a month。〃
〃You think abalone has something to do with my work here？〃
〃You think maybe Giuseppe is stupid； Mr。 Time…Study man？〃
〃No。 Many people are stupid。 Especially back east。 But not you； paisan。 Not you。〃
〃It's something maybe to do with the stock market； yes？〃
〃If I said yes； you wouldn't believe me。〃
〃I believe anyting you say。 Anyting。〃
〃It's the stock market。〃
〃Not for a minute does Giuseppe believe that。〃
〃I thought you said you'd believe me？〃
〃Only if you makea sense。 Stock market makea no sense。〃
〃Abalone makes no sense？ Time studies make no sense？〃
〃Nothing makes no sense；〃 Bresicola insisted。
Very good； thought the time study man； because now was no time to be giving out signals。 It would be a very nice way to get oneself killed。 First； loss of your vibrations； then your awareness； then your balance； and before long； you were just a normal； cunning； strong human being。 And that would not be enough。 Not nearly enough。
He shared with Bresicola a glass of sharp red wine； made plans for dinner with no definite date； and when he left； had decided it was long past time to eliminate the time…study man。
He would exist until a plane ticket had been purchased with his American Express card and until 800 in travelers' checks were cashed。 He would exist all the way from San Francisco to Kennedy Airport in New York City。 He would walk into the men's room closest to the Pan American counter； look f