"I am not surprised. After catting around all night, it is a wonder you can lift your head at all."
"It wasn't through any choice of my own," Remo said to himself as he gathered up the pamphlets. With a flourish Chiun spun from the small stereo. As the device squawked to cacophonous life, the old man plucked the pamphlets from his pupil's hand. "I will put these away for later," he said.
"Make it much later," Remo said. "And I'm already up. No need to torture me by playing Wylander Jugg."
This was the country music singer for whom the Master of Sinanju had recently developed a fondness. On the counter Wylander continued to yodel from the unlucky speakers.
"You would deny me this one pleasure? After all I have done for you and all you have done to me?"
"You bet," Remo said. He winced as Wylander tried to stretch her larynx for a note hopelessly out of reach.
"Too bad for you," Chiun said. "Breakfast is in ten minutes. Wash your hands, for I suspect I know where you spent your night." He turned to the stove. Remo did as he was told without argument.
As he washed up in the bathroom sink he heard the sound of Smith's car wheezing and coughing its way into the parking lot far above. The old station wagon seemed to worsen with every winter, yet it continued to hang on.
Remo did his best not to read too much into that idle thought. Drying his hands, he returned to the kitchenette.
Chiun was tapping rice into a pair of stoneware bowls with a wooden spoon. Two wedges of orange sat on each of their place mats. Remo took note of the fruit slices with a puzzled frown.
Their training limited them to a diet of rice and fish and, less often, duck. Vegetables were infrequent and fruit which was high in natural sugar-was hardly ever eaten.
"Why fruit?" Remo asked, kneeling at the low table.
"I have not had any in several months," Chiun replied. "And you cannot remember the last time you had any at all."
Remo's frown deepened. The old Korean was right. He couldn't recall.
Placing the pot of rice on a pot holder, the Master of Sinanju knelt across the table from his pupil.
As they ate, the rising winter sun warmed the sleepy ivy-covered building on the shores of Long Island Sound.
Remo was grateful that Chiun didn't try to engage him in conversation.
The Master of Sinanju knew his pupil well. The few cross words they'd exchanged the previous day hadn't been taken to heart. This meal was a gift. A balm for the troubled soul of his adopted son.
Remo was actually starting to enjoy the moment when he heard the hurried footsteps approach from the hall.
Because of one arthritic knee, Harold Smith tended to favor one leg over the other, although it was undetectable in his gait to anyone but Remo and Chiun.
The person in the hall had no such problem. Whoever this was, it wasn't Smith.
Remo assumed it was someone on the regular Folcroft staff, until the person stopped outside his door. A sharp knock.
Remo was enjoying his meal too much to be bothered.
"We're not here," he called.
"Remo?" a hushed voice said. "Remo, it's Mark Howard."
Remo's face soured. "We're even more not here," he said to the closed door.
But it was too late. Across the table from Remo, the Master of Sinanju's thin, venous eyelids fluttered wide.
"Please, by all means, honor us with your presence, Prince Mark," Chiun sang happily, rising like a puff of delighted steam. "Be civil," he hissed at Remo just as the door opened and Mark Howard's worried face peeked inside.
The young man took special note of Remo, still kneeling on the floor at the taboret, his back to the door. Standing at the table, Chiun bowed deeply.
"Welcome to my humble chambers, sweet prince." Howard nodded as he closed the door.
"Good morning, Master Chiun," he said anxiously.
"Your blessing is at once superfluous and inadequate," Chiun assured him, "for your being here with us does itself make a good morning great."
"He's not frigging Tony the Tiger," Remo complained.
It was as if Chiun didn't hear. "See, Remo," he said to his pupil. "Look and learn from a real nobleman. A true prince of the realm, he understands instinctively the value of his royal assassin, bowing and offering blessings on my day. Though barely weaned, he knows well the lessons of proper approbation."
Remo didn't turn around. "Not seeing. Caring even less," he said as he continued to eat.
His eyes trained warily on Remo, Mark took a few tentative steps into the main living room.
"I hate to bother you so early, but there's a situation in Alaska," the young man began.
"A most grave matter," Chiun intoned solemnly.
"Possibly," Howard said. "The details aren't entirely clear yet."
Chiun nodded, his wrinkled face a deeply concerned frown.
"Still, how considerable must this potential danger be for the future master of Fortress Folcroft to descend from his lofty perch rather than dispatch a footman. Your somber mien does augur great risk to the Eagle Throne and to the precious Constitution, which we are sworn to defend. Speak, dear prince, of the threat to our one lord, Emperor Smith."
Howard seemed somewhat put off by the Korean's flowery words and tone. "Um, it actually started a couple of days-"
Chiun's face suddenly brightened. "Do you want some tea?" he interrupted.
"What? No. No, thank you."
"I would like some," Chiun said firmly.
The Master of Sinanju promptly spun away from Howard, marching over to the gas stove.
Howard stood alone in the center of the room. "Um," he said uncertainly, clearing his throat.
"Go on," Chiun encouraged as he began fussing like a mother hen at the stove. "Your every word is a drop of rain upon the arid land of unworthy ears." In the cupboard now, he made an unhappy clucking sound with his tongue. "Have you seen my cup?" he asked Remo.
"Nope. There's a bunch more in the cupboard, though."
Chiun clearly wasn't happy with the idea of using an inferior teacup. He began scouring all the cupboards in the kitchenette.
Mark could see he wasn't making progress with the Master of Sinanju. Reluctantly, he turned his attention to Remo.
"There have been several-"
Remo didn't let him get any further.
"Save your breath, Howdy Doody," he said. "I don't go anywhere unless Smith says so."
Chiun had found his favorite cup. He returned from the stove with it steaming full of tea.
"That is true," the old Korean said, sinking to the floor near the table. "We are contractually bound to Emperor Smith and to Smith alone. However, do not let that stop you. You have such a lovely speaking voice. Very commanding, don't you think so, Remo?"
"We have any more rice?" Remo asked.
"Dr. Smith is the one who sent me to get you," Mark said, exasperated.
"Although your voice suddenly sounds strained," the Master of Sinanju said, concerned. "Are you sure you would not care for some tea? It is very soothing." He took a thoughtful sip.
"Can you two even hear me?" Howard asked.
"I'd like some," Remo said to the Master of Sinanju, ignoring Howard.
Chiun raised his cup to his wrinkled lips. "It's all gone," he said.
HAROLD SMITH WAS scanning Mark Howard's most recent computer records-one curious eyebrow raised-when his office door sprang open. He glanced up as Remo marched into the room, his face a scowl. Chiun swept in beside the younger Master of Sinanju. Behind the two of them came Mark Howard.
Howard's youthful face was flushed as he closed the door behind them.
Before Remo could even speak, Chiun was interrupting.
"O gracious wholeness, Emperor Smith, who rules with virtuous majesty from within the mighty walls of Fortress Folcroft, Sinanju bids you good morning," he announced.