"You said he was delirious."
"Indeed. That should not be confused with incoherent, though. Our Mr. Hopper, better known to friends and competition as 'the Mole,' had quite a tale to tell."
"I'm listening."
Smith paused a moment for effect. "He said his expedition was annihilated by a monster."
"So we're back to Bigfoot?"
"Worse. A dragon."
"I assume you've got a call in to Saint George."
"It's not a laughing matter, Remo."
"I can see that."
"As it happens, there have been reports of large reptilian creatures from the Tasek Bera spanning close to half a century. I don't suppose you've read Wavell's Lost World of the East."
It was a rhetorical question. Smith knew before he spoke that Remo's reading was confined, by choice, to information necessary for successful execution of his latest mission. That and certain comic strips.
"Why don't you fill me in?" said Remo.
"Back in 1951, Stewart Wavell explored a portion of the Tasek Bera, interviewed the natives, observed the culture. He brought back stories of a massive predator the tribesmen call Nagaq. That's 'giant cobra,' more or less."
"A snake?"
"A reptile," Dr. Smith corrected him. "Descriptions vary, and it's understood that few who see the beast survive."
"Sounds like a fairy tale."
"Except when you evaluate the witnesses. Wavell himself heard eerie snarling sounds and spotted giant tracks."
"Without a camera handy, I presume."
"Malaysian soldiers and policemen have reported sightings," Smith went on, ignoring Remo. "Back in '62, an expedition from the Royal Air Force went looking for the creature."
"Let me guess—they didn't find it."
"Actually, no."
"In which case—"
"The reports continue. Every year or two, some filler item, mostly in the British press."
"I think that's what they call the silly season," Remo said.
"It hardly matters at the moment. Hopper's story—ravings, if you will—have sparked new interest in the Tasek Bera. There's an expedition forming as we speak, with funding from the Museum of Natural History, to check the region out once and for all."
"Sounds like a tax write-off to me."
"In any case, the expedition will be striking off from Kuala Lumpur in fifteen days, bound for the Great Unknown."
"That's fascinating," Remo told him, stifling a yawn.
"I'm glad you think so. You'll be going with them."
"Say again?"
"They need a herpetologist," said Dr. Smith.
"Who doesn't?"
"Dr. Clarence Otto was their first choice. He's a Ph.D. from San Diego State, affiliated with the zoo at Buena Park. If you've read anything significant on reptiles in the past ten years or so, you'll recognize the name."
"Of course," said Remo, smiling through.
"Unfortunately for the expedition, Dr. Otto had an accident last weekend. Hit and run, I understand. The cast comes off around Thanksgiving."
"That's a shame."
"Which means our dragon hunters need a quick replacement."
"And?"
"You're it."
"I don't know how to tell you this," said Remo, "but I'm not exactly Mr. Lizard."
"You have time to study up," Smith said. "I've requisitioned all the standard texts. It shouldn't be too difficult for you to pass."
"Depends on who I'm dealing with," said Remo.
"All right here." Smith nudged a thin vanilla folder toward the center of his desk. "The other members of your team are mostly into fossils, working on the supposition that Nagaq—if it exists—may be some kind of dinosaur. You'll be the only one on hand who works with living animals."
"In theory," Remo said.
"That's ail you need," Smith told him. "Drop a Latin name from time to time. Sound educated."
"Right."
"You have my every confidence."
"Did it occur to you that someone on the team may want a name they recognize?"
"You have a name," Smith told him. "As of now, you're Dr. Renton Ward, from the New Orleans Serpentarium. You've published in the field—one book on New World vipers and a dozen monographs. You'll have a chance to read those, too. No photos with those publications, by the way."
"That's handy. What about the doctor?"
"He'll be taking a vacation in Tahiti, courtesy of CURE. If anybody calls to check on him, you're covered."
"So, you fixed the serpentarium?"
"They needed help with export permits on a couple of endangered specimens from Thailand. Also some assistance with their new construction budget."
"One more question—why?"
"Uranium," said Dr. Smith.
"I'm guessing you watch Abbott and Costello every chance you get."
"Why's that?"
"Third base," said Remo.
Smith considered that from several angles, finally dismissed the riddle as insoluble and let it go. "We think the expedition—or at least some members of it—may be more concerned with tracking down uranium than dinosaurs. If they can pick up Hopper's trail, find out what he was working on, they could be close enough to bring it home."
"What makes them think he had a lead? You said yourself he was delirious."
"With fever, right." Smith stared across the desk at Remo, hesitated once again before he spoke. "I may have failed to mention that his illness was not caused by any virus or bacteria."
"I'm waiting," Remo said.
"According to the autopsy report," Smith told him, "Terrence Hopper died of radiation poisoning." With that final enlightenment, Remo had been released to bone up for his task.
The next two weeks found Remo back in school. He waded through a dozen books on reptiles and amphibians, retained the information more or less verbatim with the tricks of concentration he had learned while studying Sinanju through the years. Before he finished, Remo knew that reptiles and their kin weren't "cold-blooded"; they were poikilothermic, dependent on ambient heat for their own body temperature. He learned the difference between vipers and the older, more primitive Elapidae, with their short fixed fangs and neurotoxic venom. He knew the range and breeding habits of the major species, focusing on Southeast Asia, and could spot the difference between an alligator and a crocodile in seconds flat. If necessary, he could read a turtle's gender from the structure of its carapace and differentiate between the two suborders. A fat encyclopedia of prehistoric animals provided balance, filling in the background of an age when giant reptiles ruled the planet. By the time he polished off his "own" book—Renton Ward's Revised Taxonomy of New World Vipers—Remo felt he knew the subject inside out.
Which helped him not at all with explanations for Chiun.
In fact, the reigning Master of Sinanju seldom asked about the details of a mission, and he never asked about the motivation. For Chiun, it was enough that Dr. Harold Smith—whom he regarded as a powerful, albeit senile and demented emperor—had chosen special targets for elimination. The assassins of Sinanju had been mercenary killers for a thousand years and more. The very motto of Sinanju—Death Feeds Life—spoke volumes from the heart of the assassin's craft.
Still, Chiun was curious about the pile of weighty reading matter that distracted Remo from the proper study of Ung poetry and breathing exercises. Remo caught him paging through a sixty-five-page monograph on Asian tree frogs, noting Chiun's reaction in the almost microscopic elevation of an eyebrow.
"I have to play a new role for my latest mission, Little Father," Remo said.
Chiun responded with an airy wave, dismissing the remark. "Whatever is required," he said. "Emperor Harold Smith knows best." And to himself added, The idiot.
"What can you tell me about dragons?" Remo asked a moment later.
"Dragons?"
"You know, giant lizards breathing fire, that kind of thing."
"Sarcasm is a poor excuse for discourse," said the Master of Sinanju.